i didn't know i was writing YA... and i'm still not totally sure.

Today, I'm participating in this:

more info here.

Hosted by SA Larsen at Writer's Ally. Want to join the team? It's as easy as blogging on Tuesdays about anything YA-related. ;) We'll see how well I can hold up.

So, confession time:

I did not know YA was a thing until I started reading blogs. In all honesty, I stumbled upon the microcosm quite by accident. Good thing, too, because my writing life has grown exponentially since then {about two years ago}.

And lo, the lightbulb shone. You know, that lightbulb. I had been fiddling around with the backbone of my story {which has changed so much in two years, I hardly recognize it... in a good way}, eye-deep in identity crisis, when it occurred to me.

My main character is 16.
Not 10.
Not 23.
Of course he's 16.

{maybe 14?}
{no, 16.}

No wonder I like those blogs.
I'm writing YA, too.

Commence euphoria.
Chase with more identity crisis.

Because, you see, here's my second confession, one I realized after a year and a half of total YA immersion:

I'm really not the biggest fan of a lot of YA books I've read.
Like, to the point where I had to call it quits.
For a while.

Is it because I'm no longer an actual teenager? I don't know. The few that I've absolutely loved are the books my teen friends like best, too.

Does it have something to do with the seemingly rapid pace of the market? Am I just a stinky geezer with unrealistic standards for what I read?

Whom is YA really for?

Recently, after finishing yet another book that was supposed to be OMGAMAZING, but was actually omgnotasgoodasitcouldandshouldhavebeen, I realized,

Maybe YA isn't for me?

Buh.

Okay. Time to stop being dramatic. YA is not the problem.

The real issue is that I've been pigeonholing myself. Having a 16-year-old MC doesn't mean I have to write dystopian. My duty is to write the story that wants to be told, as someone other than me probably once said. I'll worry about the marketing later {if I ever even need to}. 

I can't deny that a ton of the YA books I've read truly are OMGAMAZING. Human beings carry different opinions and live different lives. I'm never going to love some books, and that's okay. I can learn from every single one I read. And, no matter how unenjoyable a book is for me, I will ALWAYS respect the person who wrote it.
How could I not, now that I know?

That being said... I have to admit, it's kind of nice to be reading adult fiction, right now.

You know. Just for a while. 

Thoughts?

award! sparkfest! ash to nash! finding peace! all the good stuff.

First of all, if you haven't taken a gander at the Harry Potter Zipline photos, please do. It really happened. You won't regret it.

Second-- and most important-- ly, here are some things that are going on:

1. We have moved our bed into the den. Pretty much everything from the bedroom, actually, has been moved. Some call this "packing," I call it "in-house camping." It's a mess, but it's also pretty fun to have a double bed, two couches, a coffee table, two bookshelves, a TV, and a small dining table with two chairs and a bench in one room (don't worry, it's an unusually large room).
1a. We're buying a new mattress and bed frame when we move. I can't wait to show you guys this bed. It's so odd. It has WHEELS. We're looking at a huge bookshelf with wheels, too. Good thing our new bedroom is tiled. Oh yes, tiled.

2. With the end of camp, I've been looking at my summer goals, again. The only ones that probably just aren't going to happen are to watch less TV and exercise daily. I know, I was doing so well. But!
2a. Even though I haven't gotten as much done as quickly as I would have liked this summer, I'm feeling pretty good about my writing. Have I gone through my entire rough draft yet? Well, no. But I have been doing a fair amount of planning and aligning events in my head and my notebook, which will hopefully help me figure out the direction of everything once I really get into revisions.

3. The lovely Deirdra at A Storybook World has given me an award! Just because! I am so thrilled. Seriously, you blog folks are awesome. I know I should say this more often, so I'll try to make up for it now:

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!

When I started blogging, I had no idea what I was getting into. All I knew was that I wanted to write, and I wanted others to read. I've noticed how some bloggers can cultivate huge followings in the span of months, and while that is awesome, I do not possess such skills. I am a networking sloth. I struggle with putting myself out there, I really do. So, again, THANK YOU. I am so encouraged.

So fun and pretty!
(Also, I'm relieved to know I'm not the only one being entertained, over here.)

4. Speaking of putting myself out there, I'm going to be participating in Christine Tyler's Sparkfest in a few weeks. Hooray! I hope you'll join me; blogfests are so much fun. And so is Christine's blog, The Writer Coaster. Let's show some love.

5. Have you guys heard about From Ash To Nash?                     (look there it is! -->)
Anyone outside of this area probably doesn't care, but as a resident of the East Tennessee/Western North Carolina region, this is thrilling. A book signing in Knoxville! Who'd'a thunk? And so, I will be there, at Union Ave. Books, next Sunday afternoon. If you are going to be there, too, please tell me! Especially if that means you also live in this area. Friends we shall be, I say.

6. Speaking of the East Tennessee/Western North Carolina region, an amazing thing happened at camp a few weeks ago: I stopped caring about being cast as an extra in The Hunger Games. A good move, on my part, because they never called me. :) Look at that, a smiley face. And you know why?
6a. There are so many wonderful things going on in my life, these days. Really. I have a wonderful husband, fantastic friends, two highly entertaining cats, and a whole world that exists solely in my imagination. I don't NEED to be in The Hunger Games to feel good about myself. That's what it was, for a while. I wanted to be a part of something that made me feel significant. I also wanted a chance to see Jennifer Lawrence again, I won't lie (that's not just a pipe dream-- I knew her {i.e. her brother} back in Louisville... for those of you who hadn't heard that a thousand times over, already). Also, since I'm being brutally honest about myself, I felt a bit... possessive of the story. As if The Hunger Games existed solely for me, and so OF COURSE they would let me be a part of it. I thought that if no one called me, it meant that I was not good enough for the story I loved, had no presence, was doomed to never act again. But the truth (or at least part of the truth)?

I don't live in the right state.

A crap-ton of people went to those casting calls, and most of them lived in the immediate area. I like to think that I'm not half-bad at the things I do, but I also knew I wasn't going make such an impression that the distance wouldn't matter. And that's okay. I don't regret going out for it. Now that I can look back without the butterflies or the gut-pounding high hopes, I see the day for what it was: a fun morning with friends and coffee and good conversation, a profound learning experience, and something I will always be able to say I did. What's not to love about that?

So, how's the beginning of August faring for you, my friends?

summer! plus: what do we really want?

Ah, the perks of living in this part of the country at this time of year. Hot sun, heavy air (am I the only soul alive who kind of likes humidity?). Humming cicadas, glinting fireflies. The vibrant, almost oppressive greenness of every living thing. As long as I remain well-equipped with bugspray, sunglasses and the occasional coating of SPF 15, I have no complaints.

It's a good thing I'm a summer baby, because we're about to move where it's even hotter, though only a hundred miles away. Funny how mountains and valleys do that, huh? Yes, yes. It's official. We bought a house, like grown-ups do. Chattanooga, here we come. Please, please, please let your restaurants be vegetarian-friendly, your proximity to Georgia less mystifying over time,* and your library as fabulous as Blount County's.

