Under the rose

 It hurts for someone to read something that isn’t meant to be read. For me, a diary has always been for my eyes, and my eyes alone. 

 I’ve written in them when I was happy and when I was sad, frustrated at the world and at myself, and when I was happiest and most content, too. When I began accessing the internet, and realised all about journals and things, I began to feel that, here too was a place where I could express myself without people caring or judging me(of course, that was before the age of youtube comments). 

 When people began to read and discuss my blog with me, too, I felt acutely uncomfortable, because I never thought my writing would matter enough for people to read it, keep it in mind. That itself is not particularly a bad thing, but to think that people who know me are reading it, and judging me by what I think about, what I write about: It does two things; one, it makes me put an automatic curb on what I say. So now, when I write my blog and think something slightly unconventional or controversial, I pull myself back a bit, hesitate, because

- what will people say? 

 Which is why I feel violated and/or threatened when people read my diary. I’m not saying, of course, that my blog is so private or so personal that readers should not read it. But my diaries, all the ones I kept since I was around 11 or so, yes, that is something I never wanted anyone to read. 

 And I know that it's hard to understand why it’s so important to me, but believe me when I say that I wrote whatever I did safe in the knowledge that no one need ever read it unless I showed it to them, and now that knowledge is gone, for everything in my collection. The feeling I get when I read back my old things is replaced by this dread in the pit of my stomach, saying, has someone read this or seen that? And it makes me terribly, terribly unhappy. 

You don’t know how much. 

I may as well burn the books now, for all the comfort that they give me.

Katze.

P.S. Inspired by the only writer around my age who I really look up to. I didn't think I'd have the guts to post this, but I did.(Or do, rather.)

Mid-Endsem gloominess, hurrah.

Book Cravings: Rose in Bloom

I need this book so badly that I'd sell my soul for it, if I believed in the concept of a soul somehow inhabiting a body, etc etc.

Louisa May Alcott's Rose in Bloom, a sequel to Eight Cousins, which I also loved, but not half as much again as I love this book. And, dear god, I do love it.

Mac is, as I reiterate, my favourite fictional character(male), and quite, quite a perfect specimen of his race. Rose is also an amazing character, and this book has taught me so much about growing up and taking decisions, even though it was written well over a hundred years ago. Little Women can get preachy sometimes, and I never really forgave Jo for giving up Laurie to Amy, whom I disliked tremendously.[Um, spoiler for whoever hasn't read Little Women and/or Good Wives]

The edition above is a 1929 edition published by Grosset and Dunlap; it's available on ebay for approximately 2000 bucks, including shipping. That's 2000 bucks that I can't, in good conscience spend on what is technically a second-hand book, not in particularly great condition. But we wantss it, don't we preciousss?

Oh my. Maybe I should sell a kidney. Who needs two, anyway?

Katze.

P.S. See? You get this book for free on kindle, but I'd much rather sell a kidney to get a delicious, illustrated, old hardback edition. Because it's more than the owning of it or the reading of it: it's the book itself-

What I've learned

... from all the stuff that's being going on in my life and in my mind.

(I'm sure no one's interested in reading a blog post like this, so off you go; yes, you)

1. If they're not learning, don't be quick to blame/judge them. Try and see the defects in your own teaching which makes them bored or overwhelmed and learn how to keep them engaged and interested.

2. Reading is a whole lot more than just reading. There's writing, and there's criticism, and there's other stuff two. Writing is not just writing, either. It's reading too. Complicated? You bet.

3. Friends are harder to keep than to make.(Duh. No kidding.)

4. You can predict 3 dimensional structures of large biomolecules using NMR!(Somewhat.)(Actually, I'll read more on this and get back to you: not totally convinced yet.)

5. Hard to pick a favourite fictional character: particularly the guys.

See you around.

K

Dear Writer's Block

Dear Writer’s Block, 

It’s not you, it’s me. 

I’ve had a good run with you, and we’ve grown reasonably fond of each other, even if we do have little quarrels whenever I cheat on you with my novel. Well, I know you’ve been with me longer, but there’s no denying that you’re stifling my creativity. It’s a vicious cycle, honestly. The more you’re around, the less I feel like writing, and then you come back, stronger than ever.

