In Which I Ramble About What I’ve Been Doing During These Past Few Months

     Gracious, that last post was certainly something, wasn’t it? I would apologize for the Abrupt Change Of Pace, but I still can’t quite shake the feeling that it was something that I somehow needed to post. Who would have thought that the same mind that produced the Marxist Carol and other such ridiculousness was capable of such a deep and introspective look into her own feelings? It took me by surprise, and I was the one who penned it in the first place.

     Anyway, disregarding the heavy dose of angst I scattered across the blogosphere, it’s certainly been a while since I’ve posted anything substantial. My brief exposition on my NaNoWriMo triumphs hardly shed any light into my personal life. The question remains, then: what exactly have I been doing through all these months of silence? Well, for the sake of Clarity and Feeling Organized and Important, I Made a List.

1. I started Getting An Education

     This spring marked the completion of my freshman-ish year at Milligan, where I am currently pursuing a B.A. in English (who would have ever guessed?) with minors in music and humanities. It remains to be seen whether or not I will be able to Get A Real Job, but thus far I’m enjoying it and hold quite a bit of hope for my future.

2. I acquired a job

     Yes, after many long years of unemployment, I finally secured my first means of employment. Shockingly, I did not fall prey to the homeschool stereotypes and work at Chick-fil-a, but instead was hired by a local library. (Again, who would have ever guessed?) Unfortunately I had to leave after a mere semester, as the Music Department Requirements started eating away at the only available hours my employers had open, but I left with both experience and a newfound working knowledge of Dungeons and Dragons under my belt. 

     Nowadays I am employed once again: I have a work-study in the PR Department at my college, writing articles and whatever else they push my direction. Occasionally I am called upon to do things with the Communications department, such as film high school football games. 

3. I went Up North™

     Yes, yours truly voyaged past the Mason-Dixon line as part of one of Milligan's Humanities Tours. (I would highly recommending looking into it; they have quite a wide array of opportunities.) It was quite a lovely experience; the only part that truly scarred me was a brief encounter in Connecticut, which is a horrifying tale for another time. 

     Anyway, the voyage to Concord, Boston, and beyond left me with enough hastily-composed photographs to stuff my new Instagram page with for at least another three months. (Oh, you haven't heard? I have a Relatively Serious and Respectable Photography Account now. Go follow it: @the.wandering.typewriter.)

4. I jump-started my acting career by starring in a one-act play

     All in all, a wonderful experience, especially the bits where I got to shoot the other actor in the face with an array of water guns. If you wish to witness my acting antics, you may view the video here:

5. My mild interest in Marvel transformed into somewhat of a legitimate obsession

     Well, okay, perhaps not an obsession, but I actually got around to seeing a significant chunk of the MCU. This summer I watched Ant Man and the Wasp (and was appropriately traumatized by the mid-credits scene), and earlier this spring I even had the privilege of viewing Infinity War on its opening weekend. (Fun fact: I watched it the Friday before finals week, so Marvel killed me before any form of academia had the chance.) 

     More lately, I invested the appropriate amount of screaming over the Captain Marvel trailer, and tentatively plan on cosplaying Peggy Carter for Halloween. 

6. College began proving that I can make friends

     Contrary to popular belief, I am somewhat more of an extrovert than I initially assumed, a fact I only began discovering after I made the transition from high school to college. Mingling with the masses has become less of a traumatizing experience and more of an enjoyable occupation, and thus far I've been blessed with a small myriad of wonderful friends. Unfortunately, this newfound ability has rendered one of my go-to jokes useless (can’t exactly joke about not having friends when three of them are standing in easy earshot), but it’s been more than good enough to make up for it.

     This brief list is merely the beginning of all the myriad of mysteries and misadventures that have transpired within my college career. For instance, I have yet to unfold the wild and wonderful journey that led me to Milligan in the first place. However, this list has gone on long enough for now; I'll save that and other tales for another day.

     Until then, I remain:

Cordially yours,
Elizabeth

On Vulnerability

     Radio silence has wrapped itself around my little blog for...six months? A year? It’s hard to remember sometimes that ordinary time passes outside of the steady ticking away of test grades and slow marches of homework assignments.

