Dear...

The living room fills with the tiny click-clicks of a keyboard. I haven't bothered to put my ear buds in or even glance at the lovely stack of books on the coffee table that have tried to tempt me with their gleaming, paperback covers. Vanilla Turkish Taffy twists like a sticky ribbon in my fingers as I fiddle with it and squint at the text on my laptop screen.

It's not right.

If my sentences could dance, they'd jerk and jive like someone threw ice down their backs. "Too awkward," I mumble. I separate paragraphs and stare each sentence down. I make a list on my miniature legal pad of what, exactly, I'm trying to accomplish by writing this letter. There's an art to letter-writing, I think. And I'm not sure I've mastered it.

I won't compare letters to telephone calls or even emails. I won't pretend that I, like many people in Jane Austen's time, can read or even write a criss-cross letter. But there's something about composing a letter that will never change: the privacy of it. And nothing says "microcosm" than opening up a page full of handwriting. But here's a confession. I haven't handwritten a letter in a long time. I actually tried to do it recently, but my handwriting isn't that great and, well, I write a lot. I'm one of those rambling writers. I feel like I have too much to say, and I get excited, and, being a writer, I feel that if I have just one more paragraph, I can make you feel as if you were right there with me. Or that's what I'd like to do one day.

I have made this letter longer than usual, only because I have not had the time to make it shorter - Blaise Pascal

So if you receive a letter from me that's only a page long, you'll know I've labored over it, haha. Whether I'm handwriting a letter or typing it, I often feel like the air around me disappears. I try to imagine the person I'm writing to. Would my words make her smile? Can that joke sound funny without a "just kidding" directly after? Will he understand what I'm saying when I try to relate?

This is why people are paid to write greeting cards, right? When I browse the card aisles, I can't help but admire even the cheesiest of lines. The point comes across. The message is clear. This is why people will buy expensive cards with golden, swirly words and only sign their names on the inside.

No matter how much trouble a letter can be, it's one of the best feelings in the world to send it on its way. I feel warm and happy, knowing that my letter is changing hands, hitching rides in people's pockets, flying overhead, or sailing across the sea. And very soon, the seal will be broken and the letter unfolded. There's magic in that.

Photo from We Heart It

The Wandering Apple

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say. But this apple rolled down the hill and left her sisters behind. Her father had called her a Pink Lady, but she knew in her heart that her heritage was strictly Empire. She wanted to go sailing on the aquamarine whale-roads and eat chocolate-filled croissants on rainy days. Staying in the shade of her mother-tree could offer her none of these experiences. So the apple had packed her bags and went away.

Dogs lapped at her shiny skin when she hitched a ride in the back of a dog-catcher's truck. Red-headed children used her as a ball while she waited for a neighborhood bus. An evil queen with a haughty mirror wanted to make her into a gift, but the noble apple refused.

The apple couldn't stay still. The world was too big to stay put. Every cloud, wildflower, and garbage receptacle passed through her head faster than film tape through a projector. Maybe apples were meant to sit under trees because they couldn't hold onto their own memories.

The apple could only carry her one desire with her: to see the world. And since she couldn't remember, the world, to her, remained entirely endless.

Okay, I swear I'm not hungry. Actually, I'm thinking about a tiny, curious memory I've kept with me, even though it happened a few weeks ago. Waiting for my family to gather fruits and veggies for the week, I wandered over to the small section of apples in the grocery store. As if in a trance, I picked some of them up and turned them in my hands so I could read their names.

It seems to me that there are so many types of apples in the world. When I think about it, I'm in awe. And the names can be very beautiful. I like to imagine that each apple has its own name, but I confess I've never asked one. I don't eat them as much as I should.

Tidbits: June Edition

Picture / Photo Find

Something I Did

May 30th was my twenty-third birthday. Hooray! Considering this post is supposed to represent June, this statement may be a little off. But I couldn't bring myself to post about my birthday on its own. It didn't seem right. So I waited for June. It's strange to be twenty-three. I don't feel much different, but I know that I've crossed a line of some sort. Twenty-three. How grown up am I supposed to be now?

