teenagers?

Guess what I'm NOT forgetting to post about today?!

It's Tuesday (...right?), and I'm going to talk about YA. Or maybe teenagers.

I'm going to talk about myself as a teenager, and why some YA is lost on me.

There I am on the left {in blue}, at the tender age of 14. Here is what I remember thinking about back then:

~my friends.

~theatre.

~my beliefs.

~how to relate to people.

~differences.

~does anyone like me?

~do I fit in?

~my values.

~storytelling.

~helping others.

As I got older, the thoughts expanded to include:

~homework.

~college.

~boys.

Boys were low on the list. My heartbroken days wouldn't happen until college. But as a teen? It was about my friends. I had a ton of guy friends. They were my brothers. I cared about them. Sure, I had crushes, too, but they meant less in the grand scheme, even then. They existed for the sole purpose of being thought about, not talked to. And if a crush and a friend overlapped? I did what I thought was best. I tried to turn it off. I kept up the friendships. I devoted myself to what I valued most {God and theatre}.

I don't know why I was like this. I may have been prudish. Naive. I shrug off those accusations, though, because I was living the way I wanted to. I won't deny that I got emotional and overwhelmed and pined after the occasional boy who would never know my name. And I won't deny that I struggled majorly with social norms, and that I put way too much pressure on myself to be "good." Yet, somehow, I remember understanding my place in life a little better than I now realize is normal.

If normal is based on teenagers in books, that is. I often wonder what sixteen-year-old me would have done if any book premise had been real. What if I had been selected for The Hunger Games? The real me from 2001, and not some archetypal teenage figurehead. Sixteen-year-old Julie would have either screamed and panicked and tried to run away, or walked forward like a martyr, with absolutely no hope or expectation of surviving. Maybe a little of both. I was no Katniss.

What if seventeen-year-old Julie had found herself surrounded by, oh I don't know, werewolves or faeries or something? What would she have done? First, the reality would have taken a long time to sink in. There would have been mixed feelings of, "Is this entirely true? Am I completely losing it?" and, "I knew fantasy was real, I knew it I knew it I knew it." Also, "how can I work this into a college application? Because that would be awesome."

However!, if some hot werewolf boy had come forward and immediately pledged his undying love, replete with possessive undertones, I would have made this face:

or something equally offensive.

And perhaps that is why there is a chunk of YA that just does not connect with me. I was never that girl. I don't know how to relate to her. 

I'm tired of reading books about teenagers that propagate adult fantasies. You know? It's fine if you like that, and I'm not saying I don't enjoy the odd romp through such things, but what exactly are you trying to say?

A question: Are you writing about kids? Or adults in wish-fulfilling teenage bodies? Not saying one is better than the other, just saying we should stop fooling ourselves. You're going to make money either way. Maybe.

Wow. Snarkfest, out.

{{In other news, Article 5 winners to be announced tonight!}}

greetings from manhattan {2.5 weeks later}.

Do not let anyone ever tell you that I do not love New York. They would be lying.

Oh, my husband. You are hereby allowed to run the New York City marathon every single year, if you like. Better yet, why don't we just move there?

No?

*sigh* I tried.

After years away, it was bliss to be in NYC again. Re-acclimating myself to the subway system was a bit comical, but other than that, I slipped right back into the groove and panic of Manhattan. Uh, sort of.

It helped that we were only there for 3.2 days. Anything more and I would have REALLY made a fool of myself. But!

1. I wore a green pea coat and walked with confidence.
2. I was asked for directions.

Ego sufficiently boosted. Until next time.

Highlights include:

WAR HORSE. Oh my gosh. Please sit in the second row on the aisle at a show like this at least once in your life. Eerily lifelike horse puppets. Over my head. Actors. Three feet away {maybe less?}. And then, you know, it was amazing and stuff.

