Readers as Writers: In London Skies

The sun set over the gleaming city of London, glinting off marble and bronze and gold. Slowly, the last traces of light followed their father, the sun, into darkness. The night air was heavy with magic, and the stars gazed down on the city with a sense of expectation. The full moon swung up majestically from where she had been sleeping beyond the edge of the world. Her reflection shimmered in the Thames; the rippling waves made it appear as if silver tresses of light were streaming out behind her full face. As the moon bathed the city in her light, its magic touched upon all the statues of the city.The cold metal and stone of their bodies soaked up the cold light of the moon, and all over the city, they began to glow. This was more than the glow of light being reflected; if one were to observe the statutes, they may note that the light appeared to be coming from within them. One by one, all over the city, the luminescent statues began to awake. Shaking themselves and blinking, a variety beings made of marble and bronze and gold stepped into the streets or took to the sky. Mighty horses and their riders left their pedestals where they watched over the city by day and patrolled the streets alongside fierce lions and noted English scholars. The glowing bodies of angels and dragons circled the sky in tight formations. From these vantage points, the stern statues of London‒ the Guardians of the City– did their duty. Nightly, they drove back the shadows in the night that threatened to overtake this noblest of cities. For hundreds of years, under the touch of the moon, the statues had awoken and performed this practiced routine. All but one. A new statue, he had stumbled awake with a gasp for the first time that very night. Trembling in the moonlight, the golden angel huddled over London. Confused and forlorn, he found he could do naught but watch his brothers and sisters move in tight, unified groups around him. Uncertain of his own place, he hovered in the chill night and tried to ignore the crushing sense of loneliness that hovered with him.

The Enchanted Forest

The woman sat at her kitchen table and sipped her coffee, flipping the page in her newspaper. Idly, she read the Aquarius horoscope for the day. “Words, once they are printed,” it told her, “are more real than they were before.” She sighed, and thought, “Hmm. Maybe just the kick I need to finish this darned manuscript.” She was a writer, cursed with a horrible case of writer’s block. She was currently striving to finish her novel so she could finally send a copy off to her editor. Suddenly impatient, she opened her laptop and began to write. Her muse was once again calling to her, and she answered, typing well into the day with nary a break. Images of enchanted forests dappled by moonlight filled the pages, and malevolent fairies danced through her imagination. All manner of dark and dangerous creatures took over the night in her forest, and suddenly, she was done. She printed out her novel, finally satisfied. But as the printer spit out the pages, ancient trees took root in her kitchen, and fairies began to flit through her living room. She remembered, with a dawning terror, all the horrible beasts she had written into her dark, enchanted forest...

The Fall of the Viking Prince

The battle raged through the night and into the morning, and again late into the day. By the time it finally ended, the setting sun was bathing the blood-drenched land in a horrible blood-red light, as if the sun itself bled in the gruesome aftermath of this battle to end all battles. Iorek the fierce Prince of the Vikings, fought valiantly beside his people to defend their isle, leading his men with strength and skill. But on that day, just as the sun brimmed over the horizon, he was struck down. All who saw were stricken with shock and despair for the fall of their mighty leader. And yet, with the great heart inherent in all Vikings, the warriors overcame their crushing anguish and rallied once more for their Prince and leader. With a battle cry that would send the devil himself packing, the ferocious warriors rushed forward. They drove the enemy back, winning freedom for their homeland. After the battle, his people sent him off in the traditional way of the Vikings. They laid him to eternal rest in his ship, weapons and shield by his side in death as they were in life. The ship was set alight and sent blazing into the ocean, where Iorek would rest forevermore, always remembered in story and legend. As the mighty vessel exited the bay, his father, the stoic King Ivan, shed a quiet tear for his strong and beloved son. The tear ran down his face and disappeared into his graying beard, unnoticed by many.