The south shore of Chattanooga in the summertime. Photo from this site.

{*When I was a kid in Kentucky, Georgia was this big, far-away place where they made Coca-Cola and had the Olympics, once. We would drive through it on our way to Florida every summer, and the majority of my opinion of the state went as such: Takes forever to get to. Takes forever to go through. And now, I'll be living, like, ten miles from the state line. This blows my mind, for some reason.}

Speaking of the South and the summertime, this past week at camp was likely the most fun I've ever had there, which, after 7 summers of working on staff and three summers of counseling, is saying A LOT. I mean, I spent one whole day dressed, to some degree, as a pirate. What's not to love about that?

Another highlight of this past week was finding myself in several conversations, both with teenagers and adults, about YA. At lunch one day, a fellow counselor mentioned something about Twilight, and how she had to attend a meeting on the basics of the story, so as to better assimilate to the people she works with in Eastern Kentucky who talk of NOTHING ELSE. I am not kidding. I asked her what she thought, and she said, essentially, "Meh, the first book was a pretty good read. About all I expected, you know, since it's just a young adult book."

Boy howdy, did the hair on my neck ever prickle at that. I said, "Hey, now. There is plenty of young adult lit that is not only better crafted than Twilight, but also better for humanity and far more important. Like The Hunger Games, for instance." And I was off. There was a girl at our table who'd read the books, too, and she nodded vigorously, smile plastered, as I talked about how awesome and integral and significant those books are. I wore my t-shirt the next day and started even more conversations.

My HG t-shirt, pretty much.
I bought it at a Borders in Chicago.

I noticed something else, too: there are a lot of teens out there who really disliked Mockingjay. One of the girls last week described it, pretty much, as "the author going crazy and killing characters for funsies." I'd heard this before, from a couple other kids, and it spurned a thought: What do teenagers really want out of the books they read? A squirmy, sick corner of my mind wants to say, "Flowers and bunnies! Cute boys and no bad things, ever!" But I know that's not true. When I was 16, that's not what I read. I was obsessed with Lord of the Rings, then. The only bunnies in that were food, and the only flower I remember was the elanor. There were no cute boys, in particular (unless you count Aragorn? Faramir?), and plenty of bad things.

Him?

I don't know what it is. I won't claim that Mockingjay was an enjoyable and fun romp through literature, by any means, but it was very good. Perhaps I am just a cold heart, but if you've been reading a series about rebellion and war, what do you really expect to find at the end of it?

Anywho, I suppose that's all for today's soap-box. What do you think kids really want to read? Or, heck, adults, too. What do any of us really want in a book? Personally, as much as I enjoy light fare and humor, I think I love the difficult stories more. Should I not? It makes me sad to think that some folks only want a fair-weather friend out of what they read.  I need both sides of the coin.

a quick rant about worlds.

I see a lot of stuff out there about how a believable world makes the reader want to exist inside it. But is that really the case? Personally, I'm tempted to say, "no." A believable world is one that ties the story together, heck, maybe even makes the story possible. If a world is weak, the story will suffer, and vice versa. Thus, if the story is terrifying (due to the intrinsic nature of its location), I don't think that world--no matter how well-crafted--would offer much to my health and happiness. Here's a quick look into some books I've read recently that had rich, poignant worlds, in which I would never want to find myself.

Wither, by Lauren DeStefano. Oh, how I believed that world. I thought I wouldn't at first, but as the story went on, I really saw it take shape. Linden's mansion became one of the realest places I've ever read about. But would I want to live there? Not in a million years, at that cost.


White Cat and Red Glove by Holly Black. I mean, it's brilliant, right? You live in fear of everyone, always thinking, Are they? Is she? Which kind is he? Perfectly chilling and compelling for the books. But in real life? I would never want to live in that kind of uncertainty, or in a reality where a naked hand is not only a possible weapon, but also as private as an entire naked body. It makes me sad, which I think is part of the point.


The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness. Um, yeah. This book is super-fresh on my mind, having just burned through the last half of it yesterday, and here's what  have to say. New World is simply horrifying. No place is safe, no place is entirely all-there, and home isn't even an option. Again, perfect for the story, and very well-written, but, oh my gosh. In a few centuries, when people start leaving Earth for other plants, JUST DON'T GO, OKAY?

And, hello, because there's no way I could leave this one out: does anyone really want to live in the world of The Hunger Games? Um, no. If you do, I think you missed the point, there.

So, what really makes a believable world? I don't think it's just a map and a list of clever, comforting foods (although I do like both of those). A real, honest world, is a vehicle. If the story's not pretty, the reality in which it exists probably won't be much fun, either. Of course, there are exceptions. For instance, Narnia. We're supposed to want to live in Narnia. Narnia, ultimately, is a place of joy and honor and growth and becoming the best version of yourself. Narnia is nothing like Panem, which tears down and destroys and murders. So, I'm not saying there aren't any well-thought-out, strongly written worlds in which I would like to find myself. There certainly are. I'm just getting it out there that, although I want to live in Narnia, but would rather get the ever-loving heck away from Panem, doesn't mean that both aren't brilliantly executed. You know?

Getting down off the soap box, now. Everybody having a nice Monday?

march book fail, and other fun stuff.

Well, I've certainly not been my usual bloggy self lately, have I?  In my defense, I have been working a ton.  Working and writing and emailing friends.  Totally an acceptable series of excuses.

It is the last day of March, and I can say without any real surprise that I didn't reach my reading goal this time around.  Meh.  Plain Kate was too good.  It sort of turned me off to anything that was't just like it.  I tried to read a book I'd never heard of, that jumped out at me at the library, since it was fantasy like Plain Kate, and in third person, like Plain Kate.  But it just hasn't hooked me yet.  Maybe I'll still read it (I think I'd like to, I really do), but not this time around.  So then I checked out Howl's Moving Castle, which I've always wanted to read.  Surprisingly, I haven't gotten into it yet, either!  I mean, I'm enjoying it, I'm just not reading it.  Am I flickering out?  Again, I cite working too much and writing too much (der, that's supposed to be a good thing) and emailing friends.  You know who you are.

Oh, wait, I have one more excuse to file: spending too much time online.  How does one break such a habit?

For the past few days, I've been thinking, I have to post something.  I have to post something.  Why can't I think of anything?  What's wrong with me?  So, since my brain is currently fried with working and writing and emailing and wasting time online, I thought I would share with you some of the interesting things I've learned, lately.

First of all, what the heck?  It is incorrect to insert two spaces after a period?  You really should only use one?  It's an actual thing.  It's true.  What?  I mean, this post has two spaces between sentences, and I don't think it looks too bad, but it is wrong.  Wrong, I say.  I cannot wrap my mind around this (and, I'm overreacting a little bit, too).  I remember being taught in school to use two spaces.  I remember that!  What were those teachers trying to do to my brain?  Now I have to unlearn the double space. Must. Try. Does this look better? Is that why it's the rule? I am never going to get anything written if I have to spend so much brainpower correcting my impulse to double space.