     So why has it been so long since I’ve written anything? Did college eat away at every spare second of my time until there was barely any time left to breathe, much less sleep and eat? Well, not exactly. School keeps me busy, to be sure (*glances at Honors Program requirements*), but not busy enough to warrant neglecting the poor, dusty Wandering Typewriter for months on end. Why? Well, when it really boils down to it...

     Writing is hard.

     I don't mean the average, everyday "I have two and a half hours to write a 3,000 word essay and my eyes are bleeding from the amount of repetitive data I've had to scroll through" or the rarer, artsier "I've been creating this world in my head for YEARS and you expect me to explain all of the intricate political games and convoluted murder plots in less than 500 pages?"

     No. Writing is harder than that.

     Writing is hard because, if you really want to be Good and True and Authentic, you have to be...vulnerable.

     There's a whole array of vulnerabilities to explore within the fine arts, actually. One especially common type is the "I spent months lovingly handcrafting this piece of fiction and will Cry if you speak ill of it" sort, and is often quite painful to experience. The variety of vulnerability I'm referring to in this instance, however, is the type that fills your words with meaning and moves your readers to feel. It forces you to scrape away all the fluff and glitter you’ve built around yourself and proclaim, even softly, “this is who I am, and this is what I have made”.

     Now, despite its description, this is not necessarily some earth-shattering variety of self-reflection. For me, part of it was merely accepting the fact that I do indeed write Young Adult fiction, despite years of denial and bitter reflection on such travesties as Twilight. But whatever form it takes, this vulnerability often forces you to drag your Real Self out of whatever hole you’ve hidden it and put it on display for the world to see.

      Somewhat unsurprisingly, this variety of vulnerability is not exactly my strong suit. It’s hard enough to see myself for who I truly am. Some days I feel like a scintillating creature of wit, dazzling everyone I touch as I dance through life like a fae. Other days I look in the mirror and think that if I had to give my soul shape, it would be of a creature dripping thoughts like black grease, with a hundred mouths all drooling for attention. Neither pictures are the full truth, of course, but as a writer I deal archetypes like currency and it’s hard not to apply them to myself sometimes. Even once I wrestle down some portion of the truth of who I am, it is Incredibly Difficult for me to give my thoughts form and express to others how I really feel. It’s an oxymoron, don’t you think? A writer who struggles to express her feelings? I’m getting (quite a lot) better at it, but so often it’s easier to keep my emotions sealed up in a metaphorical ziplock bag.

     I don’t think I’m quite alone in this. It's easy for all of us, writers or otherwise, to hide behind masks, because how would we survive otherwise? The world is sharp and about as caring as an uneven piece of sidewalk when it comes to ruining your day.

     Writing makes it easier to slip behind a mask, sometimes.

     Oh yes, we writers talk all the time about being "naked on paper" and other such memorable slogans, but really it's...so...hard. I for one would rather not expose any more skin than I must. It's easier to blame flaws on the awkward academic formula of one's essay, or one's narrative decisions on the personality of a certain character, and settle back comfortably in the knowledge that it isn't really you that's being criticized, it’s just your words that are under fire. Sometimes I find myself using my words as a shield more than a sword.

     But after a while your arms get tired from holding that shelter over your head all the time, and so eventually my words started drying up.

     Now, while I was busy Not Writing, I kept consistent with another art form: music. As Music is Pretty Much The Only Reason I Can Afford To Go To College (a long and fascinating story full of moments where I could almost feel God’s hand in my life), I really had no other choice. Besides, I’ve been playing violin for over 10 years; it would be very disappointing to stop once I hit college. Anyway, my approach to the instrument has stayed very methodical: almost scientific. If there is a “right” way to perform a piece, I will chose that one and practice it until it is Perfect. Often I found myself jealous of those who could get swept up in the passion of the phrases without worrying about an imperfect bowing or a missed shift. But that started to change this semester, when my music professor handed me a new piece wrapped up in a new challenge: be vulnerable while you play it.