So I’m breaking up with you, because I can’t keep having you in the back of my mind, a little nagging voice saying, “You can’t do that!” and “I’d like to see you try”. I want a better, healthier relationship in which I can really grow as a writer and, of course, as a person. I want to be able to work on my novel in peace, and to stop having to make up flimsy excuses like “Life got in the way” or whatever. I want my creativity to find real expression, and not just as mindless little fairy tales I make up for Sravya as she falls asleep every night.

You wouldn’t understand the joy I feel when I put words on paper, as I read them back, again and again, finding mistakes and correcting them, improving, always improving. Those mornings when I sit by the window, a cup of tea in one hand, and a fresh idea in my head and the world just seems to work.

And that is why I can’t be with you anymore. I hope you understand. I don’t wish that you’ll find another fruitful relationship, but only because I want writers everywhere to be able to do their thing without you getting in the way. Yet, somehow, I think you’ll be alright. 

As long as there are people who don’t believe in themselves.

Katze

Writing exercise. Isn't pre-midsem week just the best time for these? :P :D

Friendship and Its Many Benefits

I am alone. It is cold and it is dark and this is not the first time I've found myself here.

I've grown complacent and comfortable, and the dark side of life has come and shaken me, to wring me dry and toss me out again.

I sit and watch people pass by. They live their lives the same way I do, and yet they seem to have something protecting them; some sort of insulating layer between them and the hurt of the world. There are moments: both emerald green and sapphire blue. I wish I could be that way. I wonder if I could ever be that way.

People are always disappointing you. Somehow, at some stage of a relationship, you give away some fragile part of you, and it never comes back in one piece. So why do I still try? Every time, I hope it'll be different, but it's never worked out like that for me.

Maybe it's that I'm always disappointing myself.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

I am still alone. I wait for his call, knowing it won't come, knowing that which once existed is lost forever. But I wait in the dark, hoping and praying that it's not too late.

------

Fiction, sliiiightly dark. 206 words. NOT from life, so if you--yes, you--think it's about you, eff off. :P

Katze

P.S. Maybe inspired a little by all the poetry we're doing in Reading Lit. All the metaphors and symbolism.

The Doctor: A Bedtime Story

It's been a while. Something came up. A lot of somethings. Time for an inane bedtime story!

Once upon a time, there was a boy who wanted to be a doctor. He had heard it involved cutting people up and wanted in on the fun.

He started with flies and bugs. (They all do.)

He got bored soon enough, seeing the innards scattered all over the place. After all, they weren't the slightest bit like human ones. Or so his 7th grade Biology class informed him. Insects and Mammals. Different Divisions, Phyla, whatever.

Cats went missing. Strays and not-so-strays. After all, when Ginger took it into her head to disappear for a while, she'd come back in her own time. No point hurrying her.

But soon he had seen all he could see there, too. There must be something else.

There was the one dog. But dogs aren't like cats: they come when they're called, and when they don't, there are search parties and finding the remains, and there are sobby kids and blame. Always the blame.

But it was when little Risa went missing that people finally thought there was something wrong. By then, of course, he was well on his way out of this little town and to the big city; with hundreds of bodies just waiting to be opened up for his satisfaction.

The police investigated and held press conferences: there were demonstrations and pamphlets telling everyone to be careful. They reached him, too, of course. And he really was careful, just like they said.

It ended when he cut himself up, just to see if he was the same as them inside. Just to see.

The End. Now go to sleep, you.

Title: Undecided. Status: Incomplete.

I'm five thousand eight hundred words below the par word count.

So do I give up or gather the shreds of my willpower and complete the damn story?

Hmm.

Katze

Hope

It's probably fitting for me to follow up a blog post on how I hate myself and my writing, my life etc. etc. with a blog post on hope.

I'm feeling hopeful.

I wrote around 4,000 words yesterday. They were doubtless not some of my best words, and I know I'll have to rewrite and rewrite until I go insane, but somehow, I'm more hopeful about this story now. I don't know if it'll be any good, or even if I'll want to rewrite it after I finish the first draft: but something in me says:

COMPLETE IT. One way or the other, finish it, and we'll see what happens in the end. Hopefully something good will come out of it.

I really, really believe this, and that's all I have to hold on to.

My goal for today: 13,295 words. :D That is a lot, considering my word count is around 6,000 at the time of writing this blog post. But I'm going to make it interesting somehow. And I will COMPLETE IT.