Another thought: I was always taught that boys have blond hair and girls have blonde hair, but I've been noticing lately that everyone seems to have blond hair.  These are the sorts of things an untrained mind wants to be sure of before embarrassing herself in front of professionals (you like how I highlighted that double space?  Yeah, even after writing about it, I still can't change it.  Doh!  Did it again, and again, and again.  This is what editors are for, right?).

Also, a few weeks ago, Laini Taylor posted the best-ever thing about writing beginnings, and you should read it.  [I'll be here when you finish.]  

Isn't her writing advice just the best?  Or maybe it goes a little beyond advice and into the realm of a real education.  If she ever writes a book on writing, I will be first in line.  I love the idea of asking myself questions to iron out development.  And with the revision stage looming in front of me, I'm starting to get really excited about figuring all this stuff out.  No guarantees on the outcome, but it should be a fun ride.

Oh, and one more excuse: I'm still not over the Jennifer Lawrence thing.  How could I be?  It has turned me into a veritable casting rat, and I'm trying trying trying to not care about who gets cast in the rest of the roles.  Trying.  Failing.  So, if you really couldn't care less about who lands what in the Hunger Games, just ignore this next part.

The most amusing thing I've seen in casting possibilities is this:

As Gale.  Baha.  Bahahaha.  Oh...  Oh, no....  I mean, don't get me wrong, I think David Henrie is great.  But he is so goofy, and I would thinking about Wizards of Waverly Place the whole time.  That can't be right.

The most exciting one I've seen is this:

As Prim!  Oh, Joey King.  Oh, this would make me so happy.

And, since I have to share my opinion on this matter, 

the boy I'd most like to see as Peeta:

I know, I KNOW, he doesn't have blond hair.  I know.  But... I like him.  I like him more than almost all the other guys who are up for the part.  And, I mean, Jennifer Lawrence is blond(e?), and if they can dye her hair to be Katniss, they can dye Josh Hutcherson's hair to be Peeta.  I hope.

See?

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Okay, maybe not.  But I'm not giving up on him yet.

nasty statistics and how they eat your soul.

At the library yesterday, my writer-librarian-friend Kate (with whom I would have talked all day, had she not eventually said, "Shoo!  You go write!") mentioned something she'd read that claimed this horrifying statistic (which I will now paraphrase):

If you haven't got the main crux of your novel written in six weeks, it's probably not going to happen.

rrrrRRR?

"Isn't that interesting?" Kate (who is much more confident than I am) said.  And I was, uh, I was too mortified to speak.  Six weeks?  Let me just turn in all those new pens and notebooks and index cards now.  And can I get a refund on Scrivener?

Six weeks?  What can I do in six weeks?

... Zilch, man.  I can't do anything in six weeks.  I've been drafting this thing for SIX MONTHS.  And the rumor implies, to me, that it isn't even about the book getting published.  It's just about you finishing it.  Again, I ask, SIX WEEKS???????  What the almighty heck?


The other girl working at the library asked, "Isn't that a little fast?"  My thoughts exactly.  But, apparently, no!  According to what Kate saw, if the great big picture of it wasn't nailed down in six weeks, the novel probably wouldn't get written.

It feels unfair to the slower writers, you know?  Or maybe I am just horribly naive, and NO ONE takes this long to write a first draft.  And no first draft that takes this long to write becomes a book worth reading.  It bummed me out, too, because it actually makes sense.  A really strong, instinctive writer WOULD be able to draft in six weeks.  A strong, instinctive writer, with lots of experience and no day job or social life.  No to-read list.  No family troubles.  No doubts or disillusions.  And none of my neuroses.

Who's hoarding all this writing-magic, and how can I contact them for a free sample?

Thankfully, another woman walked in and we started a new conversation.  I hoped that Kate hadn't seen my face blanch so... loudly.

Anyway, the whole thing got me to thinking:  is my big picture NOT nailed down?  Had I to guess, I'd say I'm about two-thirds through, maybe a little less (depending on how wild my imagination is about to get), but I do know where it's going.  I DO know my big picture.  And I have no intention of quitting, just because some unknown-to-me observation claims that it's "probably not going to happen."  In fact, I won't even dignify the fear by considering it.  I know that even if I say I'm giving up, the story and its characters will continue in their relentless quest to be brought to life.

This painting by Bella Abati also helps.  [here]

Thoughts?

i make lists. and have revelations.

[First of all, holy cow is it beautiful outside today.  Today is not a stay-indoors-and-write day, it's a go-outside-and-read day.  Today is the sort of day that leaves your skin smelling like sunshine and dirt, even if you haven't been rolling around in either.  Dang.  Alas, I am indoors.  Why does my computer screen have to be so hard to read in natural light?  There's something wrong with that.]

Rory:  I'm not entirely sure what to do about you, Jess.
Let me put it in a list, and I'll get back to you.
(Not her brightest idea.  Or an actual quote.)

I am a list-maker.  Not necessarily in the Rory Gilmore, pros-and-cons way (though I do get like that sometimes), but more in the daydream-y way.  I sneak pieces of scrap paper to make tiny lists at work all the time.  I often want them to be about the story I'm writing, but that could get real embarrassing real fast (I cannot keep tabs on all my lists.  They have the propensity to fall on the floor and get discovered by my co-workers).  Usually, they are about my dreams and goals.  Sometimes, they're just things I'm thinking about.  An especially great one from this past Saturday was "Reasons Why Today is Awesome."  It included:

1.  Laughing with Christy (over the voicemail she'd left me in a Baltic accent- no wonder she's my friend).
2.  Signing with Chester (a deaf man who comes into Mast all the time).
3.  Meeting Jose (who used to interpret both ASL and Spanish in South Texas).
4.  High-fiving the guy who works at Lenny's.
5.  All the cute dogs!  (Mast is a pet-friendly establishment, and I love that.)
6.  Talking with Dani on the phone for an hour and a half (which happened before work, not during, in case you were concerned about my ethic).

Today, my list is of the to-do genre, and it looks like this:
1.  Apply to volunteer at this library I love so much (happening right now!).
2.  Do a lot of thinking about where I want to be in the next few months.

It's a concise one.  It's an exciting one.  God has been teaching me a lot about myself, and I feel like a door is opening somewhere, even though I can barely tell what shape it is.  This whole I-know-Katniss madness has pretty quickly deteriorated into a why-do-I-suck-so-bad? pity fest.  I mean, it kind of hurts.  It shouldn't, but it does.  I know that girl (and she's not the only one, either), and even if I am not remotely as talented, I still grew up with the same interests.  Dreams.  Passions.  And then I got scared.  I stepped back and let it go on without me because I never, ever, believed in myself enough to take any steps toward success.  And by success, I don't just mean playing Katniss in the Hunger Games movies.  Success for me would be, say, actually writing this book and then querying agents (which I never thought I would do).  Or, better yet, getting actively involved in a theatre group.  Why have I let that slide?  Did I really think that I would no longer enjoy acting after college?  Well... yeah, I did.  I did think that.  I remember coming to terms with myself over "not being in plays anymore."  Ridiculous.