      Naturally, I balked at this. As she was explaining this new assignment, I could feel the entirety of my body language change: my shoulders tensed up, I held my chin higher, and brought my violin so far in front of my chest that it formed a sort of barricade--or perhaps a cage. Even though I didn’t entirely know /why/ at the time, in that moment I knew to the very depths of my bones that I Did Not Want To Do That. Still, I agreed to give it a shot, even if perhaps it was only because the said music professor held the power of life and death (i.e. my grade) in her hands. I practiced for a few months, and soon enough the recital rolled around. And do you know what? It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but that wasn’t the point. Once I let go of that underlying fear of mockery and judgement, life started to trickle back into the notes. I felt freer to explore my music as the art that it is rather than the science I’d thought it to be. And lately I’ve been realizing that this musical revelation can apply to the rest of my life as well.

      For months, this bit of writing has sat half-completed in my drafts folder. I don't quite know why I felt the need to finish it now; for a while I suppose I felt like I needed to be in a Better Place in order to publish it without feeling like at least somewhat of a fraud. (Well, that and the fact that I initially penned the whole thing without using any capitalization whatsoever, because I am a Serious Writer Who Makes Excellent Artistic Decisions at One in the Morning, and the prospect of fixing that mess hurt me on a variety of levels.) I suppose never felt like I knew where to end it. I have no satisfactory answer as to why I've written next to nothing in these few months, except that once I sat down to work on something and just cried instead, because it felt like I was scraping the bottom of a dry well with my fingernails and every word felt as lifeless and hollow as bones. 

     Lately, though, I think I’ve realized that it doesn’t really matter what kind of a place I’m in: I’m still going to have flaws. It's not any good trying to bury them beneath a heap of clever words: they're still going to be there. But a handful of existential crises later, I realized that that, too, doesn’t matter as much as I seem to think, even if it is frustrating to those (like me) seeking to wrap up their story in pretty ribbons and set it out as a gift for the rest of the world. God knows all my flaws in a kaleidoscope of detail that I couldn’t even begin to fathom, and He still loves me anyway. And when the person who shaped the stars from nothing deems it fit to call you His daughter, why waste any time whatsoever bothering what people think?

     There’s still a lot of me that’s still rough around the edges. There are pieces that panic over nothings, that crumble under the smallest stresses or harsh words. There’s a lot of me that’s still afraid, still imperfect. But maybe there’s a part of me that’s learning that it’s ok to be vulnerable too.

      Maybe it’s time to start writing again.

The Camp NaNo Chronicles (2017 Edition)

     Anyone remember the "Camp NaNo Chronicles"? I wish I didn't. What started as a promising beginning to a blog series fragmented into a nothing short of a drastic failure. But I am (or at least was) an optimist, and since Camp NaNoWriMo happens twice a year, I gathered the scraps of some new ideas and tried again in July of 2015. I failed even more dramatically than before, barely garnishing 700 words as opposed to my previous 17,447. At least the first time I'd actually come close to reaching my goal. Shaken but undaunted, so I waited until the next year's NaNo rolled around, and failed one more time.

     Perhaps I should have given up then, but as history repeats itself (and I am definitely not important enough to be an exception), this July, I logged into the Camp NaNo site and created a project. I typed out the title and set a word count goal. I even wrote a little description and included an excerpt.

     You, dear reader, can probably predict where I'm going with this. You likely deduce that I wouldn't be putting so much emphasis on my failures if I hadn't experienced yet another one. You're waiting for the punchline, complight salting of puns and subtle jabs at my future career.

     However, as per the usual, I shan't be proceeding as per the usual. Instead...

campnanowrimo.org

     ...let's just hope I can do this again in November.

A Volume of Mundane Adventures, Episode 2

We return now to the adventures of Agent E...

     We'd been stuck in the same room for weeks, months...maybe years. Always They forced us to do the same tasks, stacking contradictory knowledge into a pyramid of confusion. Always They forced us to examine the Numbers, the omnipresent, omnipotent Numbers. The undercurrent of their presence ruled our thoughts, our words, our calculators. They left us one option of escape, but the consequences that followed would leave indelible marks, marks that sent even the bravest reeling. Fools took the easy way out and tried to brush it off. Fools tried with only half their hearts and failed, earning, in the end, only suffering.

     I was one of the misfortunate thousands who had to suffer through the Numbers.