Tears on my face the whole time. Because! a} What a beautiful story, and b} Oh my lands, one of the most impressive things I've ever seen on stage {if not THE most}. Unfortunately, we didn't have time to wait at the stage door {*sob*}, because we had to hurry across town to get to this place:

DIRT CANDY. Vegetarian episode of Iron Chef America + challenger from a veg restaurant in NY = we are going there. And we did. We met Amanda Cohen and told her we saw her on TV, and she giggled {love!}. Not surprisingly, the food was outofthisworld.

The next day, there was a marathon. Husband survived with flying colors, and then this went down:

Blogger party at Madison Square Park!

Bess and Elisabeth, hunkering down over this weird short girl in between them.

 {That is a tiny to-go espresso cup in my hand. It was, in the way of Ramona Quimby, DELISHUS.}

Of course, now I want to go back. I always want to go back. We did a lot of other fun things, like stumble upon a neat little restaurant/bakery called Kitchenette, and explore the Irish Hunger Memorial in Battery Park. So cool.

And we saw Ground Zero, which is a whole different animal now than it was four years ago. Note to anyone about to visit New York: you have to get your pass to see the 9/11 stuff before you show up and try to stand in line. Oops. {Honestly, I wasn't all that let down. I look forward [in a weird way] to telling my future children about it, but until then? I'm not too keen on reliving the nightmare. This is a new and strange development for me. Maybe related to traumas I've experienced since? Who knows. Moving on.}

In short, I miss it. I miss the buzz and fury and life of New York. I don't know why. I don't really LOVE cities. I mean, I've enjoyed visiting Chicago and Boston and DC the last handful of years, but I don't dream about them when I leave. I don't want to spread out my arms and spin in circles when I get there. I do love DC {I could live there, easy}, but even that doesn't compare to the oomph and yes and home I feel for New York. Is it the theatre thing? The writing thing? The bigness and importance and quintessentially-American thing? The memories of going there with my mom? Perhaps it's a little of all of that. I can't wait to go back (in April! YAY!). Now if I can just convince my husband that Central Park counts as "outdoors"...

In the meantime, I'll watch War Horse videos on youtube and stalk New Yorkers on twitter and talk to my friends who live there. A vicarious experience is better than none at all.

Cheers!

{For real, you guys. I don't even want to see the movie. 

I just want to hold the stage production in my heart, forever.}

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.]

announcements.

To all interested parties:

I know.  It's hard to believe.  I thought I'd lost my touch.  That is, I thought I'd forgotten how to act, or whatever.  Be on stage.  I had an actual "Oh holy crap I think I forgot how to project my voice" moment at the auditions the other night.  Truth.

But, the director must be desperate, or a fan of argyle and plaid (both of which I wore, unintentionally), because he let me in anyway.

I get to rehearse for a play all through the busy/crazy Christmas season now.  Yay?

:
:
:

Yay!

(?)

what makes me hesitate.

As one might gather from the title, I'm feeling a bit o' the block.  And it's no mystery as to why.

I finally know what I want to blog about.

Unfortunately, this will involve exposing my tastes in literature, music, TV and film, once and for all.  I will not be able to go back.  I may also have to come out and own that I'm trying to write a novel, which sounds cool coming from anyone else but sooooo dumb coming from me (to me).

This makes me hesitate because, well, my friends and family read this blog.  I know who you are [for the most part], you nine followers, you.  And you, most likely, will think my tastes juvenile and silly.  It incapacitates me to imagine your judgments.  Not that ANY of you habitually belittle others (as far as I can tell), so I don't know why I would worry.

Which makes me wonder, do all people fear what others will think of them? [Uh, yeah, I'm guessing they do.] If I admit that I've read cough*overtwenty*cough young adult/youth novels this year, will you roll your eyes and think,
Seriously? Why?
Or, worse:
Doesn't she talk about God ever?  <-- I do want to fix that.

I don't know.  There's something about blogging that makes me forget that people I know in real life will read what I post.  Isn't that strange?  It's like, I read strangers' blogs all the time, so naturally I assume it's strangers who are reading my blog.  But this is not so!