The other night it finally dawned on me:  way to slap God in the face.  He made me to love theatre.  He made me to love writing.  He made me to love sign language and deaf culture.  He made me to love camping ministry.  And not just to love them, but to actually do them!  And by ignoring these things, I am the one who is missing out on what He has in store for me.  I used to be ashamed of the impracticality.  I used to think, Why do I thrive on things I will never be able to do?

Well, who am I to say that I'll never be able to do them?  Or that I won't just do them anyway, regardless of the success of others or my fear of failure?  Did God not shape all these desires in me on purpose?  (Yes!  Yes he did!)

And as I was pondering this the other night, it all came together:  words.  God has given me a gift (small though it may be) of using words.  Spoken, written, signed, and even those expressed by Him.

So, yes.  I have been scared.  I have stepped back.  I have never fully believed in myself.  I have been complacent in doing other things.  And you know what?  I'm done with that.  If you haven't noticed, I am a strong believer in the unfolding purposes of the Lord.  And some amazing things can really happen when I let myself get out of the way.  Friends, if you will hold me accountable to getting back into theatre, taking writing more seriously (because what if the Lord really does want that from me?), improving in ASL, and, most importantly, spending more time with my Bible, I will be grateful.

Who am I to ignore it?

[I still plan to write my completed work out by hand in journals and then hide them in the attic, though.  That won't change, even if I do get published.]

my funny motivations.

I guess I don't really mean ha-ha funny, here.  Sorry to disappoint the hopefuls.  I'm having a slight woe-is-me fest.  I'm not really sad about anything.  I just feel different.  I feel... unlike other people.  I have always, always felt this way.

In pondering this on the way home from work yesterday, my mind wandered to a story idea I've been toying with for the past month or so.  It's one of those sigh-inducing flights of fancy that may never see the light of day, but it sends me into mental giggles and I can't let it go.  And as I was rattling off all these imaginary things to myself, about imaginary people and imaginary events, I realized:  This sounds so weird.  I am a complete nut.  Because, it is (I am?).  It really very much is.  What makes it stranger is that it's not fantasy.  If I wrote this thing, it would be a contemporary story about some kids in a state of hyper-creative madness.  It wouldn't involve drugs, but it might make you feel like you'd been taking some (pure speculation, there, but one of my recurring ideas does involve a gigantic, pink afro wig) (maybe it would involve drugs).  I don't want to talk about it too much.  I only mention it because it got me to thinking:

Why do I like all the weird stuff?  I mean, has anyone seen The Science of Sleep?  A Life Less Ordinary?  Happy Accidents?  i heart huckabees?  These are some of my favorite movies, but I can't watch them with other people because it weirds them out.  Namely, my adoring and wonderful husband. He abounds in excellent qualities, but he'll pass on the weird movies, thank you.  So why do I love them so much?

I don't gravitate toward inherently weird music, but it's not very much like the stuff other people listen to.  My best friend from high school recently burned me a copy of Florence + The Machine, and I like it well enough, but I literally sighed with relief when I took that out and put The Wild Band of Snee back in.  The Wild Band of Snee, people.  It's a real thing (so, I do gravitate toward weird music, apparently).  Which, now that I think about it, is what instigated the story-daydream mentioned above.

But, you know what?  I love these things about myself.  So, I'm taking back the woe-is-me, and replacing it with heck-yes-is-me.  And, dangitall, I just realized how very Velvet Box-y I am being right now.  Not feeling like anyone understands me.  Being proud of it, anyway.  What was this post supposed to be about again?

Oh, right, how I feel so different.  I've established that I love this about myself.  But it does bring about some challenges.  Like, I don't really care about publishing anything right now, which probably makes every other writer out there think me defective, or "not a real writer."  Maybe I am defective.  But I am a writer (noun: one who writes stuff, i.e. me).  Is it so bad just to be writing because I enjoy it?  And, for the most part, the stuff that I write is so off-the-wall, I doubt it would really "sell."  So, what do I do?  Give up?

Psh.  Of course not.  This is what makes it fun.  If I want to write a crazy adventure set in an implausible world, I'm going to (and, uh, I am).  Does it have anything to do with all those hot paranormal creatures everyone's so a-gaga over?  Nope.  Is it romantic and kissy?  Not yet, and possibly not ever.  But who cares?!  It's fun and scary and intriguing (I like to think these things about my own work, but I could be entirely wrong, of course).  I'm having a good time.  And I have a few potential (or more than potential- yay!) crit partners who will hopefully enjoy it and be blessed by it and help me make it the fullest it can be, and then you know what?  You know what my greatest desire for this story would be (my w.i.p., not the crazy pink afro one)?  To write it out by hand in a series of gorgeous journals, along with illustrations by my grandmother, tuck them into an attic, and watch some grandchild discover them when I'm old.  This is my ultimate fantasy right now.

That makes me weird, right?  I still would love to be an author.  I've dreamed of it since I was ten.  Granted, I've also dreamed of being an actress, singing in a band, and running away to Greece.  But my passion is not in the title "author."  It's in the act of writing.

So that's what I'm going to do.  I read something today about how different people define success.  Success for me would be giving glory to God through this gift he gave me-- the gift of enjoying creativity.  If His plan involves more after that, wonderful.  If not, I'll keep writing the weird stuff and tuck them away in attics to my heart's desire.  And it'll be awesome.

So, friends, tell me.  What makes you weird?

if love makes me sick, at least i'll still be human.

Interesting, but I like the ARC cover better.

Here's the post where I talk about Delirium, by Lauren Oliver.

First of all, I know I read an "Advanced Readers' Edition: Not For Sale," which means that some changes were probably made before the final final final version (like, the cover), so take what I say with half a grain of salt.  But only half.

The major premise of this book is that love is seen as a curable sickness rather than an God-given instinct.  Sounds terrifying, right?  Well, it definitely was.  One thing that has always bothered me about dystopian novels--that kept me from enjoying Brave New World and even tripped me up while reading The Giver--was the blazing frustration of:  Seriously, this would never happen.  Why are we even stressing out about it?  I think we can all agree that that was part of what made The Hunger Games so great: the realness.  The proclivity of humanity to possibly, actually, maybe progress that way.  The world in Delirium did not seem quite as possible, because, honestly, who would agree to a mandated transition from loving your children to feeling nothing but apathy toward them?  I mean, that's barely even human.  I suppose that was the point.

