Little Toy Cars

Imagine that you have this little toy car (I played with cars as a kid, okay?). It's the prettiest, most wonderful toy car you've ever seen. The exterior design is perfect, the wheels never snag or stick, and you can run it the whole length of your bedroom and back and it's unbelievably easy to imagine yourself as the best racecar driver in the world. You spend hours playing with this perfect toy car. You take it with you wherever you go and show it off to all of your friends.

Then one day, your dad asks you to give him your toy car. Like, for keeps. "But why, Dad? This is my very favorite car. Here, how about I give you this other one instead?" But your dad insists. It has to be your toy car. Your very favorite one. He is firm but gentle in his request and finally you relent and place it in his outstretched hand. He deftly tucks it away and you feel a piece of your heart shatter. You loved that car so much that you can't imagine how you're going to have fun without it. While tears fill your eyes, your dad turns and pulls out something new: A bike.

Not only is the bike much bigger and nicer than your toy car, but it will take you places. You don't have to pretend you're a racecar driver anymore; you can race around on your bike for real. Suddenly your world just got so much larger. You can go farther and get there faster with your bike than you ever could take your toy car. You don't have to ask Mom for a ride to your friend's house. Now you can get there yourself.

Pretty soon, however, your dad comes back to you and asks you to give him your bike. You feel upset. He gave you that bike. Why on earth is he wanting to take it back now? But your dad is so kind and gentle and loving that you do it anyway. And he gives you the keys to your very own motorcycle.

With all that horsepower, you can carry yourself and a substantial amount of weight across incredible distances at incredible speeds. Your world just expanded again.

And so it goes on. Eventually, your dad asks for the return of the motorcycle and gives you a car that allows you to carry yourself, other people, and all of the baggage you all carry with you all over the continent. The world is yours, and now you get to bring other people along with you (and we all know road trips are more fun with other people).

So where am I going with this?

Based on experiences in my own life, and because of things my younger siblings are dealing with, I've been thinking a lot about how the Lord often asks us to trust Him and give up something that we love, and what happens when we do.

Have you ever tried to get a kid to give up his favorite toy long enough for you to give him something new? When they're young, they only really understand what's in front of them, and they don't realize that you're about to give them something better, so giving that toy up is the end of their happiness, at least from their perspective. Our first loves, the things and people that make us feel as though the world will end if we give them up, those are our little toy cars. They are amazing, and they help us imagine great things and chase big dreams. But they may not be able to carry us very far in life. So the Lord asks us to trust Him enough to let Him give us something that will increase our ability to progress.

As time goes on and this process repeats, with the vehicle getting better each time, we begin to see the bigger picture. We begin to understand that He's asking it back each time for a good reason. Something better is in store. And so, each time He asks, we give the vehicle back a little more willingly, having learned from experience that the Lord never downgrades us to something less than we've given up. Eventually, we may end up with a fleet of jets at our disposal, carrying hundreds and thousands of other lives closer to our Father. But before we can get there, WE HAVE TO GIVE UP THE TOY CAR.

Now, I recognize that this is not a perfect metaphor for all aspects of life. But I think it does apply beautifully to the principle of sacrifice as I've come to understand it. Whether I've given up a relationship, a job opportunity, or some other goal or dream because the Lord has guided me down a path that didn't allow for that particular thing, I've come to realize that I always end up with something better than what I've given up and that I've come further in life than I might have otherwise. A bike can carry you across the country if you're patient and smart, but a car will do it much faster with a much heavier load, and a jet even more so. If you cling to your "bike," you'll get to the same place eventually, but it may take longer (and you run a greater risk of giving up out of fatigue before getting there), and you may not be able to touch as many other lives and bring them along with you.When we put our lives in the Lord's hands, I completely believe that He increases our capacity to bear burdens and help others and speeds up our own progress at the same time.

I can't begin to count the number of times this has happened to me. When I was 12, my family moved away, taking me away from my two best friends (one of whom I had a crush on). I honestly thought my world was ending and that I'd never find friends as good as the ones I'd left behind. But then, when I was 14, I met the girl who would eventually become as close to me as my own sister and who, now, 12 years later, is still a person I can count on to love me no matter what. When I graduated from college and finished my internship with the Ensign, I wanted nothing in the world more than to work for the Church for the rest of my life. "What could be better?" I asked myself. It was definitely a worthy goal, and a very clear way to use my professional skills to build the Lord's kingdom. But after a long stretch of contract work, every opportunity for full-time work for the Church closed in my face. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get a job in the one place I thought I wanted to be. Then my current job came along. Among the many perks and blessings that this job has given me, one of the coolest is that I have the freedom to transfer among any of the 90+ offices in the country or work from home: my world just got a lot bigger. I can go anywhere with a lot more freedom now because I can take my job (and all of those other perks and benefits!) with me wherever I go.

It can be so hard to give up something that we love (whether it's a relationship, a job, a home, a hobby, or any other dream or passion). The heartbreak we suffer when we do is so very real. And sometimes, when the Lord asks us to give up something that He gave us and pushed us toward in the first place, the feelings of heartbreak and betrayal can be devastating. But He always does it with a good reason. I'm young, yes, but it has happened enough in my own life that I know that it's true.

So, as you face course changes, redirected paths, and surrendered dreams, have courage. Your Heavenly Father will never make you suffer needlessly. Inside every painful sacrifice is the seed of your own success and ultimate happiness.

Thanksvember: NaNoWriMo

So... don't get too excited, because I'm still not writing a novel in a month, but my aforementioned short story? Well, it's not really a short story anymore. I mean it is, because all I've written is a short story, but it's not done because there's more to the story. Know what I mean?

But it is fun. I haven't written for fun like this in a really long time. So it's fun. Let's see how many times I can say the word fun. Fun is a really weird word, when you think about it. Also, it's always been intended to be a noun, which is why everyone has such a hard time with its adjectival and adverbial  usage. Have you ever tried to say "that was funner than what we did last time" and just cringed? But "more fun" just sounds stiff? And forget trying to say "He did something funly." Yeah. Not going to happen. *whispers* That's because it's a noun. You have fun.

Granted, modern English usage has accepted "fun" as an adjective too, and the preferred method is to say "more fun" or "most fun" when qualifying the amount of funness something has. Isn't English grea--HOW DID THIS TURN INTO A USAGE LESSON?? I WAS WRITING ABOUT HOW I'M GRATEFUL FOR WRITING!

Geez, Lynnae. Get your nerdy little butt back on track.