Katze

Fear and Doubt

"We walk away from our dreams afraid we may fail, or worse yet, afraid we may succeed."

So, about writing. It's come to this again. Of course I'm plagued with self-doubt, isn't everyone? Or maybe it's just me. I don't know if I'll do something meaningful with my life, or even if I'll make a living doing something that I love.

Maybe I shouldn't be throwing these fits and just put my head down and my tail between my legs and get on with whatever I've started. Maybe.

And maybe I should take a little leap of faith, and see what pans out.

I don't have the strength to do that. Not yet.

I'm writing a book. Again. I will finish this one, even if I take my own sweet time about it. After all, I know where to find the write or die site, and I can force myself to meet these characters. Eventually they will be good friends of mine. I wouldn't know until I try, right?

Katze.

Joy is...

...this:

It's heaven, I tell you. :D :D

There are ways and means in which you can extract maximum happiness from a little egg-shaped, chocolate- and surprise-filled ...thing.

Here are the steps:

1. Enjoy splitting egg-container. :D

2. Enjoy taking out spoon thing.

3. Enjoy eating the little ferrero rochers and the chocolate. Eat quickly, this gives you a nice little sugar rush. :D

4. Read the instructions.

5.* Enjoy assembling teeny-tiny toy.

6.* Enjoy watching teeny-tiny toy working.

*Note: for maximum enjoyment, ensure no wet blanket types are around while executing these steps, to say, 'Exactly how old are you, again?' and other demotivating things.

Joy.

Katze

How to Read a Book

Let's see.

I used to think I had no clue, and yet, as I trawl the internet for the 'right' way, I realise no one else does, either. In fact, most people have even less of a clue than I do.

At least, after years and years of reading, I've figured out how to pick books I might want to read, and then actually get down to reading them. I don't need a blog somewhere on the shores of the vast ocean that is the web telling me to find a nice, quiet place. I can read pretty much anywhere, but certain times and weathers inspire me more than others. Like late at night, with nothing else to do, or during the rains, when the weather is special and amazing and cool. I know what kind of books I can read(well-written ones) and which ones I shouldn't touch with a 10-foot pole.(It's taken me precious reading time and money to identify those, anyway)

But the real question is, how does one get the most out of a really good book? I rarely ever think about what I'm reading while I'm reading it, and I'm sure this isn't correct. One should, in theory, immerse oneself, and yet be able to talk about it later.

Right?

I tried to read Tolstoy, experimentally, while thinking about and appreciating word usage, characterization and the like. And found myself here, in the present, instead of turn-of-the-century Russia, going to war against Napoleon Bonaparte. More importantly, Andrushka, my longtime fictional crush, stopped being a real person and became just another character fleshed out on paper. I felt like crying.

*sniff*

I give up. Now, unless someone makes me read a book in that way again, I never will. It shatters the soul, really. And ruins all the books that made my life worth living.

Then, I tried to read The Lord of the Flies while thinking about what was happening every chapter or so. I was safe from disconnection, since I thought about everyone, Piggy and Ralph and Jack, as real people, stuck on an island somewhere. But here, while I loathed Piggy initially, I started becoming as scared of the other boys as he was, eventually. And what happened in the end created an emotion in me, a deep root of self-hatred for a race that could become like this in practically no time at all, with no self-control and no ultimate feeling of responsibility when they are away from the eyes of civilization. And that terrified me, too.

So I stick, for the time being, to reading books like I always have, dissolving into nothingness for a while, and coming back with only the vague impression that I have witnessed, not been a part of, something great.

It's safer that way.

Katze

Fic # 3:Secret

For Archu, with no dialogue.(Oh, however will I make the characters and setting believable to my readers??)

Title: Secret
Word count: 506
Genre: No clue :P

****

This big secret. I take it with me wherever I go, and it weighs on my mind.

Life's suddenly become too exciting. All the frustrated wishes that things would change, become better, wilder, have vanished, and all I want right now is for things to go back to normal. To be a nobody, with nothing and no one's attention.

But I should start at the beginning. I have a friend; don't ask me who it is, don't think it's about you, or you, or you in the back there. So this friend of mine, she begins to go slightly crazy. Nothing anyone will notice, of course, but ever so slightly. Things which are unimportant happen, and she's freaked out by them. I, being a half-decent friend, as I like to believe I am, am concerned, then worried. I try to speak to her, and she asks me to leave it alone.