Not much, by the looks of things. I celebrated by seeking out macrons. As I've said in previous posts, bakeries don't exist where I live. If they do, they close within months because of lack of patrons and high rent. And even if they do stay, they never carry macarons. They were mythical desserts. So the family and I took an hour's ride to track down some of those unicorn-rare treats, in a bakery far, far away. And I felt like a pirate when I opened the box and found them all smiling up at me like gold doubloons:

From left to right: chocolate, pistachio, raspberry, banana, and orange. Surprisingly, pistachio tasted the best. I'm happy to report that they were delicious.

A Quote from a Book I Love

Thanks to MJ over at The Woodland Library, I found out about a wonderful book called The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente. For anyone who loves a good fairy tale - complete with strange, heart-warming characters, exciting adventure, and a lot of mystery, this is the book for you. The voice of the book is witty and old-world sounding; this is the type of book you might discover hidden away in the back rooms of a secret bookstore. It actually started out online, so you can read the first few chapters and see if you like it (and don't forget to listen to the song).

I had the hardest time choosing just one excerpt, but here it is:

"The Leopard of Little Breezes yawned up and further off from the rooftops of Omaha, Nebraska, to which September did not even wave good-bye. One ought not to judge her: all children are Heartless. They have not grown a heart yet, which is why they can climb high trees and say shocking things and leap so very high grown-up hearts flutter in terror. Hearts weigh quite a lot. That is why it takes so long to grow one. But, as in their reading and arithmetic and drawing, different children proceed at different speeds. (It is well known that reading quickens the growth of a heart like nothing else.) Some small ones are terrible and fey, Utterly Heartless. Some are dear and sweet and Hardly Heartless At All. September stood very generally in the middle on the day the Green Wind took her, Somewhat Heartless, and Somewhat Grown."

Song I Can't Stop Repeating

"The Engine Driver" by The Decemberists

This song puts me in a quiet, pensive mood. With foot-tapping. And the lyrics are wonderful:

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones

A Writer Thing

Lately I've been writing like something is chasing me. I can't say that what's coming out onto my Word documents are lousy because of this speed, but I'm astonished at how fast the words flow. I made a promise to myself that I would finish my manuscript (for that is what it is) for Birdcage Girl by the end of the summer. So perhaps my fingers have caught up with my head. Chapters are pouring out of me like a flood.

Many writers feel sad to see a novel end, to reach that very last page and know - besides revisions - that they are done. You have to say goodbye to your characters and tip your hat to the world that you've been exploring through every late night, every snatched moment. I'm not near the end of Birdcage Girl - I think I'm almost at the middle of the book (experimentally short chapters means a novel will take a lot longer to finish than one would think, haha). It's strange, even in the middle, to think that it will end.

I attended another summer workshop yesterday, and this is what we talked about after finishing for the day. My two fellow writer-friends have already finished manuscripts; one has an agent and the other must begin revising his first draft. They know what it's like to finish. It was fun picking their brains and enjoying a nice mango smoothie while I was at it.

So I'm trying to ride the wave of writing while I can. I feel like I'm on a roller coaster with my characters strapped in next to me. They're ready to go. I just, somehow, need to send us all flying down the first drop.

Video I Watched Too Many Times

Because I love stop motion.

Food I'm Craving

I want marmalade! You know, I've never had it before.

What sparked this desire is that I'm working with a terribly annoying character who is still, to this day, withholding his true name. I think I've found-and-replaced his name numerous times already, and I'm still not happy with what's there. He started out as Ruari, and now he's Buell. But I don't really like either. And I don't have much trouble with character names in general. There's always a rebel.

So when I was reworking this character's description, I described his hair was being the color of bottled marmalade. And so I feel like, if I eat some marmalade, perhaps his real name will pop into my head. What do you think? And what's good to put marmalade on?

Marmalade photo found here

Photo finds from We Heart It

Wishing

My heart has been set on wishing. There's something I want very much, and it really doesn't have much to do with patience of perseverance. It's a shot in the dark, a hope to long for. And I'll find out if it comes true soon. I cleaned my room yesterday in an effort to distract myself; there's something relaxing about being in the mood to clean, sort, and explore the treasures lying hidden in your space. I have three book shelves in my room, with the middle one being a tad bit shorter than the other two. On it I have my Apollo bust and a bunch of very tiny books that can't fit on a normal shelf. There, while dusting, I rediscovered the tiny book called Wishing: Shooting Stars, Four-Leaf Clovers, and Other Wonders to Wish Upon compiled by Gloria T. Delamar.