Inspired by a Speedbump.com comic

Classmate's Blogs Review

I read Ally's pieces Phoenix, My Perfect Future, Short-Lived Disneyland Adventure, Thoughts on a Simple Quote, and her poem Red Geranium. The dream piece, Phoenix, really caught my eye. The way she described the fire was spectacular, and I can honestly say very accurate. The joy of having fire whirling and crackling around you is exhilarating, and this piece spoke very strongly of this joy to me. I also loved her color-based poem. She was able to pack so much descriptive power into such a short piece, and it concisely brought to mind the feel of soft geranium petals. I also read Jane's piece on quotes, and her pieces Not a Real Love Story, Just Another Color Story, The Queen, Welcome to the Circus, and her If I Were In Charge of the World poem. I loved Welcome to the Circus. Her idea of having a whole miniature circus inside this tiny box was fabulous, and the whole story line was adorable. The last few lines in particular pulled on the heart strings. Any piece of writing that can invoke emotion like that is very well done, so hats off to her for that! I look forward to reading more of both Ally's and Jane's works.

The Call of the Sea

Of all things that drive men to the sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women. I've seen countless men abandon the comforts of land to follow the winds and the tides, all in the name of a woman. Some, to find an escape. Some, to provide support. And some, to prove their worth and win win a girl’s heart- and her hand. Sadly, this story is not of the latter case. It is a story of a man, trapped in the confines of a life on land. He stands at the window of the cottage he and his wife live in with their three children. Two boys, and a little girl. Although their house stands at the edge of town, set away from the coast, the cold briny scent of the ocean tinges the evening air. It rolls in with the fog from the sea, borne on coastal winds. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, imagining that he can hear the crashing of the waves as they break against the rocky shore. “Come to bed,” his wife calls from the other side of the room. She holds a flickering candle, and in its light his face is cast into partial shadow. “In a minute,” he mumbles, pulling on his boots. He is overcome with an insatiable urge, a deep and pulling need, to see the ocean and feel its cold spray on his face. Saltwater runs in his veins, and the sea calls him, pulling him along like the ebb and flow of the tides at the mercy of the moon. As the night deepens, he trudges along the roads of the town. His strides lengthen as he passes onto the path leading down to the ocean, and he seems to stand a little straighter. Again, he breathes deeply, and it’s as if he feels a loosening in his soul. A weight he didn't know he’d been holding has been taken off his shoulders, and he feels newly freed. He reaches the shore, and stands at the edge of the surf. The waves lap at his boots, like the playful caress of a lover calling to him. The sea enchants him. His father and grandfather and countless others before him had been sailors. His heart was the heart of the ocean, and its call was irresistible. Shaking himself from the stupor of the sea, he clambered aboard a small sailing boat, and set out into the roiling ocean. The boat leapt to life under his experienced hands, skimming along the waves and carrying him out into the bay. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.

Famous First and Last Lines

Famous First Line

"Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women."

The author of Middle Passage is Charles R. Johnson. He was born on April 23, 1948. Johnson is an African American author with multiple awards. He went to  Stony Brook University Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. Middle Passage was published in 1990.

This book follows the story of Rutherford Calhoun, a freed slave in America. He boards a ship as a stowaway to avoid being forced into a marriage. The ship, called the Republic is an illegal slave ship headed towards Africa. He is discovered and made to work on the ship, and is fully exposed to the hardships of slave life. Calhoun becomes humbled by his experiences with the captured African slaves and learns many lessons. By the end, the Republic is falling apart and only five people survive to be rescued. Calhoun eventually makes peace with his life and his internal conflicts.

I'm not entirely sure whether or not I'd enjoy reading this book. I'm not a huge fan of historical fiction, especially if it's based on modern history. However, despite my general aversion to historical novels, this book sounds intriguing and I'd be willing to give it a try. The plot line seems very interesting, and the mystical touch of the alleged Allmuseri god is appealing to me.

Famous Last Line

"He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance."

This is the last line of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, published in 1818. Shelly was an English novelist. She was born on August 30, 1797, and died on February 1, 1851.

This novel is an example of Gothic literature. A monster, created by Dr. Frankenstein, is shunned by society and even his maker. He yearns for nothing more than to be accepted, and when this desire goes unrealized, he becomes a murderer, killing his maker's loved ones one by one.

I read this book at the beginning of this year for my AP English Literature class. I did not particularly enjoy reading it. I don't find Gothic literature appealing. However, the ideas and themes within the book were interesting, and I immensely enjoyed discussing them in class. The only roadblock for me was the writing style. However, definitely worth the read.