I don't listen. I don't want to.

So then I do what everyone else does, which is poke my nose into her business. I sneakily read her texts, watch her ever so carefully as she walks to and from her apartment, and just generally do things that eventually warrant a restraining order.

I find?

...Nothing, of course. Everything is completely normal. And then(I'm assuming) she finds out about me, because she freaks out even more one evening, as we're sitting in her kitchen and talking about life. So I ask her point-blank, what it is she is so terrified of.

And she won't tell me, but I ask again and again, and it's too late, and we're too high on lack of sleep, and she tells me things. Things I don't want to hear, things I've never wanted to listen to. But now that I have, can I simply go back to the way things were?

The short answer is no.

I want to help, though. I'm unsure about a lot of things, but I know for certain that I want to help her. This burden that she's carried, it seems to have eased simply by the telling, and I wonder if it would ease even more if I try to actively help.

So I try. I follow her around more, and she becomes tired of telling me to go away, go home and leave her to her task. I am always with her, on her side, sometimes the only one. I tell her she is important(not only to the world but to me), and as the weeks pass I realize this has become the truth. She has become irreplaceable and precious and important.

And when she falls, my important, precious, irreplaceable person, I go slightly crazy. Ever so slightly, nothing anyone will notice.

This is the burden I carry, the secret I have shared with no one but her. Her life's work is now mine and I will(must) do anything to achieve its completion. I wish none of this had happened, I wish I hadn't been so curious and so thoughtless, enough to throw my life away.

What choice did I have, though?

It was love.

****

I'm still not sure what that was.

Katze

...Into Something Beautiful

You know, you know I love you so

Okay. You didn't come here to re-read nonsense lyrics that play in my head all the time. You came to read something and be entertained. Let me help you with that. ;)

Five places that don't exist but should:

1. Willy Wonka's chocolate factory: Complete with glass elevator, chocolate river(and waterfall), boiled-sweet boat and assorted sugar plants and trees and things. Just imagine the awesomeness.

2. Jurassic Park(duh): The safe version with electrified fences and everything, please. I want to go and gawk like a silly tourist. It'd be so cool.

3. The magical city of Camorr, from 'The Lies of Locke Lamora': Canals, like Venice, but so much better, because it has pretty glass bridges, which shine with an eerie and beautiful light at dusk. Locke himself still living there would be an added bonus. :D(sigh. must I have crushes on fictional characters?)

4. Discworld: Enough said.

5. Venice from 'The Thief Lord'  Oh, wait, that one does exist. Silly me.

5. The Minecraft world: Because I said so. And because pixelated cake is super-delicious. And blocky pigs can be set on fire.(Does that count towards me being an evil person?)

Love, love, love always

Katze

Problims[sic] go 'way

Today's post is about the kinds of people in the world.

There are Rats, and there are Pigs.

Like so:

Yeah, there's just the two.

:D

... :(

Katze

P.S. If anyone loves Pearls before Swine half as much as I do, let me know who your favourite character is. I <3 Pig.(obviously)

We live in a Beautiful World

...yeah, we do
yeah, we do

The Coldplay video 'Don't Panic'. Also the inspiration for the title of this blog post.

I've been panicking recently. Thinking about my life, and my future, and where I'd like both to go.

There is the commonly accepted view, that I'll get a degree, do research further on, and settle as a professor. That is the science-related profession that is least loathsome, or most enjoyable, to me. I'm not quite sure which. At the moment, I do enjoy the subjects I'm taught, except when I'm to actually study them. Perhaps that is just my natural tendency to laziness and under-utilization of my brain.

There is another, that wants me to take a year off, concentrate on my writing, and try to get published. This has a lot more uncertainty in it than anything else: whether I'll achieve fulfillment in doing something I've always wanted to do; whether I'll be good enough to live on my writing alone, a rare enough return on the dream that I, like a lot of people before me have possessed.

Not writing for weeks and weeks together, not expanding my mind through wide reading, is putting me back three and a half weeks for every month of progress I make in my writing. It's simple, really. Writing is a profession like any other. No one simply sits down to be a writer. It needs practice, and learning, and reading and then some more practice, and so on. If I have to be a writer I need to work on it 24x7 for three or four years or 20 minutes a day for 20 years.

