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30 August, 2014

Bookbucket Challenge

I haven't read nearly as much as I should have, and not half as much as I must. So the books I list here are what have helped shape some part of my life, hopefully not a major part, as I hope to read many, many, many more. Note that none of them are particularly highbrow reading, in fact, more than half of this list comprises children's books, without which I wouldn't be here.

I attempt to go chronologically and figure out what each book taught me. This way, I can remove the ones that are irrelevant and say I tried if I go(inevitably) above the limit of 10. :P

1. The Mallory Towers series by Enid Blyton, particularly book 5(I think!) the one in which Darrell writes a play and everyone is so pleased and proud of her. I am not kidding. I've come to a conclusion that only an author can represent in words what it means to be an author, and to love the craft of writing. And each time I read another account, whether fictional or non-fictional, about writing, I'm buoyed up by it(See 'On Writing', below). I remember why I write. This was the original source of my infatuation with wordsmithy. (also, where I learnt the word 'idiot' :D )

2. Harry Potter, particularly the lulls between the publishing of book 4 and 5, 5 and 6, and 6 and 7. These periods almost beat out the actual readings of the books, on the day that they were published(or a few days later, if my too-slow-at-reading brother got them first), filled as they were with conjecture, speculation, and a memorable complete fanfiction that was way more imaginative than book 5, in my humble opinion. (also, where I learnt the word 'moron' :D :D )

3. The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke. I'm not sure why, but it meant a lot to me. Particularly the parts about escaping reality and imperfect lives with perfect endings. Also one of the first books I ever read which sympathised with both sides of an ongoing(although small-scale) war.

4. A Series of Unfortunate Events, mostly books 1-5. Because those are the ones that I read and re-read until I went crazy. And they taught me that it's okay to ask about things, like how something works, or what the meaning of that word is.

5.  Fairest by Gail Carson Levine, and, relatedly, First Test by Tamora Pierce. Kickass female pro tags rebelling against the world, magical realism, anyone? These are the good kind of book for a young girl, telling her the right things: you can do anything, be anything. You might have to push harder than anyone else, but you can do it.

6. The Princess Diaries series, particularly the third or fourth book. Actually, more or less the whole series. See what I mean about kickass female protags above. Also, the way that Mia grows throughout the series and, well, saying that caring about certain things like shoes or TV shows or silly books doesn't make you less smart or less useful to society really boosts someone who does care about these things but doesn't want to think she's just a, you know, fluffy-headed girl.

7. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Because this was the first time that I realised that books could be irresponsible and immoral and yet so good. (Oh, he gets his comeuppance, you say? Well, he lives for years before happens, in a kind of consequence-free zone, so there!)

8. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy. Passionately in love with one of the characters. Engrossed in a different world from dawn till long after dusk. This is the power of a book.(And it taught me, without shoving it down my throat, about politics and war and all that jazz.)

9. Short stories by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Because he's the kind of writer I would give an arm and a leg to be. Who sees the dark side of humanity and presents it to us in a wry, what-can-you-do sort of way. I worship him and his writing.

10. The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. Putting the idea into my head that all books are related. And that  everything, everything: in fact, reality itself, exists to be played with in words, those magnificent things.

11. On Writing, by Stephen King. Is it weird that I began reading his actual fiction, the books he's known for, The Shining, It, Carrie and Under the Dome, after I read his treatise on putting words together? But this is the one book, which, for me, encapsulates a writer's life.(Yes, alcoholism included.) Over the years that I've read and re-read it, I've begun snapping off screenshots of the most useful writing advice I've found, and collecting them all in a folder titled 'Writing'. I fondly presume that I'll end up making a scrapbook out of these gems someday, to refer to when I'm complacent or (much more likely) disillusioned.



These are by no means my favourite books. That would require another list, which would definitely not be limited to 10 or 11. They are the books that I grew up with, the ones I tip my chin to, the ones that, embarrassingly or otherwise, made me who I am.
Also, others I was considering but didn't mention: The Liar by Stephen Fry, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery, things by Sir Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Diana Wynne Jones(who are all inspirations just by having existed in this place and time), LOTR, and many, many more.

22 August, 2014

Admiration

You. You out there, yes you, who I've been stalking all over the internet, who manages to do everything he wants.

You've done all I have and much, much more. You leave me speechless at the thought that someone like you can actually exist.

I envy you the fact that you're not allowing your laziness to get the better of you: that you can be dedicated in a way I've only ever dreamed of being.

A dream? I have a dream, too. But I'm crap at reconciling it with my reality. I know the ideal case, because I struggle to achieve it; give up, believe that no one can be that ideal case. And you prove me wrong, again and again. I'm impressed, just like everyone else is.