I'm not surprised to find this little book again. While, at the ripe age of twenty-two (almost twenty-three!), I still feel adventuresome when I try a new flavor of potato chips or go on a new theme park ride. However, there are things I love that I think I'll always continue to love. I guess wishing has always fascinated me. Who hasn't wished? Like any other kid, I used to think of what I would wish for if I stumbled upon Genie's lamp. But lamps are rare treasures to find. They're buried in caves or under the land at the bottom of the sea. Genies don't want to be found; they're rather lazy and quite content to spend eternity lounging on plush pillows and watching the travel channel. So how do normal people wish? Well, my book tells me that you can just about wish on anything - but there are rules. And they're rather intriguing. So for this post, I'd thought I'd share some of my favorites from the book:

Acorn

"If an acorn falls while you're standing under an oak tree, pick it up, turn it around three times, and make a wish. To make the acorn's magic stronger, place it in a windowsill for three days."

Lightning Bug

"If you catch a lightning bug (also called a firefly or glowworm), place it on the back of your ring finger, as though it were a ring, and wish for a jewel. If the bug glows, you'll get your wish; if it flies away before glowing, you won't."

White Rabbit Night

"'White rabbit night' - the last night of a month - happens twelve times a year. If you say 'white rabbit' three times - sometime after midnight, and before you speak to anyone - you may make a wish for good luck for that month."

Train

"If you're passing under a trestle just as a train goes overhead, make a wish."

Interesting, eh? There's quite a bit of them in this book and it's nice to see that every culture has some kind of wishing tip or trick. But I'm always wondering: why is that we feel the need to wish on something? Perhaps it is because we really do believe that inanimate objects or concepts have power of their own. Maybe a fallen leaf can carry our wishes higher than the words that echo in our heads. What do you think?

The rest of my afternoon will be full of busy work, a lot of thinking, and indulging in some sweets. I confess I haven't made a wish on anything yet. I can't decide if I want to, even if such little folk tales and tips are fun to read about. I might keep my wish inside myself and keep it warm. Maybe, each time I realize it, it'll burn hotter than the summer air.

Photo from Tumblr

Award News: Figment, Flour House, and Posters

Even though this did indeed happen a few weeks ago, I wanted to gather everything together to properly announce this awesome news: I won a writing contest! The contest was hosted by the teen writing website called Figment.com; anyone's who's been following me for a while already knows about it, haha.

The contest was called the serial contest. For anyone not familiar with the term "serial" in relation to fiction, I found a great quote from an article entitled "Writing Serial Fiction" by Icy Sedgwik:

"Serials have been part of fiction for decades. Newspapers and magazines regularly ran stories in installments, keeping readers hanging until the next issue continued the plot and spun out the story."

What serial fiction usually means nowadays is that you, as the writer, are periodically posting new chapters and the readers are following along with you as it happens. Very exciting. At least, I find it exciting. So when I found out that Figment created a contest revolving around this concept, I definitely wanted to take a shot at it.

The rules were simple:

1. Create a new story and write for four weeks straight.

2. Post at least two chapters each week (minimum of eight chapters in all).

3. One post each week must address the given writing prompt - and there was one prompt for each week.

The prompts were pretty tricky; you couldn't just write your story all at once and be done. So the prompts ensured that everyone entered was writing and creating as they went along - something that really gives me a thrill with the challenge of keeping pace and giving my characters something to worry about. The prompts were:

Week 1: Someone has to buy something from a toy store.

Week 2: Something made out of glass breaks

Week 3: Someone must be dancing or must witness dancing (of any kind).

Week 4: Someone or something (not necessarily human) must die or be dead.