That's another thing that gets me about dystopian.  You want to fight so hard for what the characters believe in--what you believe in--but all you're really fighting for is something that makes you so innately human that it can never be taken away.  Makes the whole thing seem a little moot, to me.  But it works for the same reason:  Readers love having something to fight for.

Anyway, Delirium.  Things I liked:  The relationship between the main character and her best friend, the color of the boy's hair, the ending (no spoiling from me!), the "literature" at the beginning of every chapter, and the way the main character got around to figuring everything out.

Sigh.  I really liked that I had something to fight for (see above), but it bothered me that the first thing on Lena's mind was her romantic love and not the horror of losing all emotion.  I mean, it was there, but at the end (spoiler alert?) when she was deciding to stand up for herself, her reasoning was all I heart this boy, and not, uh,  Hey, this is one sick way to live if a parent can't even console their own child, which is what had been plaguing my mind the whole time.  That was my only real, major complaint, but it made sense to be that way.  I kept reminding myself that I was reading a seventeen-year-old girl, not a twenty-something-year-old woman.  Then I got frustrated even further, though, because I am pretty sure that at seventeen I still would have felt worse about the bigger picture.  Of course, I was never in love in high school.

I don't know.  Maybe it was just the way the people in that world had altered everything from the past, even religion, to serve their purposes.  I kept waiting for Lena to learn that God taught love, not warned against it, because I know that's where my motivation would have been as a teenager.  But that would have made an entirely different story.  That's what I told Joshua when I finished the book:  I was really intrigued by the world (as improbable as it was), but I would have maybe put a different kind of story into it.  I don't know what my problem with romance is.  Maybe it's because I've never been an overly-romantic person in real life (hello, first kiss at 23, here--by choice, at that), but it is really hard for me to grasp, sometimes.  I mean, I really liked both Lena and Alex as characters, and I did (I promise I did) very much like the story (once it picked up), but I so wanted there to be another layer to them the whole time.  What did they really have in common, again?  We all know why Alex stuck out to Lena, but why did she stick out to him?  To be fair, I know this was addressed in the book, but it's hard when you only get one character's point of view.  You know.

Lucky for all of us, this is the first of a trilogy, which I did not know upon finishing, and am a little surprised to find out.  I thought it worked splendidly as a stand alone.  Sure, there were loose ends, but they were poetic enough for me to accept and even appreciate.  So, three cheers for the author on that one.  But some parts of it (vague spoiling ahead) seemed so final, so complete, what else can there be to say?

Regardless, it was a gripping story with characters both lovely and frightening, and the last few chapters had me reeling with adrenaline.  I would recommend this book to anyone who likes romance and standing up for what you believe in, but not much else.  And I KNOW  I didn't read the final copy but, gracious, were there ever some typos.  I think I would make a decent copyeditor.  I usually (not always, but usually) catch all those things that somehow slip through, and no book is immune, it seems (or blog post, for that matter).

The more I think about it, the more I am really looking forward to the rest of the series.  I'm so curious to see where it will go.  Thrilling!

january blues.

It's January all of a sudden.  I slept through the countdown for the first time EVER, and now I have to keep reminding myself that the year has changed.
It's very weird, because this is something I typically think about for a long time.  "This is a new year!," "How is this year going to be different from last year?," "When will I feel like it's this year and not last year?," "I have to remember to write 11 instead of 10"... stuff like that.  
But, this time, it's not there. For the past four days, all I've been thinking about is "I'm tired.  I have to go to work.  Let's go see a movie.  What do you want for dinner?"  And resolutions?  What are those?  My resolutions last year didn't take.  One of them I'm going to try for again (reading and studying the Bible--ahem, daily), but the other (running a marathon?  puh-lease) was a total joke.


On another note, I want to talk about something I don't like talking about.  Writing.
I am at a standstill.  I suddenly hate reading all the blogs and stuff that I used to really enjoy.  I am sick of feeling like I have to write in any certain way, or that I have to be totally original (a requirement I place on myself ruthlessly), or that if it's not going to sell, I shouldn't even bother... industry stuff.  Really?  Since when have I ever worried about industry stuff?
But, what creative person doesn't fantasize about their work being received by others?


I'm half-forcing and half-allowing myself not to care.  Not in this case.  It just doesn't mix with me;  I can't explain it.  I feel as if none of the "formulas" or insights apply.  
Conundrum:  Publication is not my primary goal (how could it be?  I've never done this before!), but I do want my work to reach what I would consider its "final state."  Reading up and learning about novel writing helps me feel like I have a solid chance of getting there.  Sadly, these same things make me feel like a worthless waste of energy for not caring so much about getting published.  Which makes me question why I even spend the time writing.


I came to a really big stopping point in what I'd been working on.  It's not the end, by any means, but it was my unofficial goal for 2010, I guess, and I made it there.  So I feel good about myself, you know?  I partially accomplished something!
Here's the rub:  I really want to go back and fix what I've already done before moving on.  And there is A LOT to fix.  Like, 75 pages' worth.  
And here's another rub:  As much as I love my days at the library, I am so ready to have an actual DAY OFF, where I can go to the store or read or (gasp!) stay home and play Epic Mickey all day.  This is a bad place for me to be.  I tend to over-simplify my life after feeling consumed by something.  For example:  how many times have I been back to Pier 1 (any Pier 1) after not working there anymore?  Once.  And it was right around the wedding, so, a long time ago.  I can't even make myself go inside a Pier 1, here.  Have I been back to Walden since I stopped working there?  Hardly.  Impellizzeri's?  Twice, maybe.
And what about running?  That was my everything for a while, but once I quit, I QUIT.  Why do I put so much distance between myself and these things?  Why the regression?


What a way to start the year, huh?  I promise, I'm not always this sour.  And wait, tomorrow I'll be singing the library's praises again.  One very fun thing about writing, when you take away the anxiety, is the propensity you find you have to surprise yourself.  If you just keep going, it'll come.  This is the sort of thing I have confidence in, because I've seen it.  Like my old pal, running.  Kinda sucks to get into it, but once you're there, the work starts to happen on its own.

retrospective christmas qualms.

Why, hello, there.

I french braided my hair today and it looks funny.  French braids really only work in twos, I think.  Skunk-style, straight down the back of my head, makes me look odd.  Not even a headband can really help.  Oh well.  No matter.  No one's going to see me today, anyway.

I wanted to write a Christmas post.  It was going to have a list of all the best Christmas things.  Movies, books, traditions.  But, seeing as how Joshua and I spent 40% of our holiday traveling, 10% of the time sleeping, and the other 50% seeing our families, it all got away from me.

So, here's the abbreviated version:
1.  The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.
2.  It's a Wonderful Life.
3.  Oranges and walnuts on Christmas morning.
4.  Elf (the movie, and the one that sits in the Christmas tree).
5.  Mistletoe.
6.  "Hark the Herald Angels Sing."
7.  Meaningful gifts that don't require lots of money.