Did I mention I've been writing for like, two whoa, FOUR hours straight, plus proofreading for 8 hours prior to that, so I might be a little loopy? No?

Well.

Now you know.

Welcome back to Lynnae the Writer. She's a bit of a nut. Editor-Lynnae tends to be more polished. Writer-Lynnae usually takes Editor-Lynnae and jams her in the corner, stuffs her face full of cookies, and bullies her into silence. Incidentally, that's also what we do to Editor-Lynnae while online, so I will never judge you for poor grammar online, because Editor-Lynnae is tied up and gagged to spare her from the pain of it all.

Yes, I'm switching in and out of plural first person. It's a weird world in here.

*AHEM*

Back on topic.

This November, I am thankful that my amazing writer-roommate (who, between you and me, is going to be the real author in this dynamic duo because she's just brilliant) is sending off her writer-vibes so strongly that my own urge to write has lifted its sleepy head. I may not be as dedicated a writer as she is, but I appreciate the creative outlet.

In the meantime, in case Roommate ever reads this: AISLEY. YOU GOT THIS. Own that book. I've been betting on you from day one.

Also, for your enjoyment, a slight peek at what an apartment of two writers looks like on a Thursday night (and if that doesn't sound dramatic enough, don't worry, we'll definitely be holed up like this on Friday night, too... who needs boys? (I'm just kidding. I do. I love boys.)): <-- That is not meant to be a frowny face. It is a colon, meant to present to you the following. Oh, who cares. PICTURE.

Me on my fluffy beanbag typing away. Roommate wrapped in snuggie
and cozy hoodie, also typing away. It's a wild night in this house.

Mountain Trails

She had been climbing this mountain for as long as she could remember. It was the ultimate goal, the ultimate test. Everyone who was anyone pitted themselves against this mountain in order to win the breathtaking achievement of seeing the whole world from the top.

It was the undertaking of a lifetime. Everything she could remember had happened on this mountain. She saw no other future than continued climbing.

But the mountain was tricky. It was so vast that millions of trails wound up its face, and thousands of little canyons cut across its slope.

One day, she found herself in one of those canyons. Her feet were aching, her body hurt, and suddenly, her path turned into a gentle downhill slope, and she slowed in confusion. She was supposed to be going up. Not down. This wasn't right. She had just finished a full-fledged sprint up a steep slope to one of the mountain's promontories, powered by the chance to get a glimpse of the view that surely spread out from her elevation. It had been worth it. The vista was incredible. She had indeed climbed far. The world spread around her like the view from a skyscraper.

Then the trail dipped back into the trees, obscuring her clear view of how far she'd come. And now this downward thing. She must have taken a wrong turn.

The sound of footsteps. A friend whose trail often intersected with hers came running toward her, grinned in greeting, and dashed off, weaving on an upward trail that had her gaining elevation fast.

The hiker felt her spirits plummet. That's the kind of trail she should be on. She looked ahead at her mostly-level, slightly downhill path and down at her legs that shook and ached with strain as she continued moving forward on them. Then she gritted her teeth and picked up her pace. She couldn't give up. She wouldn't. She turned onto her friend's trail and began to climb, though she was a long way from being able to run up the slope as her friend had.

Suddenly, someone stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Her eyes traveled from his feet to his face, and she recognized him. The Mountain Guide. He was the stuff of legend and myth among every hiker that tackled this mountain. The only man who had scaled it more than once. In fact, it was often said that he had scaled it so often that he knew every trail to the top. Every. Single. One. He put his hands out and gripped her upper arms. "Stop. Stop. What are you doing?"

She had been moving under sheer willpower, her muscles responding mechanically. Now that she wasn't moving, her muscles tightened painfully, crippling her. She sagged, but the Guide caught her and swept her into his arms, carrying her back to her trail. He set her down on a boulder and crouched in front of her.

Tears of discouragement filled her eyes. "Can't stop," she whispered, "I have to keep going up."

His hands massaged along her seized-up calf muscles with medical familiarity until he found the spot he was looking for. Without warning, he applied tremendous pressure to the knot in her muscles, and she cried out. "You have to," he replied. "It's not stopping if you take a rest, assess your abilities, and replenish your energy." He found another knot, making her gasp in pain again. "It also helps to work out kinks like these that are slowing you down. You can't do that on the run."

"But the trail," she mumbled through the pain, unable to say more.

The Guide understood her unspoken question. "Yes, it does level out. You may not gain elevation for a while, but it will go up again." He reached up and brushed the tears from her cheeks, looking at her with piercing eyes that seemed to see into the deepest part of her soul. "I choose the trails for every hiker, did you know that?"

She shook her head.

"I have climbed this mountain so many times that I know which hikers need which trails. I know what you can do. So I put you on this one. You'll get to the top if you stay on it." He pulled her to her feet, and she found that she could stand. Hesitantly, she took a few steps, and though her legs still shook, she found she could walk. The Guide took her hand and looped it through his arm, letting her lean on him a little. He set a pace that was comfortable for her. Much slower than her normal pace, but one that wouldn't wear her out again.

They made steady progress along the flat ground, and she felt her confidence start to return. She could do this. It may be slow going for a while, but she could do this.

Almost as if he could sense her thoughts, the Guide slipped her arm from his. "Someone else needs me, but I won't be far. Call if you need me, again." He stepped right into the trees, following a trail that only he could see. Just before he went out of sight, he stopped and looked back at her. "Keep going, child. Even slow progress is progress on a mountain like this. And I will always send help."

He slipped away, but it didn't seem like he was very far. She knew, deep down, that he was close enough to respond to her call if she needed him. Turning back to her path, she took a deep breath and kept walking.

Footsteps. On both sides. To her surprise, her path suddenly merged with multiple others, and several other hikers, all of whom she knew and loved, emerged from the trees and joined her. They took her hands and walked with her, their love pulling her onward.

A change beneath her feet made her look down in surprise.

Then she smiled.

The path had turned upward again.

The Treasure Box, Part II

The lid fell back, and the dim light from the attic window filtered in, illuminating a box that was emptier than she expected.

Her first, grateful thought: there were no spiders. No nasty webs, or dead, repulsive things. In fact, much of the box was pristine, unmarred by the passage of time. But it was also surprisingly empty. Many of the things she thought she'd locked up inside it seemed to have faded or dissolved. Or maybe she'd never actually put them there in the first place.

But there, in the corner, was something.

She was inclined to feel disappointed. Let down. The box did not hold the treasures and bounty she had dared to hope for. It seemed almost a waste to have opened the box at all. But as she lifted out the tiny object tucked in the corner, she realized that it might have value after all, swathed as it was in several layers of protective wrapping.

