On Writing & Winging It

Winging it

So now you should take into account the fact that I write about the more boring stuff first.  Little quirk of mine.  I’m one of those people who would rather open with something dreadfully boring and end with something that makes you excited, rather than the other way around.  Cause let’s face it.  One of the two topics has to be more boring than the other.  Cause you’ll probably identify easier with one than the other and yadda, yadda, yadda…

^^^That is what happens when I wing it.

winging it v.

to improvise with little preparation

I’ve had way too many opportunities to “wing it” for a few months now.  A Vietnamese girl moved into my neighborhood and while her English has improved greatly in the past few months, she’ll ask me for definitions and what stuff means.  Some of them leaving me like:

Ummmm….

Not only do I always end up feeling like a complete disgrace to my bookworm soul but I look like a freaking idiot all the time.  A few of them I can totally dominate.  For example, she told me she heard people say “he was like/she was like” in their conversations.  I explained to her that it meant they were repeating what someone said and it could mean someone’s way of saying it.  I told her, “He said and He was like is same.” 

But when she asked what the difference was between “will” and “will be” I was like….*crickets chirping (probably laughing at my blank expression and bumbling attempts at explaining)*….I had noooo clue what the difference was grammatically.  I mean, I do in Latin because that’s my foreign language at school but I didn’t know if it transferred to English.  Besides, I didn’t think that saying, “Oh, one’s active, one’s passive,” was gonna help her that much.

I can really admire people who keep their cool ALL THE TIME and never get flustered.  I watch those people with envy and worship them from afar.  I can wing it sometimes (I did a freaking awesome Civil War presentation in front of my APUSH class that went incredibly well, with a few winging moments.) but sometimes, I’m shut down because I can’t think of a rebuttal.

On Winging it…Any thoughts?

Writing

^^This is classified as my less boring subject of the two.

I am ever envious of authors—of any kind.  Even if I don’t like their stories.  Even if I’ve never read their stories.  The mere fact that they actually got their story down, finished it, polished it, got it published…that it an incredibly awesome feat.  I’ve heard authors advise others not to be the person who rewrites and rewrites their stories to death.  Well, what about actually getting your story down?  And essentially, what about finding the story you can stick to?  I know they say that you write the one that never leaves your mind, blah blah blah.  Well, I have all kinds of characters lining up at the door, all clamoring, saying that they are The One.  All of them come with some kind of baggage.  Here’s the routine: I invite them in, sit them down, ask them about their life.  Their stories are interesting, and we have a lovely little chat even though nothing of real significance happens.  Like a blind date where there aren’t any sparks.   And occasionally, I’ll have one of them come in and they’ll have a great story and we’ll hit it off…but after the first two weeks, the cracks begin to show and the luster wears off…

What then?

It makes me think that all these authors are something special because they’re so graced by the Writing Gods to have such interesting “dates”.  Imagine only having to invite one or two people in and BOOM!  You hear the Mighty Click and an eternal union is now in the immediate future.  What a spectacular thought!

So I’m Mighty-Clickless.  I get a character with baggage but can’t keep them in the car with me on the Highway of Life for more than a couple of hours.  After they’re subjected to getting kicked out, I ride for a few hours and think about the search for The Formula.  Such a silly fantasy, but something has to give right?

Sometimes I think that nothing’s coming to me because I’m Not There Yet.  As in, I haven’t had enough experiences in life to have anything to make work.  Have I ever been kissed?  Nope.  These are virgin lips.  Ever had a boyfriend?  Nope.  No one’s stepped up for that one yet.  Can I even drive?  Dude.  Circumstances.

Imagine my Sigh of Epic Proportions here.

I think Alexandra Bracken is my New Favorite Author.  I just finished her debut Brightly Woven and was completely blown away.  She’s the only author whose blog I follow with any regularity because she sounds so real.  She’s just out of college, doesn’t have kids to worry about, she still sounds like one of Us.

I recently Justine Larbalestier’s article on How to Write a Novel.  In there, she said something that I think I could get behind.  Especially the first part.

If you have no particular story to tell, then borrow one from someone else. This has worked pretty well for Shakespeare and pretty much every other great writer. The bible is good for plots, as are myths, fairy tales, legends, ballads, pop songs, and crappy movies that didn’t quite work (rewrite them so they do).

So I was thinking about which authors whose writing I absolutely adored.  Reading those books before I write something tends to ensure that I write better.  But another problem: which style do I want to mimic?  For real.  All these authors write a different way and all of them are strong in different ways, too.  Becca Fitzpatrick is edgy and sarcastic.  Maggie Stiefvater is lyrical and heartbreakingly honest.  Anne Osterlund makes you want to cry with or for her characters.  Kristin Cashore is solid and ethereal.  Cinda Williams Chima creates worlds like no other.  Melina Marchetta writes with raw honesty.  Maria V. Snyder is clever and magical.  Sarah Dessen is realistic and true.  V. Briceland brings everything alive.

Hopefully, you’re beginning to see my problem.  (Though this reminds me that I really need to reread a Sarah Dessen novel.  Am I the only one psyched for her new book?!)

So now I’ve got a ungodly long list of authors whose writing I love.  The same process would be done for characters.  THAT one would be long.  Especially if I do an entire subgroup on character couples.  Then I could move on to those whose plots I drool over…

You see how easily I can make this complicated?  I mean, good Lord have mercy upon me, I have way too many stress lines for a sixteen-year-old.  I just really want to pull out a story, have it down down down and make it mine.  I want to be able to say, “I did it!  I did it!  I did it!  Hahahaha!” and do a ridiculous happy dance.