That's something I definitely learned this Christmas season.  Money is the root of all evil.  Feeling like you have to get everyone on your list something PERFECT and EXPENSIVE is an extension of it.  My favorite two gifts of Christmas 2010 were from my mother and my mother-in-law.  The former gave me a Peanuts block calendar for my eventual desk (I've been in love with Snoopy ever since I played him in the eighth grade), and the latter, a beautiful notebook with a girl wearing fairy wings on the cover.  Both were incredibly simple gifts, but they meant the world to me because they showed that the gift-givers truly understood things about me.  That's all I need.  [That's also not to say that we don't appreciate the bigger things, too.  It's just that the simple gifts tug at my heart the most.]  Gifts are accessories to love, not proof of love.  Bigger and better gifts don't equal bigger and better love.  If anything, they boil down to emptier and less secure love.  Like, I'm not sure you know how I feel about you, so I'm going to give you a diamond-studded BMW to prove something.  Or whatever.  Why don't you just have an honest relationship with that person?  I am so blessed to have honest relationships with my family.

Anyway, that's all I have to say about that.  For now.  It makes me think A LOT about what I want Christmas to be like for my own children.  Will we even bother with Santa Claus?  Author Kiersten White wrote this hysterical post about him.  I'm grateful that when I was a kid, my parents and grandparents told me that Santa was symbolic of the spirit of generosity.  That way, when I figured out that he wasn't actually squeezing down the chimney every year, I didn't get my feelings hurt or feel like I'd been lied to.  I can't explain it.  I know that "Santa," as we project him, is a commercial ploy masquerading as whimsy.  But the REAL spirit of Christmas?  Of tradition and family and celebrating the gift of Christ?  Not to sound pagan, but these are the things that encapsulate the "spirit of generosity" I was raised to identify with Santa.  The good things.  I wish we didn't call him "Santa," though.  I prefer St. Nick or Father Christmas, greatly.

I hate the commercial(s) where Santa/the elves are frantically putting together last-minute gifts.  I don't even think I need to explain why.

So, what's wrong with this world?  I don't think I ever want to tell my kids that Santa is "real," or that the Wise Men were there the night Jesus was born, or that December 25th was his actual birthday--because none of those things are true!  I was SHOCKED to find out that Jesus was born in the spring, and that the three Wise Men didn't get to Jesus until he was a toddler.  These things upset me more than the truth about Santa Claus!  I think it's important, as a Christian, to KNOW the history behind the holiday, to KNOW how it came to be held on December 25th, and to be okay with it.  I do definitely believe that it was all in the sovereignty of God that it ended up where it is, but it would be foolish and dangerous to put more faith in the traditions of the holiday than the purpose of the holiday.

So, I guess I just wrote a Christmas post.  An everything-that's-wrong-with-Christmas post.  Believe me, I could go on.  But I'll spare you.  Also, this is my only day off before the new year, so it's high time I moved onto something else.  I have every intention of posting again before 2011, but who knows if that will really happen?

To everyone going to the New Year's retreat at Loucon, I love you and I will miss you unbelievably.  But Loucon will still be there in 2011, and I will still be me in 2011, and even though I absolutely treasure ringing in the new year there, I know it's okay to let go and give you all a chance to treasure it, now, too.

When did I get so old?

adventures with lu, my pesky internal editor. also, david mead! who, unlike lu, is an actual person.

Back to posting from the library = back to normal.
Somewhat normal.
At least, back to feeling like I could easily play normal.


And with this thought comes an entirely unrelated confession:  I let my mom read the giant spider story.  
It was a moment of weakness and confusion, riding in the car with my parents to Cocoa Beach, still reeling from all the people I'd met and the stories I'd heard.  I opened my computer and wanted to write so badly, but felt too mentally and emotionally spent to do anything about it.  I could have just put the computer away and gone on listening to whatever was on the iPod.  Instead I said, "Here, Mommy, do you want to read my story?" and passed her the laptop before I could stop myself.


I don't know why it's any different.  I'd let my friend Becca read it, without the slightest second thought.  Then again, Becca is 16, and I wrote the story with her age group in mind.  My mom is almost 60, and the second after I put it in her hands, I wished I hadn't.  My mom HATES spiders.  My mom does not do scary or sad or creepy.  I usually don't, either, which is another reason I was afraid to let her read it.


What if she thinks I'm unstable?  What if she says, "Where did this come from?" Or, worse, "What's wrong with you?"  I mean, that's what I would have said.  Giant spiders?  Really?  A), that's lame, and B), disgusting.  You can do better than that.


Those are the things I would have said to myself.  All leftovers from how I felt in creative writing classes at Union.  "There's no such thing as [insert whatever I had made up here]."  I know.  I know there's no such thing.  So... why am I writing about it?  Am I... Am I not fit to write about grown-up things?  Non-pretend things?


It was all food for my internal editor.  I've only recently learned to turn her off, usually by saying:  "No one else is going to read it, Lu, so chill out."  Lu was okay with this.  Lu has let me get a lot of writing done in the past four months, all under the conjecture that it was for our eyes only.  And Joshua's, but he counts as one of us, too.


You can imagine Lu's tirade against my peace of mind while my mom read the story.
"She hates it she hates it.  She thinks you're insane.  It's bad enough her son has problems, now her daughter is writing stories about monsters eating people."  
You can, therefore, also imagine my surprise when my mom turned around and said, "I really like it!"


Naturally, I tried to squeeze from her that she was only saying that, that it was actually really twisted, that it embarrassed her that I had written it, but NO.  She genuinely enjoyed it.  


I said, "But you hate spiders!"
She said, "I know, but I liked the story."
I said, "Becca liked it, but she's 16.  I didn't think someone your age would like it."
She said that was silly.  She said that it was just like hearing me telling a story out loud, which isn't something I had thought of.  She said that was a good thing.


Now, don't go taking this the wrong way.  Regardless of the warm feelings flying around here, the story is not where I want it.  And I strongly feel that anyone who is not my teenage friend or my own mother (or my husband) would sort of laugh at it.  And that's okay, because it's goofy.  And it's not a priority, which is incredibly liberating.  I'm in no rush AT ALL.  I'm only enjoying the ride.  And I'm learning that maybe Lu is crazy.  Lu needs a hot bath and some chocolate chip cookies.  Lu needs to take up some other hobbies.  Something meticulous, like cross-stitch, so she'll leave me alone.


Funny how letting my mother read my writing brought about such a break-through for me.  Remember my whole, "It's all fun and games until someone I know reads what I wrote," debacle?  Well, maybe it's not that bad.  If my mom can read my story, a wacky blob that came out of my own head, and not run away screaming... then what's to stop me?


It's like graduating from writers' kindergarten.  Let's all go get some ice cream.  Actually, no, it's too cold for that*.  Let's go for a peppermint mocha.  Yum.