Almost timidly, she peeled back the layers.

There, folded around a heavy brass object, was a note with her name on it. She broke the seal and unfolded the crinkled but carefully-made note. As she did so, another key, similar to the one she'd used to open the box, fell into her hand, but it didn't look like anything she'd ever seen before. And she had no idea what it unlocked. She turned her eyes back to the note.

My dear daughter, It was I who made sure the box stayed with you throughout the years. I didn't want you to leave it behind. You were brave to open it, though you did not know what it contained. In doing so, you have gained a valuable gift. The treasures that you originally placed in this box have been moved to a new home, where they will be much safer. I have also added some treasures of my own, as an additional gift to you. The key you hold in your hand will open that lock, which I've left somewhere you will find it. All my love, Your Father

Smiling, she folded the note around the key again and placed it in her pocket. How like her dad to give her such a gift. It was something he'd always done, but the rewards had always been worth it. Well, she'd opened her box, found her key, and now she'd just have to find the box that fit the key.

Tenderly, she closed the old box in the attic and trailed her fingers fondly across it, a silent goodbye. Then she picked up the cardboard box of things to throw away and returned to the task at hand, feeling the comfortable weight of the key in her pocket as she walked down the stairs. She still had packing and moving to do. And now, apparently, a treasure box to find.

The Treasure Box

Packing. A time of transition. A time of change. A time to throw out the old stuff and make room for new stuff. She was good at packing. She was also really good at weeding stuff out. All except for that old treasure box with the rusty old padlock. She'd held onto that box for so many years that she was no longer entirely sure what it contained. All she knew was that she hadn't been able to throw it away.

As she hefted a box of things to discard this time around, her eyes fell on that old, locked box once more. Setting the discarded items to one side to take care of later, she put her hands on her hips and considered the box more intently. Was it finally time to throw the old thing out? She'd never done anything with it, after all.

But a look inside wouldn't hurt. She was surprised to find that she knew exactly where she'd put the key. Like the box, it had floated around through her many moves, always somewhere near.

As she put the key into the padlock, she hesitated. The thing was so old. Maybe horrible, huge spiders had made their home in it, just waiting to jump out at her when she opened it. That would certainly be unpleasant. Or maybe whatever had been placed inside had dissolved completely, leaving just an empty box. Maybe that was all she'd been carrying around with her for so long. Nothing.

Or maybe, the treasure she'd once deemed valuable enough to lock up and safeguard was still in there, waiting for her to take it out and give it air. Now that she was there, holding the lock and key in her hands, she remembered what she'd locked inside. The thought of it warmed her heart and brought a smile to her lips. She turned the key.

But then the thought of spiders came rushing back, and suddenly, she was certain that the box was full of sticky webs and creeping, biting things that made her cringe in fear.

Did she dare? Was it worth it? Maybe she should just throw the box out and go back to weeding out the rest of her things. She'd been fine without the treasure all this time, after all. But she had to admit it, that treasure was something that meant a lot to her, even now. She had to see if it was still there.

Taking a deep breath, she twitched the key and felt the lock fall open in her hand. Setting key and lock aside, she placed both hands on the lid and heaved it open.

The Paper Flower

The florist in the little corner shop loved romance. Which was just as well, since she owned a flower shop, and saw a lot of it. She loved all the flowers that she saw, and loved how each of them could be so different and yet still mean love.

Roses. Richly colored, deeply fragrant, and classically romantic.

Sweet Gerber daisies. Brightly colored, full, and fun.

Forget-me-nots. So many tiny blossoms that added up to a beautiful whole.

Chrysanthemums. Tough and hardy, glowing in the evening light.

Orchids. Sweeping, exotic, and delicate.

Tiger lilies. Fierce and bold and eye-catching.

Tulips. Simple and unassuming.

All these flowers she saw and loved. Their freshness and vigor, and the care required to keep them, made them all the more valuable, far outweighing any cheap imitation, no matter how realistic.

She told herself she would never settle for anything less than one of those flowers.

But long days and months went by, and though she saw so many flowers leave her store, none ever came for her.

Then one day, the boy came in. She'd seen him there before. He'd picked flowers occasionally for other girls, and many times he came in and just looked around, examining the signs that labeled all her plants.

She liked him. His interest in the flowers warmed her heart and drew her to him, even though he didn't come to see her. Sometimes, he'd ask her what she thought of her flowers, and when she talked about the unique beauty of the living flowers in her store, he would smile and agree that they were truly special.

This day was different. He came into the store and looked over the flowers with his customary care. This time, he picked one of her favorites and brought it to the counter, waiting patiently as she rang it up and wrapped it for him. Casually, he started to leave, and then suddenly came back, walking quickly toward her, still holding the flower. He smiled broadly at her, extended his hand--

and gave her a paper flower.

Despite her flash of disappointment, she took it, happy to have a flower of her own at last. He smiled at her once again; then, tucking the flower he had bought safely under his arm, he turned and left the store.

She took the paper flower and examined it, hoping to find some hidden meaning in the creases of the paper. But it was sloppily made, and fashioned from a sheet of old printer paper, unmarked by anything but ragged folds.

It had no scent to tease her senses, no silky petals under her fingertips. There were no vibrant colors to hold her eyes entranced. There was no glow of a bright new bit of life. If anything, it made the room more drab: a bit of folded paper, cluttering up her space.

Just a paper flower.

So pointless, really. It required no nurturing, and hardly any effort to create or destroy. After all that time the boy had spent in her flower shop, all his careful study of each flower's meaning, he had chosen to give her something with no meaning at all.

So she threw the paper flower away, not even bothering to shred or burn it.

She walked out into her shop, and picked a pure white rose, barely more than a bud. She inhaled its fragrance deeply as she took it back to her room, filled a vase with water, and set it in the middle of her table. The paper flower lay in the bin below it--the gift that wasn't a gift. Her white rose caught the light and glowed far brighter than paper ever could.

A gift to herself.

Fire Trap

Sometimes, it all goes up in smoke.

This was a house she loved more than anything. She had helped build it, pouring hours of toil and tears into the beautifully crafted walls, the solid foundation, and the nearly-indestructible roof that provided shelter from the outside forces that would have beaten her into the ground.

It was a beautiful house. So full of treasured memories that smiled from the walls and danced in tantalizing scents on the air. It was comfortable and familiar, and she loved it.

But it had a problem. One that ate at the inside of this beautiful house.