This makes me nervous.  Let's say I write something about... cheese wheels.  I get all excited about the post and put a lot of goofiness into it and then forget about it.  A few weeks later, I see a friend in public, and they say, "Your blog is cool/fun/better than sitting around doing nothing," and I realize, mortified, Oh my goodness, this person totally knows about the stupid cheese wheels. Why did I write that?

It's sort of like being on stage in a small space, where (no matter how hard you try to avoid it) you can clearly see every single person in the audience.

Which never bothered me too much, until I'd spot my mom and dad, or an old friend who'd surprised me by showing up, or an intimidating teacher. These moments shook me worse than messing up lines.  Not because of my parents, or the old friend, or the intimidating teacher, but because I was so thrilled or impressed (or horrified*) to see them there.  I've got no problem divulging my soul to the public, but when someone I know is involved-- someone who's used to seeing me in everyday life and expects me to be the person they know-- I get all clammy and embarrassed.

*Please note:  Absolutely none of you horrify me.  It was just an example.

Also, in a complete abberration, why does this kitten smell like he ate a skunk?
e/eee7ke7777777777777777777777758,5r  And WHY can he not resist walking all over the keyboard?

DOES ANYONE ELSE FEEL THIS WAY?  About blogging, not about the cat.

the pirate ship and the sand box.

When I was a little kid, I went through a phase where I didn't like books or movies or TV shows, because I knew they weren't real.  That's not to say that I was overly pragmatic or concrete (in fact, I doubt I've ever been either of those things).  I just couldn't bear the thought of these stories I loved-- desired, even-- not being real.

the rugrats having a pirate adventure.
from here.  also, "yo ho ho and a
bottle of milk?" hilarious.

Who remembers the Nickelodeon classic RUGRATS?  Man, it took a long time for little Julie to enjoy that show.  The basic arc of any given episode went as such:  Tommy and the gang create an elaborate and fun adventure for themselves, somehow revolving around the events of the day.  Let's say they have a pirate adventure.  It's grand and exciting and everybody's happy.  Until the end of the episode, when we find out they've really been in the sand box the whole time.  I thought this was so awful as a child.  I wanted desperately for them to really be on a pirate ship, and it depressed me that they weren't.  I knew that if it wouldn't really happen for them in the cartoon, it could definitely never happen for me in real life.

I pined for adventure as a child.  I don't know why.  I'd always led a happy life, and I wanted for nothing growing up.  But why did the characters in books get to have all these fascinating, compelling experiences, and I never did?  Maybe this is why I spent the majority of my youth involved in theatre.  I discovered an outlet where I could effectively pretend to be the one having the adventure, and people believed me.  I became, for one example, Joan of Arc.  I got to be closer to the pirate ship without having to wake up in the sand box.  Because if I had been in the sand box, I would have been in the audience.

the play in which i played joan of arc,
way back at walden in '02.  i would have
posted a picture of me in costume,
but those are all at my parents' house.

Looking back on it now, I realize it was taking that passive, observational role that upset me.  I wanted to be actively involved in the storytelling.  I miss acting so much sometimes, it's unbearable.  I miss the moment, the way I felt on stage.  I even miss memorizing lines.  I miss being a character, reacting to a situation.  But most of all, I miss the journey.  I miss the cathartic energy of living in someone else's story.

So, is it really that strange that I should enjoy writing, as well?  If my desire is to be actively involved in telling a story, then I think not.


I can handle books and movies and TV shows a lot better now, if you were wondering.  Though, I must admit, reading THE HUNGER GAMES, CATCHING FIRE and MOCKINGJAY twice through within a month (not kidding) has sort of shut down my creative brain for a while.  As soon as I get over the fact that I will never write anything as brilliant or important as that, I'll be fine.

seriously, why even try?
it doesn't get better than this.
remember the signs of a stellar book?
number one, fan art.