*commences celebration*


Speaking of Yum, has anyone here listened to David Mead?  Yes, the David Mead from the title.  Go do that, if you don't mind.  His album Almost And Always is my Current Favorite Music On Earth.  Every time I listen to it, I can't help but say, "Soooo pretty!" over and over again.  "Twenty Girls Ago" is my favorite song, thought it's difficult to choose just one.  
And check out the cool (if slightly creepy) cover!  

I like it.  I think.

Well, gang, that's all from me today.  I like this blogging thing.  I should do more of it.  Over and out.


*I say "It's too cold for that," because I feel that's what I ought to say.  Truth is, I had gelato last week when there was snow on the ground, and I do not regret it at all.

that christmas thing.

The last two mornings, I woke up to find snow on the ground.  Today I'm wearing flip-flops.  I know I just made that sound like it's gotten warmer, but really, I just wanted to wear the flip-flops.  So, my toes are cold.

I'm at the library, which is an excellent thing.  I'm looking forward to a long day of writing and thinking and maybe sending a few emails.  What I keep forgetting is that it's December, and that means that after today, I will pretty much be a psycho busy bee until Christmas.

Christmas in retail world is not at all like Christmas in everyone else's world.  Christmas in retail world means that your part-time job just turned into your full-time job.

But, you know what?  I'm actually enjoying it.  I guess I could do without the cranky I-must-complete-my-Christmas-list-NOW people (not that I've really encountered very many yet).  And I know I'm going to be completely exhausted by the end of it, but Mast is a really fun, pleasant place to be.  Even on bad days.  If any of my co-workers read this, they'll get a good laugh, I'm sure.  I get a lot of "You still like it because you're new," comments, and that's okay.

[[SUDDEN SIDE RANT:  I come to the library for quiet, so I can think and write in peace.  WHY IS IT THAT EVERY TIME I'VE BEEN HERE IN THE LAST MONTH, THERE'S BEEN A STINKING CONCERT GOING ON?  Even today, I thought I could avoid it by coming earlier than usual, but they're having one at 12 dang 30 in the afternoon!  Are you kidding me?  HOW IS THAT CONDUCIVE TO WORK?!?!?!  HOW?  HOW?  WHO PLANNED THESE STUPID THINGS?!  Okay, rant over.]]


Anyway, back to "You still like it because you're new."  I guess that in some ways, that's very true.  Everyone gets burnt out and jaded.  But while I'm still neither of those things, I'm going to enjoy this Christmas season as much as I can.  At least I don't work in a mall or department store.

It's even more fun on the inside.

Addendum:  That concert just started.  Here's a very weird thing.  I JUST added the label "Holly Jolly Christmas" to this post, because, you know, it's Christmas.  And THE FIRST SONG out of the children's mouths... is "Holly Jolly Christmas."  I am clairvoyant, after all.

UPDATE:  Two hours later:  Another concert?  Really, library?  What do you think people come here for? 

fifteen authors who have shaped me in some way.

1.  Shel Silverstein.
     I assume that most would add this man to their list for such things as The Giving Tree, but honestly, he's on my list for the audiobooks of Where The Sidewalk Ends and A Light In The Attic, which I demanded to hear on just about every road trip I went on from the ages of 5 to 13, probably.  The man's voice was like a creepy, buttery lullaby that made you want to stay up and hear more, and then stay awake thinking about it.  So, not too successful as a lullaby.  Brilliant as narration.  Also, seriously, I cannot help but *adore* Runny Babbit.  Don't you?  It grieves me that Silverstein died before its publication.  I would have loved to hear him recite it.

2.  Lois Lowry.
    I know so little [read: nothing] about this author outside the realm of The Giver, but, oh.  The Giver.

3.  CS Lewis.

     I used to sit in the corner of my grandparents' huge walk-in closet, turn off the lights and wait for Narnia to come.  Enough said.

4.  Harper Lee.
     I read To Kill a Mockingbird on a camping trip with my family the summer I turned 14.  Changed my life.  It made me want to (a), play Scout on stage, even though I was already way too old, (b), name something, possibly a daughter, Harper (which is still totally in the mix, as far as I'm concerned), and (c), though I didn't fully realize it at the time, be a writer.

5.  Tim O'Brien.
     I loved reading The Things They Carried in 11th grade.  I vividly remember sitting under the table in English class, devouring it and being thoroughly creeped-out.

6.   Ernest Hemingway.

     I will be honest, the only Hemingway I've actually read is A Farewell to Arms, and I pretty much hated it. Why on earth is he on my list, then?  Because I grew up going to Key West every summer, that's why.  I used to beg my parents to take me to his house, again and again, mostly to see the the six-toed cats.  But as I got older, I appreciated the whole thing a lot more.  I love seeing his pictures all over the wall at Sloppy Joe's.  Regardless of how you feel about him, isn't it incredible to sit where he sat?

7.  JK Rowling.

     I know this one is a given for any human being even remotely interested in literature who was alive (and most likely young) from 1998 until now, but it is irrefutable.  Nothing re-reads quite as delightfully as a Harry Potter book.  Especially on the back deck at my parents' house in the middle of summer, or on the choir tour bus back in high school, or out-loud in a car with someone you love.

8.  Christina Rosetti.
     Poets were supposed to be included in this, and I wish I had more, but the first one to come to mind is always Christina Rosetti, for Goblin Market.

9.  Anne Lamott.
     Bird by Bird is the best college textbook I ever didn't buy for class.  I invested in my own copy post-graduation, because I knew it was special and I missed it (I had borrowed it and, honestly, not done very much of the reading when I was supposed to).

10.  Kelly Link.
     When I first read her short story Monster, it absolutely astounded me.  It's a bizarre, enchanting, ultimately horrifying little tale about a kid getting picked on at summer camp, and, you know, a monster.  I love it.  I can't get over the voice.  She writes the way I want to write.  I don't know how else to explain it.  Also, I read a collection of her short fiction on my honeymoon, and so her voice will always sort of remind me of that, too.

11.  Yann Martel.
     What is it about Life of Pi?  The philosophy is often over my head (as most things are), I don't really agree with Pi's religious convictions, and I still have no stinking clue what happens at the end.  But I love this book terribly, and if I get to thinking about it too much, I always want to re-read it.  It's the way the man writes, that's what.

12.  Dodie Smith.
     "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.  That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with our dog's blanket and a tea-cosy.  I can't say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left.  And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring-- I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen-house.  Though even that isn't a very good poem.  I have decided my poetry is so bad that I mustn't write any more of it."
     --is my favorite opening paragraph of any book I have ever read.  If you haven't yet had the absolute joy of diving into I Capture the Castle, just know that I cannot recommend it enough.  It is perhaps my true favorite, and has been for a couple of years.  It's so... melodic.  So sweet.  Honest.  Beautifully written.  Romantic (really, how can you not love a boy like Stephen Colly?).  And, in some places, completely hilarious.  I could go on and on.  Also, this woman wrote The 101 Dalmatians, and who doesn't love that?