The wiring was bad. Sometimes, when she turned on a straightener, or tried to vacuum away some of the dirt, or even just turned on a light, the wiring would spark and a tiny fire would crop up. Time and time again, she put it out, even bringing in electricians to consult with her on the best way to fix it. They would offer their advice and leave, believing that they had fixed the problem. And yet the stubborn wiring continued to be bad. Another fire would sprout.

She got really talented at using every fire-dousing technique in the book, and labored lovingly over her task of scrubbing soot from the walls and repairing the burned spots so that guests who entered her house to look around wouldn't see anything wrong. Because she couldn't bear the thought that this house was too dangerous for her to live in. That would mean that she couldn't save it.

The fires got more dangerous. Sometimes she had to leave it and let the Fire Department  handle the fire. Then she would return and repair it once again.

Finally, one nearly took her life. She couldn't fight it anymore. The bad wiring made the house too dangerous, even for her devoted persistence. Choking back tears, she stripped the memories from the walls, carefully preserving each treasure so that it wouldn't succumb to the ravages of time.

As the movers helped haul her possessions away, she stopped at the door and looked back at her beloved house one more time. She flipped the light switch on, hearing the familiar crackle of the bad wiring. Even as she watched, a spark flashed. She shut the door and walked away, leaving the wiring to do its work.

Perks of Googling Myself

Yes, yes. I'll admit, I did google myself. Boredom and curiosity, what can I say? But thanks to the endeavor, I discovered a poem that I'd written years ago and lost, because I didn't have a copy of it on my computer. Luckily, I'd posted it on a poetry website as part of a school assignment and my google search brought it up. Yay!

We were asked to write our own epitaphs. Instead of going for gory, I went for a more humorous death. Sadly, it's not super elegant writing-wise, but a secret part of me would still love to go out this way... 

Statistics

Never Trust Statisticians... 
They say that lightning never hits the same spot twice
Ha! I’d laugh at that if I could.
I lived my life, an exception to the rule
Never falling into stereotypes.
Yet I lived happy with my exceptionality.
Now I cry “Alas that I had to be so different!”
As I made my way home through a crashing thunderstorm,
Lightning hit the ground in front of me
And threw me off my feet.
“Whew!” I thought in vast relief, and rolled back on my knees.
Happy-go-lucky then, I began a whistling tune.
Feeling safe and secure in statistics,
I went on my merry way.
Alas, alack! I took one step and ZAP!
The lightning bolt hit twice.

Granted, I'd like to live a full life before dying this way. Perhaps when I'm old, maybe I'll just take lots of walks in thunderstorms. :)

Once Upon A Time

So once upon a time, there were these two frogs. A girl frog and a boy frog. They were happy. Suddenly, an evil witch appeared and turned the boy frog into a prince. And he was stuck as a prince. The girl frog was so sad that the witch had taken her froggy lover that she raised an army of fellow frogs and went after the witch. They succeeded in turning the witch into a snake. But that meant the frog-who-was-now-a-prince was stuck even more permanently as a prince. Eventually, he found a lovely princess and they got married. And the girl frog? Well, she fell in love with one of the boy frogs who had helped her take down the witch, so she got a happy, though unconventional, ending too. And somebody stepped on the snake. So it didn't hurt anyone.

Many thanks to Aubry, who was bored enough in the checkout line at Walmart to turn around and tell me this story off the top of her head. I told her to write it on her blog, but she never did, so I guess I'll do it. I was really impressed that she barely paused as she told the story, even though she made it all up in the moment, just to pass the time.

And people wonder why I like going shopping with Aubry. :)

Halp!

You know that feeling when you try so, SO hard to think intelligently and instead you just feel your brain slowly being sucked into the oblivion? Yep. That accurately summarizes how I feel right now. In the last three days, I have gotten a cumulative 8 hours of sleep, a whopping 25 pages written, two portfolios compiled, 10 hours of research done, three loads of backed-up laundry washed, my room cleaned, and my bed tidily remade. One 7-page paper left to go and. I'm. DYING!

The only thing my brain is capable of producing is a continuous loop of ChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucerChaucer.

And, I might point out that it can't get past that part. Chaucer is important. He did something cool in that one tale, and I've read like a bajillion articles about it, but I can't for the life of me articulate anything on the subject right now.

So my brain has given up and is now repeating bedbedbedbedbedbedbed over and over again.

One paper. 7am tomorrow. I can do that.

Ha.

The funny thing is that I'm still on the computer typing when it would be a better (and more effective) break to go fold my laundry and take a shower (stupid finals week... I have not showered nearly enough for my tastes). But I think my body is on autopilot and, in its desperation to feel productive, just likes the typing thing.

Man, I hate writing about literature. Okay, well, maybe I don't hate it. Not nearly as much as other people do, but my recent revelation that I should have been a linguists/Elang major has manifested itself in an increasing abhorrence for literary analysis. Which is probably why I haven't applied myself all that much to my literature classes this semester.

On the other hand, I still have A LOT to show for the last four months. An internship with the Ensign. A fully-published, gorgeous issue of Stowaway Magazine that includes my byline, design work, editing work, and reader-submission pet project. Four beautiful design projects (flyer, newsletter, book, and photo album) all prettily printed and bound. A redesigned portfolio that I can now use without shame for any and all future job applications.

And no, I'm not bragging. Well, maybe a little. It's more like taking some time to remind myself that I have accomplished a lot this semester. Which will hopefully motivate me to finish accomplishing stuff this semester by finishing this dratted paper.

Nope. Not working.

Time to try the laundry-and-shower thing.

Papering

So, I have this funny way of writing research papers. Since scholars are so smart, and I feel like they always say what I think I should know how to say, I go through all of my sources, paste them into my paper in different colors (coded by source, of course (heh, rhyme.)) and then start filling out my own ideas in normal black. It serves a dual purpose. First, it's a pretty dang easy way to cobble together an outline and see how my paper is probably going to go. Second, you know those stupid rules about two sentences of your own stuff for every sentence of a quote you use? Yeah, colors make it really easy to see how you're doing on that ratio.

But I'm sure you all are just fascinated by knowing how I write papers. Heck, that subject is mildly boring, even to me. The real point of this entry?

PDFs can take a while to download. Since I need the sources I'm downloading to, you know, write the paper, I don't have anything else to do. I'm bored.

Ha. You're stuck with my paper-writing process.

Also, Calvin lied. Last-minute panic did not work as a motivator. In this case, I credit sheer, mule-headed stubbornness.