     My line of work calls for a cool, calm, and collected demeanor. I'm never allowed to show my true feelings, no matter how strong my emotions may be. There are always people depending on me, always lives at stake, dangling from the thread of my false bravado. I can't crack. But that doesn't stop me from being afraid.

     As I approached the building, the building with the Numbers, my stomach twisted into knots more tangled than the pretzel I wished I'd eaten. The structure stood like an iron sentinel, challenging my confidence. I wavered. What was a simple agent against something so terrifying? Something that not only managed to snare countless hostages, but could keep them placid and obedient for months at a time? I shook my head. I couldn't let Them sense my fear. I had a mission to complete.

     I threw open the double doors and strode into The Room.

     The Room boiled, full and brimming over with tension, the roiling nervousness eating away at our minds. I wanted to reach out, reassure the frightened people that it would be alright, that after today we wouldn't have anything to be scared of anymore. The calculators couldn't hurt us. I stared at the machine in my hands, craving reassurance. The machine stared back, its exterior blank and cold. I swallowed. The calculators couldn't hurt us. 

     They handed us papers, each sheet whiter and more sickening than the last. Scattered laughter did little to mask the curling scent of fear and spiking heart rates. I was silent. I had to focus; if I didn't... Well. If I didn't, then the calculators wouldn't be the only thing to fear.

     Silence fell. The frantic scratching of lead on parchment, the clicking of keys, the occasional whispered curse word: those weren't noises. Those were the tangible outworkings of our numbed minds, a mere outworking of the Numbers. They were a curse of The Room. Nothing more.

     Someone stood up. They gathered their papers, their pencils, their calculators, and strode to the front of the room. Then they did the unthinkable, the unimaginable: they handed over their paper and left. Hope sparked in my heart, and I bent over the paper with renewed fervor. I could get out of this alive.

     Soon enough, I completed my task and surrendered it to our all-seeing overseer, then fled. I wouldn't know know if I'd succeeded or failed for weeks, months even. But I felt sure that I hadn't hoped, hadn't believed, hadn't suffered for nothing. The Numbers hadn't wholly claimed me yet.

     Later the truth would unmask itself, crashing in clearer than daybreak and washing my mind of its fear. My doubt slipped away, and I allowed myself one tiny smirk, one little exhibition of triumph.

    I smiled knowing I'd passed Probability and Statistics.

In Which I Survive A Haunted Golf Cart Ride

     I went back to Kansas. And this time I didn't wait more than six months to write out my thoughts about it.

     It’s not every day you get to survive a haunted golf cart ride.

     Three of us, tingling with excitement, squeezed onto the vinyl seat. We were elated that the S’s had chosen us, deemed us worthy to endure the exhilarant terror of the golf cart. What more was there to life than this? Then the engine roared to life, and I knew immediately that we had made a terrible, terrible mistake. The contraption bucked and rattled, clearly unhappy with new presence of such naïve, inexperienced passengers. I knew deep in my shaking bones that pleading for mercy wouldn't save us, so I clung to the metal bar with all the desperation of a warrior making their last stand. My friend held onto me for support, but I'd already volunteered to speak at her funeral; I couldn't keep her on the mad chariot of death if it chose to cast her away. Mr. S. had promised that the seat belts would protect us, but where were the seat belts? 

     However, despite all our expectations, we somehow emerged unscathed from the wrath of the haunted golf cart, and that glorious ride is indelibly seared into my terror-tinged memory. Near that new memory is an old one, recurring echoes of the gang I somehow started last workshop. I longed for those friendships to return, but they belonged in another week and another year. Still, I came back to Kansas expecting sameness.

     Of course, this workshop was different, gloriously different, but I still wanted the same answers, the same peace and joy I found last year. Instead, I found a different kind of sameness in a handful of all-too-familiar emotions. Sadness. Fear. Loneliness. I shook them off as best I could and tried my hardest to Have A Good Time. I mostly succeeded, but the expectations lingered. At the top of the list floated the longing for another workshop epiphany. “Fair Winds and Following Seas” gifted me with the courage and humility I needed to finally become the person I’d been afraid to be. But this week passed without another blinding realization. Instead of driving away my ghosts, the workshop seemed to intensify them, amplifying the noise in my head until I couldn’t hear anything else.