Memorable Quotes

Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan! My Brothers. 
I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me.
A day may come when the courage of Men falls, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship.
But it is not this day.
An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down.
But it is not this day.
This day we fight! By all you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!

~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

Visit either you like: they're both mad.' 
'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.' 

~C.S. Louis, Alice in Wonderland

 "Go on, admit it, the book whispers its story to you at night." "Sometimes, yes," Meggie had said

~Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book. And then there are books...which you can’t tell people about, books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal. 

~John Greene, The Fault in Our Stars

Do not cringe and make yourself small if you are called the black sheep, the maverick, the lone wolf. Those with slow seeing say a nonconformist is a blight on society.

But it has been proven over the centuries, that being different means standing at the edge, means one is practically guaranteed to make an original contribution, a useful and stunning contribution to her culture.

When seeking guidance, don't ever listen to the tiny-hearted. Be kind to them, heap them with blessings, cajole them, but do not follow their advice.

If you have ever been called defiant, incorrigible, forward, cunning, insurgent, unruly, rebellious, you're on the right track.

Wild Woman is close by.

If you have never been called these things, there is yet time. Practice your Wild Woman.

~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Memorable Passage

“If you take a book with you on a journey," Mo had said when he put the first one in her box, "an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it... yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed page better than anything else.”

~Inkheart, Cornelia Funke

This passage stands out to me every time I read this book. I think I remember it so well because it's true and very easy to relate to. Every time I read a book, I feel like those memories stay in the book. Then, when I open it again, I remember exactly what I was doing while I was reading those words. One of my favorite books contains a memory from when I was traveling through the Catskill mountains. I remember the song that was playing, and the cool feel of the mist drifting in through the windows. Inkheart itself calls to mind the taste of rich dark chocolate with hints of zesty oranges, and People of the Wolf reminds me of warm sun and cool winds in Wyoming, sitting in my hammock on the top of a gorgeous bluff over a lake. Forever in my mind, certain memories and certain passages from books will be forever linked together. When I read this, I just remember thinking, "Yes. This is it. That's exactly what happens, this is perfect." I was so happy to finally see that in words, because I'd always felt it but was never able to explain the phenomenon. Maybe you've noticed before how a book will get thicker every time you read it. The pages somehow seem to expand out, and spaces grow between them each time you read it. This is because of the memories caught and pressed between the pages, there for you to find again and again among the words of the book.

Writers as Readers

When I read, I find that I am most comfortable in a quiet place. Loud sounds, like my siblings playing our out of tune piano downstairs, irritate and distract me and keep me from delving fully into the story. Aside from silence, I like to be in some place where I can just curl up for a few hours. Usually, this means my bed or my hammock, which I keep set up in the back yard. I quite enjoy having a cup of hot tea beside me when I read, and a bit of chocolate never hurts either. In all, I like to have a relaxing, calm environment when I read. It helps me zone out so I can get drawn into the story.

I think I write quite a bit like Cornelia Funke at times. She has a tendency to describe some scenes and people with great detail, pointing out small things to paint a more vivid scene just as I do. We also both use a lot of metaphors in our descriptions. I read her books a lot as a kid, and I still read them fairly regularly. I always loved them and the descriptions in them, so I think I probably picked up a bit of her writing style through this repetitious reading. I try to avoid emulating any writers. I want to have a style all my own, although I will admit if a piece of my writing sounds like someone else. I think it’s hard to completely avoid echoing others’ writing styles.

It’s nearly impossible to pick a favorite book or series. I simply love far too many. However, Tolkien and Funke have got to be my favorite two authors. I simply love both of their writing styles. Every word of theirs just sounds like poetry to me, and their stories pull me in like a black hole of words. I become so completely immersed in their books, and not only can I not pull myself back out, but I find that I don’t want to. I love being pulled in and taken into another world, and both these authors do that so masterfully. I can’t express in words just how deeply or exactly why I love the works of these authors, but all of their works mean so much to me that I know they’ll remain favorites as long as I live.