Curse You, Writer's Block

Go figure. Right when I need a brilliant expose on the unity and diversity of South Africa, my ability to write goes completely caput. Which leaves me sitting here, staring at the 200 words I've written, wishing that the remaining 400 words would just write themselves. Because I seem to have run out of anything to say. Also, as a writer, it's frustrating to feel like I've "lost my voice" so to speak. Those 200 words I have written? They sound nothing like me. So that's also frustrating. Maybe I'll resort to something like this. It seems the only option I have left.

Life Is Not a Romance Novel

So I'm reading this book for my novel class called The Female Quixote (which the British, naturally, have abominated to be pronounced "quix-ot" instead of the properly Spanish pronunciation "kee-ho-te" -- and yeah, just ignore the non-phonemically-correct pronunciation guides. I made them up). Basically, the story is about a woman, named Arabella, who is convinced that the world functions just like it does in the romance novels she's so fond of reading. Growing up in a small country manor hasn't helped her to become more acquainted with reality, either.

I find the story both amusing and frustrating. Amusing because Arabella, smart and clever as she is, is hopelessly naive about the way the real world works. Frustrating because I recognize too many patterns of thought like this one in girls around me (and I am occasionally guilty of them myself). Arabella is extremely rigid in matters of "decorum" and that men act just as they do in the romance novels. Some of these expectations:

The man never actually talks to the object of his desire about love until he has displayed, often for years at a time, complete submission to her will, and devotion to her cause.

If he shows no sign of "dying" for her love (sickness, sallowness, fatigue, etc) he is not worthy of her

He must go out and perform at least one, if not several tasks of tremendous accomplishment

And the list goes on and on. The one man in the book who truly loves Arabella is a slave to her unrealistic expectations, and yet I bless him on every page because he never wholly succumbs to behaving the way she wants him to. Instead, he improvises a little bit at a time to stay in her good graces while trying to cure her of her obsession with romantic notions. I haven't finished, so I'm not positive about how it turns out, but I hope he triumphs.

Anyway, some recent events have reminded me that women with high and often unreasonable expectations are not confined to satirical novels. They are real; otherwise the stories about them would never have been written in the first place.

A word of advice to those women: lighten up. No man will recite poetry, always say or do the right thing, or smell fantastic 100% of the time. He won't always know the answers. He might forget your birthday, your big interview, or even your anniversary. He will probably leave a mess somewhere, say something stupid, or thoughtless, or perhaps even cruel. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that any real man will do all of those things at least once in your life with him.

But flip the tables around for a second. How often have we as women done those things to the men in our lives? I've definitely said stupid things that I've had to apologize for. I've forgotten or overlooked something important to a man I cared about. And I definitely am not always in my best condition, emotionally or physically (airplane hair, anyone?).

And let's not even start on girls' own unique problems: hormones, headaches, reactions to stress, overtalking, undertalking, mind-changing, expecting guys to understand us when they tell us over and over that they don't, and so on.

We're just different than them, and we have to recognize that.

Sure, we want our men today to take charge and ask us out. To seize the moment and really court us. But I have a little secret for you: we terrify them sometimes most of the time. If we just stand back and glare at them, waiting for them to make the first move, only the gutsiest man will probably move, and you may or may not want him. They really try so hard. A lot of long, close conversations with guyfriends, boyfriends, brothers, and cousins have made it abundantly clear to me how nervous they get around us. Think about how we feel when the pressure is on us to arrange dates. We hate it. We get all queasy and nervous, right? They do it all. the. time.

So girls, cut your men a little slack every now and then. They do a great job, on the whole. And just remember: don't expect anything from them that you aren't willing to do for them in return. Don't expect flowers if you aren't willing to splurge a little on that movie or game he's been wanting. Don't expect him to remember your birthday if you overlook Father's day. Don't expect him to always tell you everything he's thinking when you withhold your thoughts from him when you're mad at him.

Relationships are about equality. I know most of us aren't married, but it starts now. If we expect them to sweep us off our feet, it'll go a long way if we try to sweep them off theirs, too. So go all out on that dinner for him. Watch his favorite guy movie. Learn to play that video game he grew up on. He works hard. Let's show them a little love, too. :)

Chick Flicks and Dialects :)

Okay, so I hardly ever post my homework on my blog, because that usually just seems silly to me. But I have to admit, I kind of had fun writing this. First, because I'm a little more snarky than I probably should be in a homework assignment, and second, because I'm writing about dialects, and that's just fun. Not promising that this will be a masterpiece of linguistic insight and argument. It's more just stream-of-consciousness rattling off of thoughts as I watched the movie, but that's exactly what the homework assignment required, so...

Enjoy!

Letters to Juliet is your standard, formulaic chick flick, as prone to fitting characters into stereotypes (both dialectal and appearance-based) as Disney movies are. This movie is a story of a female, American protagonist, Sophie, who goes with her fiancé Victor to visit Verona, Italy. While in Verona, she becomes involved in the 50-year-old love story of a well-to-do British woman who is searching (with her grandson, Charlie) for her long-lost first love. Despite his stuffy and often downright snobbish attitude, the British Charlie provides an obvious foil to the food-obsessed, rapid-fire-Italian-English-talking Victor who apparently doesn’t have much time for his fiancée. The three-way contrast of the Standard American English spoken by Sophie, the Standard British English spoken by Charlie, and the Italian American English spoken by Victor helps to illustrate the characters’ personalities according to the stereotypes associated with each variety.

                Sophie, a typical American, middle-class woman with a white collar job, speaks in Standard American English. Because the movie is marketed primarily toward American audiences, Sophie’s accent makes her instantly relatable, because she talks just like the rest of us. Her brisk, clipped American accent reflects her profession as a businesswoman and a journalist. At the same time, she uses many familiar slang expressions and exclamations (“That is awesome!” “Yeah,” “Are you for real?” etc.) that tie her back into the language associated with the younger generation. This makes her fit the standard “insert-yourself-here” formula for heroines in romantic comedies that allows young women to relate to her.

                 Tight-laced Brit, Charlie, waltzes onto the screen, dripping with disdain and apparently lacking any romantic inclinations in his entire body. Due to many American conceptions about British English speakers being stiff, methodical, unemotional, very intelligent, and occasionally elitist, his accent reinforces the way they want him to come across in the beginning. “He always insisted that love was nothing but hormones, but underneath, he has such a warm, passionate heart,” Charlie’s grandmother says of him at one point during the movie. The flip side of the associations with British English is that it is foreign, and carries with it some romanticism, especially as associated with Shakespeare and English poetry. Regency-era movies, frequently considered the crown jewels of romantic chick flicks, are almost exclusively cast in British English varieties. Letters to Juliet draws on this heritage of British English as a romantic variety as Charlie begins to fall for Sophie and takes his place as the true male lead in the movie.