     Then one day in critique group, my friend handed me back my excerpt. She’d circled all the ‘I’s in one paragraph, revealing far too many of that particular pronoun for a few sentences to contain. While I didn’t think much of it at the time (beyond a note to revise my narrator’s train of thought), those spirals of ink contained that missing epiphany: my life is a paragraph with too many ‘I’s.

     As a narrator of a first-person novel, it’s impossible not to talk about myself. However, no two novels are the same. Some narrators choose to begin each sentence with themselves, with an ‘I’. They talk about the things they’ve done, the things they’ve accomplished, the golf carts they’ve survived. But others manage to find different subjects. They manage to talk about anything and everything, and when they do talk about themselves they gloss over it with a grace that lifts others up and fills them with excitement.

     I’m that first narrator. The proud, selfish narrator that can’t think of another way to begin a sentence.

     To be fair, I’ve done my share of interesting things. In Kansas alone, I danced and sang on stage with a myriad of joyful personages, joined the dab squad, wore multiple tiaras, and impersonated Darth Vader. I even survived a haunted golf cart ride. But I forgot that even though the narrator is important, there are other characters in our first-person novels. Some of those characters are known and well beloved, while others are little more than annoying necessities. The richest stories explore these other characters and acknowledge how important they are, even if we don’t always like them. Even if they hurt us. Even if we give and don’t get anything back.

     My workshop epiphany reminded me that my first-person novel is very much a work-in-progress. I’m still afraid to walk into a roomful of people, my perseverance is weaker than my muscles, and wonder is awfully hard to come by—and that’s not even mentioning such unattainable things as selflessness. But the workshop managed to penetrate all my cowardice and weakness and teach me one thing: life’s a little bit like a haunted golf cart ride, One has to have courage to get on it, to do what we know we should, and, before that, the perseverance to wait for our one glorious turn. But when that turn comes, we hold on, screaming and laughing, to the wonder of that ride, because after the sadness, after the fear, after the loneliness, there is always joy.

An Ode to Benedict Cumberbatch

     Going through some of my old(ish) documents has yielded many odd gems. My festive Marxist Carol provides flourishing evidence of this. Going through the aforementioned old documents has also convinced me that my writing is rather awful I should share more "creative" bits of writing with the vast, unpredictable, indelible world of the internet. For once, then, it will not be myself who shall be kept up all night, weeping over such misfortunate creations. Instead, it is you, my dear readers, who must suffer.

     Disclaimer: I in no way claim to be good at poetry, and realize this supposed follows no sort of expected Reason, though it does Rhyme. Thus, I apologize in advance for the agony this brief piece might induce.

     Second disclaimer: In the intention of preserving honesty, my source for many of the names used in the poem is this blog, rather than my imagination: benedictcumberbatchgenerator.tumblr.com

Oh Bombadil Countryside,

Your name is known both far and wide.

(On the internet it cannot hide.)


Oh Benadryl Claritin,

Is messing up your name a sin?

(At least we don’t say “garbage bin”.)


Oh Beetlejuice Snickersbar,

Your name is heard both near and far.

(Were the letters formed on a distant star?)


Oh Burgerking Wafflesmack,

Why does your name sound like a snack?

(It always reminds us of cookies we lack.)


Oh Blenderdink Crumplehorn

Why are your characters so forlorn?

(Perhaps your name is what they scorn.)


Oh Britishguy Sillyname,

Nothing is greater than your fame

(Even if no one can pronounce your name.)

GIF found on giphy.com

A Marxist Carol

     By way of a hastily cobbled together explanation...

     In a certain literature class, a certain teacher has his students give speeches rather than write essays. Occasionally, he will include an option to tell a story in the midst of possible speech topics. As my mind follows odd pathways sometimes (read: always), I opt to take advantage of this opportunities as often as I am allowed. While  these stories are generally ludicrous (and probably childish), they seem to bring some measure of joy to the class. For in this harrowing journey through school, life, and the universe, one needs all the laughter one can do.

     Thus, without further ado, the Wandering Typewriter presents...

     Okay, yeah, so maybe I’m kinda the reason Karl Marx had an “economic breakthrough” and shoved his ludicrous ideals on the world, but hey, I had my reasons. Very, very good reasons.