I believe that the more someone reads, the more likely they are to become a writer. It doesn't much matter what they write, be it stories, songs, or poetry, I heavily believe that their reading habits will influence how they write. I think taking in the written words of others helps us learn how to develop our own ideas, as well as sentence structure and vocabulary. I think reading ingrains in us a love of words and makes us want to write pieces of our own, and also gives us the skill to do so.

If I Were in Charge of the World

Inspired by Judith Viorst’s “If I Were in Charge of the World”

If I were in charge of the world

I’d cancel frivolous television shows,

Electronic books,

Insipid modern music, and also

Possibly the Laws of Physics.

If I were in charge of the world,

there’d be fewer city lights,

darker nights, and

brighter stars.

If I were in charge of the world

you wouldn't have hatred.

You wouldn't have jealousy.

You wouldn't have judgement.

Or “Don’t climb that building!”

You wouldn't even have unclimbable buildings.

If I were in charge of the world

a fresh baked chocolate scone

and a cup of tea would be a vegetable.

All coffee would be black,

And a person who sometimes forgot to love

and sometimes forgot to smile

would still be allowed to be

in charge of the world.

For the Joy of Flight

Inspired by Maya Angelou's "I know Why the Caged Bird Sings"

I sing of far off lands.

I sing of flying into the distance and not looking back.

Flying away, to search out my own path.

Flying to escape the hatred.

Flying to escape the loneliness.

Flying to find light and love in the wind-strewn skies, and to stretch my wings in the clean golden air.

I sing to the Earth and the Sun.

I sing to the Moon and the Stars.

I sing for Joy and Love.

I sing for Hope.

I sing

to escape

the confines

of my cage.

Writers Dreaming

Angelou believes that talking about your bad dreams gives them too much power. I believe that ignoring them gives them power as well. To take their power away, I believe you need to stand before the dream, or whatever bad thing you may be daunted by, and talk about it. Acknowledge its existence, stare it in the face, and confront it. Talk about it in a truthful way. Give it full-frontal acknowledgement with no self-imposed obscurities. Give the truth, the full truth, and nothing but the truth. Omit nothing. To not speak of the thing in hope that ignoring it will make it go away is to give it power over you, and let fear of the dream take you over.
I agree with her in the concept that dreams reveal truths about us. They are, I think, the subconscious’s way of speaking to us. If we pay attention to our dreams they can teach us and help us. There’s one dream I clearly remember. In this dream, one aspect in particular made me feel so very powerless. I was then able to fight it and liberate myself in a way I wasn't able to in my waking life. Before the dream, I didn't really see what factor in real life was making me feel so trapped. But after, I was able to determine that this feeling was stemming from a negative person in my life. My subconscious probably knew this already, but the conscious, decision making part of my brain failed to recognize it. The dream brought it to the forefront, and helped bring me clarity. I was then able to make some decisions that freed me and helped me no longer feel trapped. The dream revealed something to me about myself and my own life. If it hadn't been for this dream, who knows how long I would have remained trapped?
Like Angelou, I think I do sometimes have “total recall.” I remember some moments with crystal clear clarity. Where I was standing, the date, who I was with, what I was wearing. The slant of sunlight or the feel of the air, someones tone of voice or the look in their eyes. Every tiny detail that no one will ever care to know is painted in my mind. Other times, I remember next to nothing until someone describes it to me. I tend to recall emotionally charged moments the best, which I think is relatively normal. Whether it’s happiness or sadness, the pangs of regret or embarrassment, or the heat of anger, if there’s heavy emotion involved it’s very likely to remain in my mind. I don’t think it’s particularly better to be either someone who remembers everything or someone who doesn't. I believe it’s okay to be somewhere in between. 
I agree with the idea that “easy reading is damned hard writing.” It is so remarkably easy to just put crap down on a page. But to hone it and makes the words live- that takes skill. That takes hard work. I do think, however, that if you can “get in the zone,” as they say, it becomes much easier. The words flow better, and read smoother, and generally come to you with a lot less effort. It’s just a matter of slipping into the right mindset, into the world of words, which may not be something everyone can do. Then you need to put in just a bit more work to make your words really breathe.