In conclusion (cause this is getting waaay too long)…I guess I’m going to start with a story I love that I can mimic.  Because as I was (well…don’t worry about what I was doing)…I was having this internal debate in my head that featured me having just published and awesome book and a critic, saying that my whole story is unoriginal.  In my head (because apparently I can only be this witty in my head), I say to the critic, “Fiction is chockfull of archetypes, stereotypes, clichés and bad movie references.” And then I would go on to let him draw his own conclusions.

I don’t know what I’m still doing here.  I really need to write something fictitious down.

Friends & Frustrations

Frustrations

frus-tra-tion n.

1. the feeling of being upset or annoyed, esp. because of inability to change to achieve something.

2. an event or circumstance that causes one to have such a feeling.

3. the inevitable result of being in high school and/or a teenager.

In a nutshell, I am so done with APUSH (AP U.S. History).  Right now?  I have three honors classes and one AP.  My grades?  A’s in every single one of my honors classes (one of which is SCIENCE for God’s sake!) and my first F in APUSH.  I’m going to have to find out if (a) it’s possible to just give up now and retake it over the summer and (b) if I do that, how much will it kill my GPA?  Or will my GPA remain unaffected if I pass my AP exam?

I freaking hate my teacher, too.  I like all my other teachers.  Even my red-haired, Italian science teacher whom everyone else hates.  (I think it’s because Ms. Science Teacher actually doesn’t let any of my fellow freshman classmates get away with anything.  The complaining in there is insane.  These freshman have no clue how much harder their school careers will get.  *evil laugh*) 

But I digress…

My APUSH teacher?  Double, triple oy.  Her teaching style isn’t helping anybody.  Maybe she’s trying to push us to that “college level” but if so, she really needs to tell us how to take notes by hearing lectures!  Half my friends in that class are failing.  And by this point, they’re just plain giving up.  I’m ready to go with them.

friends

Thank God I have friends to turn to.  I don’t have, like, a best friend that lives close by that I can see whenever I want and we can giggle and gossip after school and stuff.  But since entering public high school my sophomore year, I’ve made a lot of really good friends.  Yesterday was crazzy for me because three people randomly started texting me and I was like, “Holy fudddgeee!” at the sudden influx of people’s attentions.

I think what’s suddenly binding me to some of my  gal friends is the topic of boys.  Which is ironic, because I’ve never had a boyfriend or anything and haven’t gotten any offers, but I’ve had a few crushes.  Boys = Lots of Sometimes Enjoyable Drama.  The said drama makes my life interesting but then again, it really brings the stress along with it.  Luckily, I’m boy-stress-free at the mo’.

Still.  I’m really glad that I have the friends that I do, even if I only see them at school.

The Problem with Milk & Mothers

Milk

Some of us can’t drink it.  We all know that it gives us calcium and all that good nutritious stuff that a daily dose of frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts can’t.  But I confess: I don’t like milk.  (Let it be known that I only drink it in cereal.)  I can’t drink skim, 1%, 2% or whole milk plain.  Just can’t.  Yuck.  Double yuck. It tastes like cold, slippery water.  With a really weird aftertaste.  It just makes me bust out the Hershey’s chocolate syrup and go crazy with it.

Now why is it that it wasn’t always this way?  I used to drink milk aplenty when I was a kid.  I adored it.  Deferred to it.  Made a shrine to it in my bedroom.  Blew bubbles in it and made a mess all over the kitchen with it.  And now…well, it would be scary if all of a sudden I started drinking milk because my family (read: my eldest brother) goes through milk like it’s free water at a marathon.

If I suddenly get calcium deficiency when I’m fifty, I’m going to look back and go, “Milk, I should have hung out with you more.  You were such a good friend to me when I had the patience for you, but things had changed and my appreciation was a sorry thing.”

Mothers

We all have them.  Some of us love them to absolute pieces and some of us really, really wish they’d go do their hair somewhere else—preferably in their own bathroom where no one else has to listen to the blow drier over the TV.  My specific issue has to deal with a whole lot of teenage drama + a 50-year-old mother who doesn’t listen worth a crap = angst-ridden said teenager in room ranting about her said mother on a blog.

Now, you’d think that when I ask my mother during a rare serious conversation not to go telling people all about MY business and that it bothered me that she told her bff in Britain all about…yeah, you’d think the seriousness and maturity in the conversation might make her listen.  And then…well, it must have been the recent events because there she sat in the middle of the living room, talking to her sister about MY business—yeah, the kind that I asked her please not to spread around—and then having the audacity to tell me not to listen in on her conversations…as if anyone couldn’t hear it passing by the living room…

Is this my mother?  Or is this the universal representative of all annoying mothers?  Or is it the kind where their lives are so pathetic that they have to feed off of their teenage daughter’s already depleted social life?

Over mothers vs. milk, I’d rather drink six gallons a week of skim milk a week than deal with my mother for a whole car ride somewhere.

3 Vintage Muffins

No.  I have no idea where in the world that came from.  I went to handy dandy Google, typed in “blog name generator”, found a site, wrote down words that were the equivalent of shiny objects to me and then played around with them until I came up with: 3 Vintage Muffins.

This was my list:

Robinson Files

Vintage Files

Inspired Files

Blissful Therapy

Habitual Therapy

3 Divine Muffins

3 Vintage Muffins

I probably should have done something with “birds” but that didn’t occur to me until I was already done with my header.  Soooo.

I had “Mumblings of Some Writer” but I wanted a title that didn’t constrict me to write about just one thing.  And I looked back through some of my “Mumblings” and winced at all my amateur-isms.  I sounded young.  So I’m just gonna hang out with this blog instead.  I’ll post whatever I feel like posting, etc.

[insert cool sounding sign-off here]