The Prize: A Poster

The prize I won was a free poster from a company called PosterText. What they do is pretty cool - they take the classics (like The Portrait of Dorian Gray or Alice in Wonderland) and print the text of the book on the poster. Yes, it's like hanging a book on the wall. They choose a memorable scene, use the text from the book, and create a neat silhouette picture in the middle of the negative space. I had a hard time choosing which one I wanted, but in the end I stuck with Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Here are some pictures of its arrival, followed by what I did after the happy delivery:

The poster arrives!

Ah, the poster is successfully unwrapped and up on a wall! It looks good, haha.

When you look at it up close, you can see the text! This one is the text next to Elizabeth's face.

My dog, Misty, and I eating cotton candy Italian ice. Delicious - and it helped cool my brain off after all that writing.

The Story: Flour House

From this contest, I came up with my entry: Flour House. I listed the prompts because, if you do decide to read it, you might be interested to see how I used them to fit the story each week. It's a story filled with baking sweets, teacup bathes, handsome tiny boys, and a lot of flour. I've posted the first chapter here:

Measuring Spoons

It was late November when Lettice Morris stood outside the toy shop. She was seventeen, a small girl with small feet. She had her brown hair tied back in two braids, her smart green pea coat buttoned up to the neck, and she watched her breath fog the darkened windows and drew hearts and stars with her gloved fingers until they faded away.

A thin layer of frost covered the city street. People walked carefully in big, slow strides with their arms out like tight-rope walkers. Lettice checked her watch out of habit, but she knew what time the toy shop opened.

8:03 am

The lights turned on.

The old man who ran the toy shop was called Duncan. He unlocked the door and popped his head out, smiling down at the young woman. “Good morning, Letty,” he said. His eyes glittered behind his gold-rimmed peepers. His bowtie was blue.

She greeted him with a smile that split apart her chapped lips. She forgot again to rub on her vanilla chapstick; it always got lost in her purse, no matter how small and how few pockets were inside. For this reason, Lettuce believed that all purses were hungry monsters – a notion she had held onto since she was a child. But more importantly, for this reason, her lips were chapped and aching.

When Duncan let her inside, she darted past the train set display and the mobiles of butterflies and space ships to the cash register. She pawed around in one of the small fishbowls filled with tiny, inexpensive trinkets and found a tiny, round container of chapstick. The cover was decorated with swirls like a melting candy cane but it smelled like roses when she opened it. She quickly swiped an un-gloved finger across its smooth, sticky surface and flinched as she carefully dotted her lips.

“Did you come out here for just that?” Duncan said, looking at her over the display of rag dolls. He gently adjusted a fallen teddy bear.

“Not at all. But I’ve forgotten to put it on again. Or my bag ate it. I can’t tell which is true yet,” Lettice said. She took out her wallet and pulled plucked out two crisp bills. “That’s for the sweet relief. I can feel my lips healing already.”

“So what are you looking for?”

“A measuring spoon set.”

“There are kitchen stores for that…”

“No. I mean, I want a tiny one. Dollhouse-sized.”

Duncan laughed. “Well, that’s different. Follow me.”

They walked down one of the cluttered aisles, stuffed with train wheels, menageries, broken china dolls and faded scraps of clothing. The labels on each wooden shelf were faded by the years. Some peeled off and joined the dust on the floor. Duncan stopped at a shelf lined with tiny couches, paintings from Picasso and O’Keeffe on bigger than a thumb, and a bathtub realistic enough to have a ring. He extracted a small box, and from that box, amongst forks, brushes, and necklaces, he offered Lettice a flower-painted measuring spoon set. She held it prudently in her hands.

“I gather you’ve wanted to add to your mother’s dollhouse,” he said, watching Lettice gently turn the set in her hands, hearing it jingle. “It’s a worthy cause. It’s almost like building a real home, from the ground up. You’re lucky your mother boxed away most of her collection so that, when she passed, they would belong to you.”

He spoke easily about this because it had been five years since her mother died. Lettice was comfortable with it. She thought of her mother often, but not sadly; she had her cheerful, older brothers always making her feel safe. But although she did have a keen interest in putting her mother’s dollhouse back together, there was another reason why she had started to spend her money on the tiny delicacies. So without hesitating, Lettice said, “There’s that, Duncan. Yes. But my boyfriend is living in the dollhouse, and he’d really like to bake a cake.”

(Original cover art found on We Heart It)