Dream Threads

I see fire. The flames lick and lap around my feet, leaping with greedy abaddon through the treetops, rapturously devouring the land, jumping defiantly across bodies of water and reaching its bright and terrible fingers into the sky. The entire world is made of fire. All I can hear is its malevolent laugh, and the crackling sound of it fills my ears as it mocks the very life it’s devouring. I feel the flames’ scorching breaths creeping down my neck, like the hot panting of a beast looming over me. It fills my vision, the face of the bright beast staring into my own as it howls its hateful glee into the night. Its terrible, tormenting visage is all I can see, all I can breathe, all I can feel. The heavy smoke sits thick in my throat and clouds my vision until tears stream down my face. Of course, the tears don’t stay on my face long. They disappear under the assaulting heat. The roaring beast devours them, as it does everything else, and as it will eventually devour me. In a futile attempt to escape the flames that are all around me, I turn to the side, falling to my knees as a violent cough takes me, my body trying to rid itself of the smoke and ash that is filling my lungs. It is all that’s left of the trees, the former life, that the fire took. As I crouch on the ground, waiting for the fire to take me, I see eyes. Eyes dimmed by pain, but glowing nonetheless with curiosity. The wolf approaches me, and now the fire is not the only beast whose breath I can feel on my face. The barriers that normally stand between beast and human dissolve as its eyes search mine, and it lays its great head on my lap. Its fur was scorched in places, and thick with ash. But I curl my hand in its great coat anyway. As the walls of heat and death loom in on use both, our gazes connect with a jolt. They say the eyes are a window into the soul, and it must be true, for suddenly, its soul is in my body. I’m feeling what it’s feeling. And it’s so scared.

Dreams on Feathered Wings

For the last several months, my dreams have featured owls, in some sort of way. In my most vivid one, I was walking through deep woods, along an old boardwalk. Earlier in the dream, I had acquired a raven companion on my left shoulder, who acted as my eyes, guiding me through the mist, telling me what was ahead. A water-snake, coiled around my left wrist, helped guide me by telling me what was beneath my feet. At some point, I let a copperhead loosely coil around my right wrist. The others warned me to be wary, for he was treacherous. I kept my distance from his fangs, and sensed his intent to strike at be an instant before he did. But as he whipped around at me, a magnificent owl with a black, upwards-facing crescent moon on her brow dove through the mist, taking the copperhead into her talons. She flew away into the deep forest, and I followed her with the help of the raven and good snake. She guided me through winding paths that I could barely see, until we reached a clearing, where I briefly saw her land on a tree next to an equally magnificent white stag. In other dreams, I've been in the center of a whirling cloud of owls, and I think they were somehow carrying me through the air, in flight with them. I've met women who have turned into owls, and I have myself become an owl.

With this recurring appearance of Owl in my dream, I decided to do research on what it might mean. In many cultures, Owl is, of course, associated with wisdom. Not always of wisdom possessed, but of wisdom one needs to search for. Owl is a symbol of clairvoyance, the ability to see through deceit, either from an external force or from your own mind putting up internal barriers, keeping you from seeing clearly. The appearance of Owl is also often associated with death. However, Owl is actually a harbinger of change, not necessarily death. It just so happens that death is the greatest change, and so often associated with the appearance of Owl. If Owl appears to one frequently, it may mean that one needs to search out wisdom, and see through the proverbial mists to find truth. It may also mean that a great change is to come about, or that one needs to change something in his or her life. I am also very spiritual, although not in the sense most may recognize. One may see a pentacle daily hanging from my throat or wrist. In the religion I claim as mine, Owl is often featured in tales, as is the white stag from the dream I described. I won’t bore (or possibly offend) the readers of this post with the religious meanings the Owl and Stag have for one such as me, but suffice it to say, it was quite significant to me. I deeply feel that this dream resonated with meaning, especially paired with some of the other Owl dreams I've had.

Accompanying these dreams was (and is) a turbulent time in my life. I felt and feel the need for guidance and clairvoyance. These dreams, although perhaps just fragments of my subconscious briefly showing its face, brought this need to my conscious attention. They helped me guide myself through trying times full of change. All I had to do was heed Owl’s call.