                Victor, as a sharp contrast to the reserved but witty Charlie, is enthusiastic, emotive, and speaks rapidly in Italian English, often employing the Italian trend for repetition and hyperbole. Appropriately, he is a pasta chef looking to open his own restaurant in New York, and has come to Italy with Sophie to meet with potential suppliers. Caught up as he is by his driving passion for food (another trait commonly associated with Italy and Italians), he is often distracted from paying attention to Sophie, which makes him a less appropriate match for her than Charlie is. Although Italian is widely considered to be the language of love, this movie exploits the less romantic aspects of Italian English to portray Victor’s unsuitability as Sophie’s love interest. The more charming, lyrical Italian accents are relegated to the women Sophie meets, and to the Italian man Charlie’s grandmother had come searching for.

                Though the movie is not intentionally offering commentary on the various dialects it presents – such a subtext is a little deeper and more complex than most chick flicks choose to delve into – the use of the different varieties of English does speed up the audience’s ability to associate each character with their intended personality traits. For the purposes of a chick flick, this use of dialect as characterization is both effective and expected, much as it is with Disney movies.

Diving In

Hi! Lynnae's sneaky, non-school-absorbed secretary here! Lynnae wishes to inform you that she has a ton of good material for blog posts, thanks to a very eventful couple of days. Unfortunately, I also have a note from Lynnae that will explain her lack of posting said material:

Dear Homework,
I know we've had a very tenuous relationship this semester. You probably feel a little resentful that I haven't devoted as much time to you and I probably should to maintain a healthy relationship. I apologize most profusely. With that in mind, please please PLEASE don't chew me up and spit me out tonight as I attempt to spend all evening with you. I promise to even cut into my prearranged date with Sleep to spend more time with you. Let's keep this relationship afloat, shall we?
Kindest regards,
Lynnae

(It's me, the secretary, again!) Wish Lynnae the best of luck. She should return sometime soon to share her thoughts with you.

Yes, I'm Living the Dream

Is anyone else a little sad that conference is over? I had to smile when I felt myself droop a little as the last session came to a close, because that meant that I had a very good experience with it this time. If nothing else, I got a lot help on how to keep upbeat and optimistic about life. Because clearly, I've been struggling with that. It's so hard to explain all of the reasons why my mood slips down, but I appreciate the advice and counsel I get from friends and family. It makes a difference, even if my learning curve is a couple of days before it all sinks in and I get what you're all trying to tell me.

To express gratitude is gracious and honorable. To enact gratitude is generous and noble. To live with gratitude ever in our hearts is to touch heaven.  ~Thomas S. Monson (feel free to correct this quote if it's wrong, I'm running off of memory writing it)

That quote, as well as the talk that accompanied it, packed a spiritual wallop over the head with a two-by-four for me today. And I realized that it was time to wake up and really appreciate what I see in front of me. Michelle wrote in her blog that she's living the dream, even if she doesn't have everything she wants at the moment, and I was a little dismayed to discover that, as of yesterday, I couldn't honestly say the same. After getting a Rafiki-like whap on the head (metaphorically, of course) today during conference, I think I'm starting to change that thinking. I know I do gratitude lists fairly often, but today I'm going to spend a little more time on this one.

I'm so very grateful that I'm going to BYU. I'm at an institution where watching conference with an apartment full of peers is a normal occurrence. Where prayers are said to start classes. Where almost everything is taught with a gospel perspective. Yes, I know there are members who go to other universities and find spiritual strength and enlightenment there, but for me, this is where I'm supposed to be. I have absolutely no doubt about that, and I'm surprised to look back and realize how far I've come since starting here.

I have been so unbelievably blessed with friends. I cannot count the number of people who've fallen into my life at just the right time to bless me and lift me up. My roommates are always there to fill in the weak spots, my guyfriends are there to love me in spite of my rough moments and remind me that I'm beautiful (and let's be honest: it always means more coming from a guy than it does from roommates or family -- guys aren't really obligated to tell us nice things. They say it only if they want to), and some of the girls in my ward seem to instinctively know just when to smile and say hi.

As strange as this is to say, I am so grateful to have dated a man (yes, a man, not a boy -- he'll never be a boy to me) who was faithful and true to me through all the long months, even though it still ended with us breaking up. Not only that, but he was true enough to his Priesthood, and to himself, to walk away, despite knowing how much it hurt both of us. But perhaps the most important thing that I'm grateful for at this point is that he was willing to make the decision with me. We did it together, and I don't think I can ever fully express to him (and I can't possibly remind myself enough) how deeply grateful I am that he respected me enough to share that burden. It wasn't easy, and I'll never say that it was, but even in that one exquisitely painful moment, he taught me more than he could possibly realize.

I'm grateful for the strength that comes from the Spirit. And I'm eternally grateful that spiritual memory is the most accurate sensory memory we possess. Long after sights, sounds, smells, and feelings fade from our memories, spiritual experiences remain as crisp and clear as ever. That's how I dig up the strength to face every day. That's how I find myself back in positive moods after inexplicably crummy days. Because I know that things are going right. When I find myself doubting, I trace back to those moments of clarity and perspective and relive them to find the strength I lack. Even if it means going back to that sacred moment when, as a young girl, I asked the Lord if He loved me personally, I can recall with perfect clarity how I felt. Such moments are sprinkled generously throughout my life, which means that I have innumerable experiences to relive.

In the more tangible aspects of life, I really am still living the dream. I'm graduating. I have to say it over and over again to convince myself that it's real, but I'm graduating. I'll be the first Jackson in my generation to earn a baccalaureate degree. I'm mere months away from achieving one of the major life goals that I've been working on since I was old enough to know what college was. It's so close that I can begin to taste it. Regardless of how uncertain my career future looks, or how scared I might be, I'm on the cusp of accomplishing the first huge goal I ever set for myself and that is going to be an amazing feeling. It already is, and I haven't even finished yet.

I'm going through the temple. It's another thing I have to whisper to myself over and over again, because a big part of me is still reeling that it's happening so soon. And interestingly enough, it's happening just the way I wanted it to. When I was younger, I read about the blessings of the endowment ordinances and said to myself, "I want to experience that separate and apart from the sealing ordinance. I don't want it overshadowed with the chaos of orchestrating a wedding." Unfortunately, such a desire has meant that I've had to experience some very painful heartbreaks, otherwise I very well could have been preparing for a wedding and the endowment at the same time. At times I've hated that the Lord is apparently respecting my girlhood wish and giving each ordinance its own frame, but deep down, I don't think I'm really all that upset. It's what I wanted then, and frankly, it's what I want now.