I want to know you(I suspect a lot of people do).

I want to be you(Even more people, I suspect).

And you just foil my ideas of spending my life gently drifting down the stream of compromise and mid-level achievement. You make me want to do more and be more.

K.

14 August, 2014

Ineffective and Oversensitive

...is how I feel.

I'm used to these feelings, and used to getting over them, mostly by the tried-and-tested technique of escapism and transference to fiction. But my mechanism is rusty; has been for the last few months. I'm not sure at what point I stopped expressing myself creatively, but it's driven me quietly insane.

Yesterday I began to brood on two characters I'm putting through their paces before they get to their happily-ever-after. I spent about half-an-hour on them before I was forced to give up: and that half hour wasn't enough, either, because it took so long to get into their heads and really feel the story.

I can't take it anymore, though. I thought I'd try making a straightforward list and publishing it. No names, no details. Just some steam-letting.

1. Ridiculous is how I feel. Being ignored is the second shittiest thing in the world, the first being ignoring someone when you really don't want to. And in the end, even surrounded by people, you feel like something's missing. A whole bunch of someones are missing.

2. When something mars an otherwise perfect memory, there's nothing you can do about it other than brood and feel the hurt as if it was fresh. And it ruins every good thing you felt about the past.

3. Panic. My favourite emotion, I do believe. I'm very good at the irresponsible action--useless panic combo. Usually followed by a deep sense of self-disappointment.

That's all, folks.

14 June, 2014

Cooking Adventures

I was thinking of titling this blog post 'Culinary Adventures' but then decided against it since nothing I've done so far can be called 'culinary' in any sense of the word. I've cooked, yes. Not much more.

Also, of course, since I tend to write fiction, the days are not in any real order. Was the food real? Well, I ate it, so I ought to know.

For my mom. Because cooking is hard.

Day 1:
I try to make instant food. It's terrible and I never want to eat instant food ever again.

...Day 14:
I eat a Hot Pocket for the first time. Suddenly my freezer is up to its ears in Hot Pockets.(Pepperoni pizza. Yum.)

Day 3:
I adventure away, making some variation of paella, which in my case turns out to be chicken with rice and tomatoes. It tastes waaay better than it sounds.

...Day 26:
I am proficient at making(fake) paella, it being one of the few dishes I already have the ingredients for. *sigh*

Day 5:
I try to cook a chicken breast. Meanwhile, mashed potatoes, which are great :D

Day 6:
The mashed potato leftovers with bread make wonderful burger patties. They are a little too... buttery and creamy though.

Days 7-25-ish:
I can't be bothered. I eat out, order in, and have some more Hot Pockets.(Meatballs and mozzarella. Yum.)

Day 26:
I'm fed up of eating junk. I make(even more!) paella.

Day 27:
I stuff a chicken breast with bacon and cheese. And smoked ham. Maybe some more cheese. I eat my guilty feelings together with the chicken.

Day 28:
You can cook bacon in the microwave?!

Day 34:
Mm. Microwaved sausages. Easy to make: and best of all, can be grabbed from the microwave as you're running out the door in the morning, late.

Day 39:
I toss some pre-cooked cocktail shrimp in some pre-made cocktail sauce. Side of pasta--argh, the pasta's burning! Or... something! --one pasta-related emergency later, the dish is actually pretty decent.

So. As someone very aptly put it, we're not here to cook and eat food, we're here to survive, and I seem to be doing just that. And I know I sound weird and down about the whole cooking thing, but I actually kind of like it. It's fun, and I eat rather well(for those who are worried about me :) ), even if I do spend too much time in the kitchen.

Off to Washington(hopefully).

31 May, 2014

Journeys: Interlude


Justification.

I am the kind of girl who, raising a bottle of water to her mouth, ends up spilling it down the front of her shirt because it's less the concrete fact of the water hitting my throat and more the idea of it that quenches my thirst.

I dream a lot, introspect one night every week(right on schedule) and overthink everything. Nothing I do or have ever done is good enough for me.(Or for anyone else, for that matter) It feels good to write down these negative feelings, whether I post them or not. I usually do post them, because it liberates me: the words are not just my property anymore; on the tip of my tongue with my lips sealed tightly shut to prevent even the least bit of sound from escaping.

Why did I set such an arbitrary goal for my own life? Why did the people around me set other arbitrary goals for me? And why do I keep asking myself these questions, knowing that the answers are always going to be unknown to me?

None of this is what I truly want to say. Or maybe it is, and I just don't dare let myself pin it down with real, actual words.

Signing off, because it's late and I'm beginning to make myself sick with the sheer loneliness.