13.  Sheldon Vanauken.
     I finally finished A Severe Mercy this past winter, and it... was... what?  Are there words to describe this man's story?  I bawled.  I learned.  I grew.  And, hey, the man was friends with Jack himself, and a good portion of the book is their correspondence.  Sharing in the grief of the women they loved.  We had a passage from it read at our wedding.  Sounds macabre, I know, but it was perfect: all about God defining a marriage.  Beautiful stuff.

14.  Laini Taylor.
     On a much, much lighter note, here is another author who writes the way I want to write.  In an effort to seem hip and reviewer-y, I wrote this post about her book Lips Touch, which is way more awesome than it may sound (the book, not my review.  The review is... just a review).

15.  Suzanne Collins.
     Here we go.  Deep breath.  The Hunger Games.  Catching Fire.   Mockingjay.  I do not know how she did it, but Suzanne Collins absolutely broke me (in a good way, kind of) with Katniss's story.  Please, friends.  Please.  Read these books.  I tore through the whole trilogy twice in five weeks, if that's any indication of my feelings.  The story is unforgettable.  And that's all I can say without turning into a total fangirl.

it's like they knew: a pondering of poor adaptations.

::I wrote this in July.  

I didn't post it then because I was too embarrassed.  

I'm over that, now.  

Confession number one:  I heart Avatar: The Last Airbender.  

This post is my love-splurge on the cartoon and subsequent "what-the-bluh?" on the film. ::

I must confess, I do love a good story, with great, well-developed characters, humor, heart, and a compelling plot. I must also confess, I hate it when these things are turned into films that miss the point, no matter how fun they are to look at through those abominable 3D glasses.
Two weeks ago [read: five months ago] at Creative Music and Art camp, our only boy (hereafter referred to as "Little Josh") had an adorable habit of waterbending in the hallway at Munday. I loved it. I even joined him, and we had epic battles in the lobby. Here's a picture of us, mid-showdown:

I'm not trying to be dramatic.  I just can't get the photo to go up any higher.

I was just about giddy when I first realized what Little Josh was doing. I asked, "Are you waterbending?" And he said, "Yeah, watch this one!" I practically squealed, "I love that show!" Little Josh said, "Me too! And my brother loves it too!" And then he taught me how to waterbend. My good friend and fellow counselor, Jesse, who has yet to see the cartoon, said, "What about... groundbending?" And I said, "Earthbending, Jesse, get it right." (Jesse, this is your second shout-out on this blog, which proves that you are super-cool.) [Jesse, now that five months have passed, have you gotten around to watching this show? You still need to. If anyone makes fun of you, you can blame it on me.]

Not many people will take me seriously when I tell them to watch Avatar, the cartoon that came before (and has absolutely nothing to do with) that James Cameron thing. But, trust me, if you're anything like me, you'll enjoy it. Then again, I am continuously, hopelessly drawn to things made for kids (two of my three favorite movies are Spirited Away and How to Train Your Dragon, after all), so take me as seriously as you want.

When I first dove into Avatar: The Last Airbender, I didn't want to tell my husband, knowing he would make fun of me for watching a kids' show, even if just a little bit. And, once I confessed, he did. Then he started watching it too. The next day, he requested that I not watch any more without him. Victory! We finished the whole series in about three weeks. We both laughed out loud, time and again, and I cried SUCH happy tears at the finale. The first thing I said when it was over was, "This does NOT need to be made into a movie."
But, alas, it had already happened, and we could not undo it. Thankfully, I had read enough to know how low my expectations needed to be in order to not throw popcorn at the screen. Actually, I suggested that we not even see the film, or just wait for Netflix, but my Joshua, who loved Avatar as much as I did, could not resist. So, for the first time in possibly forever, I went to see a movie on its opening day. Ha! Oh me.
Well, it wasn't SO bad that I wanted to leave, but I was tempted to take a bathroom break, which would have broken my usual hold-it-no-matter-what standard. In fact, the last time I left a movie to use the restroom (and buy a soda, and dawdle the whole way back) was when my best friend in ninth grade dragged me to see Love & Basketball.
I shouldn't go on and on about the misery of Shyamalan's The Last Airbender, because you can read about that anywhere. Or you can experience it yourself for $10 a piece on a Thursday night, like we did. [Or, you know, rent it, or something.] But I can't help it. Leaving the theater, Joshua had steam coming out his ears and kept saying, "I knew it would be bad, but I didn't know it would be THAT bad!"

I, on the other hand, couldn't stop laughing.  

I don't know what I thought was so funny. It definitely wasn't Sokka, whose lovable goofballery had been sacrificed for a more serious, "brooding" type.  Just look at Jackson Rathbone over there, pursing his lips. Who is this guy? Come to think of it, the whole thing seemed like it was trying to be the "serious version." Why?
[Hold on while I digress:]
Also, half the characters' names were pronounced wrong.  Maybe this is what cracked me up.  "Ahng? Soak-a? Ee-ro? [Ah-vatar?]" I wheezed. "What was that all about?" Joshua replied, "Maybe they changed his name to Soak-a because he always ends up getting wet," which made me laugh even more, because such moments were actually funny in the cartoon, but SO awkward and unnatural in the movie.  
Speaking of awkward pronunciations, none of the actors seemed convinced that they were saying the names right. I felt like every time the girl who played Katara said "Ahng" instead of good ol' "Aang," a tiny part of her died. I bet she'd been a fan of the cartoon, too. In fact, I think the only thing the new pronunciations gained was an alienation of the original fan base. Everything about these actors seemed shy, really. Shy and ill-fitting. Not including Dev Patel, of course, who pretty much set the bar way over everyone else's heads [dare I add, even over the head of the production itself?]. He was the only character I believed, though they totally dumbed down that wicked scar. Considering how great the other characters were originally, and should have been in the film, this makes me more sad than happy. The really funny part, I suppose, is that the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that this could have been done right, but wasn't, and we may never know why.  

Oh.  Money.

On the way home, Joshua and I laughed at the fact that the first thing we wanted to do was go back to the cartoon and watch some of it that night, to get the bad taste out of our mouths. So, we did. And then, while perusing the internet for consolation, I found absolutely the best possible thing to make a sour Avatar fan feel better. 
This quote, and its corresponding video.
"Don't worry, folks, this movie isn't a live-action adaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender, but of the Ember Island Players." 

To quote everyone who commented on this on Youtube, " [o.m.g.] it's like they knew!"
I suppose the effects were decent. Buh.

This is what Little Josh said when I asked him if he was excited about the movie: "Yes! It's going to be awesome!" I asked him why he thought so, and he said, "Because, it'll look real, and everything's better when it's real!" I wonder what he thought of it, in the end?

**Addendum: Little Josh and I also went through earthbending and firebending, that afternoon in Munday Lodge. On of the absolute highlights of my summer at camp was when I asked him, "Oh, can you redirect lightening?" And he said, in 100% seriousness, "No, I haven't learned to do that yet." Seriously. I love kids.