It's strange to hear myself say this, but I'm grateful for the trials I've been experiencing. They have been painful, and they have been expertly engineered to strike at my most vulnerable spots with piercing effect. But they have forced me to take my stand and find strength that I didn't know I had. In the course of doing so, I have acquired the absolute certainty that I am doing what I should. The Lord is at my side through every step, one hand steadying me, and one hand at my back, urging me onward. I can't doubt it, even if I wanted to, thanks to that spiritual memory I mentioned earlier.

But enough with the personal gratitudes, even though they are deeply applicable.

Here are other reasons that my life is absolutely wonderful, and, because it's me, most of them have to do with people.

Okay, this one isn't a person, but still. I have a bookshelf full of treasured books. This may sound inconsequential to a lot of people, but it's something that fills me with a deep sense of satisfaction whenever I look at it. Even that small, simple pleasure is enough to turn my day around sometimes.

Savannah. The twin sister of my Inner Writer. She can express what my own words could never say, and she can see what I could never bring myself to tell.

Michelle. The beacon of persistence, faith, and unqualified loyalty to the gospel and the Savior. She's often the one delivering those Rafiki-like whaps on the head, whether she realizes it or not.

Stephanie. The sister I found in the most unexpected place. I never would have guessed when I met her a year ago that she would become one of my closest friends, but she has, and I can never treasure her enough.

Kristopher. Unconventional circumstances brought us together, but through them, I gained an irreplaceable friend.

Qait. The family my soul always knew that it had. There is a connection there that I could never begin to describe, and it's one that no amount of distance, time, or changing life situations has ever been able to destroy.

My parents. They have forged me into the person who left for college three and a half years ago, and because of their guidance and example, I find myself becoming more and more like them every day. And that is the highest praise that I can give.

And, as always, the single most important thing that I can never, ever be grateful for enough, is my Savior. I remember sitting on my bedroom floor earlier this week and bemoaning the fact that I didn't have anyone who knew me so perfectly that they could tell at a glance what I needed. But there is Someone who knows me exactly that well, and He is the most unfailing companion any heart could ever ask for. He will always, always be there for me, and He has all the answers. I can do everything that I'm trying to accomplish and more, with such a Friend at my side.

The Ubiquitous Pink Ninja

Once upon a time, there was a lovely young woman living in apartment 21 who liked making up stories. One day in early February, she caught a whiff of that Valentine's Day scent in the air and thought that she'd like to write some V-Day predictions for her roommates, just for fun. So she did. And in true Savannah form (for Savannah it was), she definitely went for the not-so-likely scenarios, especially for yours truly. Here was my Valentine's prediction:

Adam will ask her to go dancing. While they are dancing, someone will crash a howitzer full of highly trained orangutans into wherever it is they go to dance, which will go from person to person, breaking their collar bones. Lynnae will be forced to reveal her secret identity as a ninja, perform a series of Matrix-style stunts, and defeat all the evil orangutans. Adam will be so amazed by her awesomeness that he will swear to leave his player ways behind, if she will only be his one and only. Unfortunately, she now has to open an investigation into who sent the orangutans, and doesn't have time for a relationship.

Well, as awesome as that would have been, it didn't come true, but I did send a copy of the prediction along to my best friend Qait. She responded with a letter containing her doodles of the event...

So suddenly Lynnae was not just a ninja, she was a pink ninja. But the formation of her identity was still not complete. Shortly after that, I posted one of those "write a memory you have of me" status thingies on Facebook and Savannah thought it would be a great time to post a "memory" she had of me. Specifically this one:

Oh memories! I remember once, it was you and me, and we went for a drive through the canyon. Yes, it was a glorious trip! We found this little back road with a road block and a danger sign, so OF COURSE we drove around the sign to check it out. We went for about a mile, found nothing, then decided to turn around and come back. Unfortunately, we couldn't find the main highway again, even though there was no turn off, and we had only driven a mile (according to the ever-accurate odometer) down the danger-road. 

We drove back the way we had come for 23 miles before we realized that something had to be horribly wrong. When we turned on the radio, and every single station was playing the twilight-zone theme song, we realized we must have driven through a worm hole. 

We pulled over to the side of the road and stepped out of the car, but there was no ground to step on. Yet, step we did. Ice crystals formed into hardened stepping stones beneath our feet with each step we took. We had gone maybe 10 feet, when we were surrounded by rocks shaped like pike. One of the rocks stood in front of all the others, and said, "Humans, welcome to our world. You stepped through the Weird Wormhole of Wonders, and now you can never go back."

But, there was something he didn't know. I was with you, and you are a howitzer-driving-orangutan-defeating ninja. You ripped off your polo shirt to reveal pink and black spandex beneath (because you are The Ubiquitous Pink Ninja), and unleashed all your pink fury upon the rocks. They shattered, and transformed into orchids, floating in the abyss. 

Then we had to get back through the worm hole, and for that, an evil genius was required. Luckily, you were with me. I am The Nefarious Lady Death-Moon, and evil genius is my specialty. I used my diabolical brain to CREATE my own wormhole, and we drove back through it, and landed in Luxembourg, the tiny country bordered by Belgium, France and Germany. Oops, my bad. I had to use evil genius again to mutate our genetic code in such a way that we sprouted wings and jet-engines and flew back to the canyon, where we drove home, pretending nothing had happened. To this day, no one knows about it, but you and me.

Oh...
And everyone else on facebook. Oops. Sorry about that.

Thus dubbed with the epithet "Ubiquitous" (which means "all-present," by the way -- an epithet that I use to my advantage as often as possible), the Pink Ninja soon developed a personality of her own and moved her secret base of operations to a tulip field in Holland, where her pink uniform could actually serve as a form of camouflage. Since then, she's been occupied with the business of keeping the Nefarious Lady Deathmoon from taking over the world, charming the questionably-evil Catalyst of Evil, and picking up a couple of useful sidekicks along the way. She's a true snark (made up of the best parts of my sarcastic side) and a lover of plain, simple things. The rest of her personality and backstory are still in the works, but there you go. For those of you who ever wondered, when Savannah and I talk about being each other's nemesis, you'll know what we're talking about.

Oh, and by the way, I really want to see this movie now. Not because of any specific parallels between our characters and these, but more because the idea of their relationship is pretty close to how we view the relationship between the Ubiquitous Pink Ninja and the Nefarious Lady Deathmoon. 