     Alright, fine. I was bored. In fact I’d just been forced into a marathon of Keeping Up with the Kardashians; Kim’s crying face was clouding my judgment--and my will to live. Well, technically I’m not alive to begin with. I’m a ghost. But that doesn’t mean that fake reality TV doesn't bug me, or that I’m unemployed. Take that, starving college students. Well, I suppose shouldn't taunt them too much--my job is to send out other ghosts to haunt people. I don't know where I squeeze in the time to binge Youtube and Netflix, but somehow I do it. But hey, I'm not complaining; someone has to be in charge. Besides, humans need this service of ours--they generally won’t do anything without outside prodding.

     I entertained the idea of haunting Thomas Jefferson with the specter of Alexander Hamilton (it’s hilarious how long he’ll argue with a ghost after the inevitable initial screaming), but instead I decided to be “responsible” and opted for something that would stay out of the history books. American history books, at least. Americans tend to ignore world events and zero in on their two hundred year blip of existence.

     I glanced at my roster. Two of my crew had just gotten back from their respective hauntings: one from Denmark, one from Africa. I sauntered out of my office and snagged them both before they went home--cashing in on a favor, I said. What favor, they said. You’ll see, I said. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come had been floating through the hallways all evening, ostensibly trying to figure out how to work our semi-corporeal vending machines. I grabbed them too.


     Oh, also: when I’m not haunting people, I like to dabble in economics. A few centuries ago you might have called me an expert, but I’ve long surpassed that. What’s after expert? Master? Wizard? All-seeing Sensei Ghost of the Stock Market? Anyway, I felt like annoying some poor unsuspecting student, a business major, perhaps; someone unimportant in the grander scale of human history.

     If my choice in TV shows didn’t tip you off, you should know that sometime I have really terrible judgement.

     I’m not sure if Karl Marx greeted me in expletives or spluttered a polite invitation to sit down and enjoy some hot tea and biscuits. Hard to tell with German.

     “Tonight,” I said, “You will be visited by three spirits. One--well, I don’t want to ruin it for you. Listen well!”

     I receded back into the shadows and let my man Hamlet do his thing. He emerged, armor and all. Marx puffed up like an overly optimistic cookie batch.

     “Karl,” Hamlet wailed, “ I am thy father's spirit, Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night--”

     “Vhat?”

     “Revenge my foul and most unnatural murther. The bourgeois, Karl! They stole my life, like they stole everything else. Bah!”

     Marx stroked his beard. “You are sure? They seemed such good, hardworking folk.”

     “No! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not. Avenge meeeeeee….” He howled, and disappeared into the wall behind him, armor and all.

     Marx, shaken, returned to his work. If I had an eyebrow, I would raise it. Hmm. Less scared than I’d expected. Well, next in my lineup was none other than Mufasa--that would show him. I’m not sure how the lion managed to create a pseudo-African storm in such a cramped room, but as he spoke, the room boomed with thunder.

     “Karl, you have forgotten me,” he rumbled.

     “Who are you?”

     “You have forgotten who you are, and so you have forgotten me. Remember who you are. You are a champion of the proletariat, and the one true visionary economist.”

     “But--”

     “REMEMBER!”

     The clouds disappeared. Marx stared at them like he was expecting something to pop out of them, then shook his head.

     “I do not have time for zis. I’m late--Engels awaits me at ze factory. I must--”

     Like a Nazgul descending from the heavens, The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come materialized and screeched in his face. Marx screeched back and dove to the floor, trembling.

     “Mercy--please! I vill change--I vill never vork again! I will...share this visdom you have imparted to me. Vill that be enough? I vill protect the proletariat with my life.”

     A few assorted Ringwraith noises later, the Ghost disappeared. So did Karl, except he ran, screaming, out of the room instead of vanishing, howling, into the ceiling. I decided to leave too--the Netflix wasn’t going to watch itself. You might wonder how I could exit so calmly after such a screw-up, but listen, this isn’t the worst thing I’ve done in my haunting career. Actually, perpetuating communism is pretty high on the list of my mistakes, but hey. It’s easy to live with yourself when technically you aren’t living at all. And at least Marx learned something: listening to the advice of fictional ghosts is way more important than actually going out and working.