Being a good scientist will require me to give up my voracious reading and focus on my studies, and external science-related stuff, work in a lab, perhaps, with lesser free time to write as I please. Or else I'll mess up like I have so far, with my CPI, not getting a good project: no one wants a half-hearted student. I will not learn what I need to, to be successful in the future. Everything I've worked on until now will be a waste if I don't avail myself of the opportunities I've been given by putting my soul into science.

There are no shortcuts in life.

Katze.

P.S. Still panicking. This didn't help at all.

Deadhouse Gates

...Because some book titles are just too cool to believe.

Life is cruel, they say. That's why George R.R. Martin, while writing Game of Thrones, maimed an 8-year-old within the first few chapters.

Of course I hated it when that happened, because I like life to be sunny and happy and joyful and all that jazz. Not that it is, ever. But it's nice to pretend--and even believe--that it is. And that is the kind of feeling I get from the Malazan Book of the Fallen. There's a lot of sadness and bitterness in it, and a lot of death. But at the end, I kind of feel like the people in the story changed lives, their own or those of others, in some way. Mostly for the better. And, possibly, that's all one could ever want in life.

Basically I liked Coltaine. I really liked him. He had a useful way of dealing with people--ignore their whining and then enforce martial law to make sure they toe the line. Yup, something special, all right. Highlight for spoilers: And he's dead, nothing can change that, really. But his sacrifice wasn't in vain, and that's what matters in the end. 

End spoiler. Something I learnt from TV tropes and idioms, a rather useful if slightly flame-y site.

Go on: Linky, linky

Hum. Anyway, Coltaine. Here's the most romanticised version of him I've seen so far:

.

.

And here is a book cover with him on it:

Yeah. Sliight difference. As a matter of fact, that cover is more art than cover, almost. It depicts the feeling so well, you feel like crying when you see it. (*sniff* No, that is not a tear there in my eye.) Beautiful, wonderful special edition. Now, why can't more people gift me stuff like this?? People in my life, take heed.

Signing off, and wondering why life, while alright in the theoretical, is such a pain to actually live.

Katze.

P.S. Is a bit mortified, because just realised have been pronouncing it wrong myself, and have recently corrected someone else's(correct) pronunciation. Sorry. >.<

Bibliophilia

Hi,

It's been so long since I last wrote a blog post that I've almost forgotten how.

This one is, as ever, for myself.

I've been reading like a maniac, and I've come to several conclusions:

1. I don't like Raymond E. Feist, though his name is rather ...inspiring. Just the right amount of mysteriousness with the 'E' and a hint of magic with the last name. But I was un-awed by his first book, Magician, in spite of which I ended up reading the whole thing(Thank you, Mr. Feist, for giving me Arutha conDoin, though. He was the first--and possibly only--character I really, really loved in Magician.) Silverthorn, his second offering, hurt my brain, and not in the o-m-g-this-is-fantastic kind of way. I left it halfway. I-I!  had to leave a book halfway. Imagine my pain.(Though I'm yet to complete A Tale of Two Cities, I'm afraid.)

2. I am still in love with Terry Pratchett, and the girl who is Aching all over. ;) I recently came across this amazing book:

And, once again, I am in love. It's a fantastic book, going far beyond the usual funny, witty fare, with loveable characters and strange, yet oddly familiar devices and settings. No, this one has got an amazing sort-of whodunit and whathehellisgoingon vibe that really just kills it, you know, no disrespect to the surfer dudes or whoever that I've stolen that phrase from. I can't wait to read the sequel, Making Money.

-No really. Let me leave this blog post to go read it right this instant.-

3. I also am awed and amazed by the master storyteller who is Neil Gaiman. Respect. Nothing else can be said. I read Coraline recently, and I wonder how something about a child's seemingly perfectly harmless imaginary adventures could be made to be so creepy. But I think that might be it: what is harmless for a child, in its dreams, can inspire much more creeping-up-your-spine terror than anything an adult can ever come up with. Coraline is one of the few books whose movie I've seen before I read the book, but I loved the movie(Henry Selick classic that it is :D) and so I was enthusiastic about picking up the book.

This is the scariest thing. Ever:

And now I really think I should finish up this post, since I have places to be and things to do, and one absent team member, and one pissed-off one. Cheerio!