Back into the Writing Groove

And no, I don't mean the blogging groove, although clearly I dip back into that more often than I used to. :) I mean the real, true I'm-writing-a-story writing groove. And I'd forgotten how much I love it. I just need a little encouragement and something good to work with, and I have a lot of fun writing.

My roommate Savannah sent me an email a week or so ago containing a brief story written from the point of view of her fictitious alter-ego, the Nefarious Lady Deathmoon. It also contained a challenge to my fictitious alter-ego, the Ubiquitous Pink Ninja, wondering what she would do next. There's a long and amusing history to how my best friend and I ended up with alter-egos that are mortal enemies and got their identities, and I'm working on composing a few pieces of that history to share with my other friends. Unfortunately, right now most of the appeal of the two characters is in the fact that it's an inside joke between me and Savannah. However, as we continue the saga of our two characters, they'll become a little more well-defined and hopefully be able to stand on their own as interesting characters.

This writing situation presents a unique challenge that I've never faced before, since I've never been restricted from writing about a significant character before. Because the Nefarious Lady Deathmoon is the exclusive property of Savannah, I can't write about any of her actions or characteristics without risking violating some part of her character that I don't know about. The only things I can work with are the things that Savannah has already revealed. On the flip side, Savannah has the same problem when it comes to dealing with my character.

It's fun, though. Kind of like a cross between writing a story and playing one of those intense strategy games, since you have to prepare contingency plans and plot elements flexible enough to bend around what the other person writes. And we'll find out who wins. Which makes it more fun, since neither of us have any idea. Kind of like real life, except that this plot progresses much more quickly.

You know, I've given up my plans for writing a book, and I never thought I'd co-author something. Ever. But if this story turns out well, Savannah and I are thinking about polishing it up and maybe publishing it. It would be fun to do together, and it definitely has the potential to be much more original than normal if we write it this way.

Long story short, I caught the writing bug again, and it made me happy. I've forgotten how much I really do enjoy writing.

Planet of the Babes

I have a busy life. It's true. I'm never done until at least 5pm. Classes on editing, work as an editor, doing my editing homework. I'm living, eating, and breathing editing. (Gee, it's a good thing I like it, isn't it?) And recently I've decided to add yet another commitment to my list: I'm volunteering as an editor for the sci-fi student journal on campus called Leading Edge. It's actually pretty fun, despite the very high nerd-factor. I view it as a unique opportunity to let the inner geek in me stretch her legs a little. I keep her tied down most of the time, since life typically requires someone infinitely more practical than the sci-fi geek.

Well, to clarify: I thought I was a geek. Hahahaha. Nope. There were so many jokes that went way over my head. I'm not sure how to react to this revelation. For now, I guess I'll take it as a good thing.

Anyway, to the point. Because I ramble. It's fun sometimes.

We're currently in the reviewing-for-acceptance-or-rejection stage. Basically, we don't do any substantive or copyedits. At all. We just read through the story and decide whether or not we like it enough to give it a pass and let it go on to the next phase of story submissions. Naturally, in this early stage, you get a wide range of quality. Some of it is not so good.

For example, I read a story called Planet of the Babes. Yes, it's exactly what it sounds like. It's been done before. Astronauts explore and land on a foreign planet. Unsure of what to expect, they disembark and look cautiously around. All of a sudden, before their eyes, they behold a group of stunningly beautiful, and apparently single/abandoned, women. To their disbelief, the women welcome them into their homes, feed them wine and good food, and give them a place to sleep for the night. The three (lucky) spacemen stay up late talking about their extraordinary good luck in landing on this planet, but before they can get too caught up in their raptures, one of them cautions that things may not be as they seem. What if the women are shapeshifters who are really reptilian monsters that will slash them to death as soon as they get them alone and vulnerable? The others blink slowly a few times. Naaah. That's not possible. Dude's been reading too many science fiction stories. The cautionary spaceman chuckles sheepishly and accedes. Right on cue, one of the women comes into their room, bats her eyes flirtatiously and, of course, all three spacemen run like mad to the closest woman for some good old fashioned alien lovin' (never fear, the author did have the tact to keep it PG-rated, thank heavens). AND THEN! Suddenly the ravishing women transform into hideous reptiles and slash the spacemen to death! The spacemen realize before they die (because, you know, you have time to think about things like this as viciously sharp claws are tearing into your flesh) that the cautionary spaceman was right. Whoops. The end.

Seriously. That was the story. Except that I managed to tell it in 250 words, with complex sentences and relatively good diction. Our dear submitter took 700 words, lots of dialogue with "..." _____ said speaker tags (not even kidding: we had a party when we found the ONE "..." ____ asked tag) and painfully cliche phraseology to tell the same story.

And yes, we all read this story. Sometimes, you just stumble upon a gem that's so appalling in its quality that you simply have to share it with everyone else. So the whole group took a break from editing their various manuscripts to listen to the story as someone read it aloud.

I feel slightly honored to have been the one who discovered this little gem.

In context of this and other awful submissions, we got into a discussion about the "camp classic" phenomenon, where something is "So bad it's good." One of the guys even drew a graph on the board that looked something like this:

I nabbed this off a blog about the Star Wars Holiday Special (which, incidentally, also came up in our discussion -- they agreed with this guy: it's not even "so bad it's good." It's just plain horrible)

Now, myself, I tend to dislike camp classics, even the ones of the so-bad-it's-good variety, so I didn't relate as well at first. But after taking said story into account, I began to understand a little bit of their appeal. The enjoyment comes less from any quality (or lack thereof) of the work than from the opportunity of unleashing our snarky sides and ripping into it afterward.

Poor guy. There was no way he was making it past the first cut. So I had to wonder if he really honestly thought it was a good story, or if he'd done it as a dare. For his sake, I hope it was a dare, because that restores my faith in good writers out there. Either way, it gave me a kick.

Glutton for Punishment

Gluttony's a sin, oh didn't you know
And for every sin, the punishment must go
On the heels of the crime and give you a jab
To scold and remind you that you've been bad
Now achy and punished, you know you got served
The dish that you richly and truly deserved
But oh the confusion when rules get all bent
For how do you punish a glutton for punishment?

Just a little ditty I penned out of exasperation for my ridiculous habit of going back for more when I know I don't really want it. Whether it be food, boys, sleep, or putting off homework. I just keep asking for it. So for all you punishment-gluttons out there, this one's for you. I wish I were a song writer and had musical talent, because I have this really whimsical tune in my head right now. But don't ask me to sing it. I won't. :)