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.

A Volume of Mundane Adventures, Episode 1

     Sit down. I may knock you off your feet with the sheer magnitude of the tale I am about to unfold.

     My story begins on a Wednesday night.

      I pull into the Kroger parking lot, radio at a somewhat reasonable volume because, even though there's nobody there to complain about the music, I am a Safe and Responsible Driver. It's cold, so after I cross the street I run into the store like I've just stolen the Declaration of Independence. I snap, an echo of the Doctor summoning the TARDIS, and the automatic doors slide open.

     The real business, the Serious Business that called me forth through the cold and lonely dusk, begins.

     I'm wearing a flower crown, but that doesn't mean I'm not intimidating, oh no. I march through the aisles like a have a purpose--I do have a purpose. There are few people in the store, which minimizes the casualties. Anyone who is unfortunate enough to stumble into my path will most certainly regret it. I have a mission.

     I grab the Items of Utmost Importance and move to pay for them. I'm not a criminal, just carrying precious cargo--so precious that I couldn't even sacrifice the time to wait in the one-person line. I walk up to the self-checkout like the adult I'm not and pay for the Items in cash. I collect the change and leave, snapping again as the automatic doors part before me.

     I walk out of the store carrying my mission. My Items of Utmost Importance. My precious cargo. 

     I walk out of the store with twenty-four Reese's Cups.

In Which I Finally Talk About Kansas

     Hello. College decisions are snapping at my heels, school looms dark and cackling in the near future, and I have a screenplay to finish. What's a blogger to do?

     I'm going to finally talk about Kansas.

     Now, this shan't be about Kansas as an abstract concept; I don't know enough about the state to summarize it, except perhaps as "it felt like the inside of a water bottle that had been left outside Too Long". Instead, it shall be a short essay. A sappy essay. An essay I wrote to get into college. And guess what? It worked.

     Let's begin.

     Once upon a time, I accidentally created a small gang. The fact that we succeeded in instilling some amount of fear into the local authorities surprises me and worries others. However, our actions are rendered somewhat less alarming when one considers that we were at a writing workshop, and the “local authorities” were our venerated teachers.

     Yes. A writing workshop. This summer, I was blessed to take my own masterpiece--that is, the somewhat vile first draft of a novel--to the flat otherworld known as the Sunflower State. Why? Well, the workshop prominently featured “critique groups”: a handful of writers in a hot room who are given permission to gently shred one’s ideas to bits. And who doesn’t want their writing pulled apart and examined under the microscope of a second opinion?

     Gentle sarcasm aside, I journeyed to Kansas to learn; learn how to hone my prose, learn if I wanted to pursue writing as a career, learn if I was any good at putting words on page or if I should dump my draft into the nearest recycling bin. As one can see, I had expectations higher than the little bumps the Olathe locals called “hills”.

     In reality, the week in Kansas not only taught me how to improve my craft, it taught me to overcome fear. No matter how hard they try to deny it, everyone has something that keeps them up at night. However, besides the ordinary sort of worries, like spiders or someone we love getting harmed in some way, we have slower, deeper-rooted fears. Rejection. Betrayal. Abandonment. Every small disaster serves to reinforce these fears. Though I doubt most people have dueled their closest friend to the death at sundown, other things mirror and intensify the emotions that could lead to such a violent act.

     Back to Kansas.

     There I stood, fresh off the airport shuttle and marveling at the lack of mountains. As I lugged my suitcases through the cloudburst and up the stairs, I wondered what the week would hold. Would I return home with the contact information for a dozen new friends? Or would I pass the time in relative loneliness, acquiring knowledge instead of friendships? To save myself disappointment, I was inclined to resign myself to the latter, despite the twinges of self-pity accompanying that decision.

     Enter the first group of writers.

     The Narnian garb and the talking bacon pillow might have thrown many people into mental acrobatics, but I’d been around enough creative types to merely accept it. What shocked me was how friendly these people were--particularly the ones who’d attended past workshops and had therefore already established strong friendships. One of them in particular was rather famous in that community of writers, having won the highly competitive novel contest among other things. I was shocked by their inclusion of me in their antics. Was this workshop already breaking from the mold I’d cast for it?

     The journey to the cafeteria interrupted my musings. After squeezing into and subsequently extracting ourselves from a booth, we journeyed to the first session, which announced the theme of the week: “Fair Winds and Following Seas”. Besides giving us a beautiful explanation of the metaphors in that phrase, the leader entreated us “not to hide in the introvert corner”. And so, in accordance with the nautical feel, I started testing the waters. Or, stripping away the metaphors, I started making friends. Soon, the aforementioned gang was born and the rest of my initial fear melted away.

     The rest of the workshop sped by, cramming a bookful of knowledge (as well as the odd smattering of top hats and late-night explorations) into a few short days. Nobody wanted it to end; the atmosphere, the people were too lovely to leave.

     Saturday, the last day, dawned.

     I returned my keys and waited for the airport shuttle amid literal weeping. It seemed like everyone was hugging someone like it was the last time they’d see them--and it probably was. Honestly, the only thing keeping my eyes dry was the looming threat of missing my flight. As I was finishing my goodbyes, I noticed a young lad, rather well-known in that community of writers, wandering about, hugging essentially everyone he talked to. As I had spent a bit of time with him over the course of the week, I went over to bid him farewell.

     He hugged me for a long moment. As I tried not to cry over a goodbye to a stranger, he looked me in the eyes and told me to read John 16:33: “I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.”

     The moment passed. The shuttle arrived, I flew home and reality resumed its normal course, but I doubt I’ll ever forget that moment. It captured the soul of the workshop. Yes, we were utterly ridiculous, we had deep conversations about figments of our imagination, we walked about in cloaks and tiaras, but in a few short days we learned to care about strangers like we’d known them our whole lives.

     In Kansas I learned I didn’t have to be afraid, especially of other people. Yes, I still worry about what people think, what they could do to my ego or reputation. But often I think about the workshop and remember, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18).

In Which I Am /Technically/ a Senior Citizen

     I vanished for a while; surely I've been up to something interesting.

     ...hmm, surely I can think of something... Let me just fish around in my memory a bit.....

     ....

     What day is it?

GIF found on reactiongifs.us

     In all seriousness, though, what have I been doing? And why did I disappear yet again?

     Well, in short, I ran out of things to talk about.

     Actually, I ran out of things to talk about, then when I did have something to talk about I ran out of time. An observant reader might point to NaNoWriMo as the source of my busyness. However, my novel remains gloriously unwritten in lieu of a screenplay and college essays. Speaking of these essays, I'm quite pleased with how one turned out and shall probably post it shortly. (Hint: it involves my sojourn in Kansas.)

     As I have several deadlines ominously wielding machetes in the distance, I must cut this short. Good luck to my fellow senior citizens. I mean, we're seniors in high school, at least, though I suppose our lack of a career negates any retirement money we could try to claim, barring time travel, of course. Or something like that.

Concerning Fall

     Yesterday was a...day.

     So was the day before that.

     Millions of people experienced that day in different ways, sometimes crossing paths with others in the infinte spiderweb of socialization.

     However, that day, the day before yesterday was a Thursday, which is somewhat more comforting than the existential crisis inspired by the previous sentence.

     Ordinarily this information, this Thursdayness would slip by largely unnoticed, except perhaps by those who draw hope from the day's nearness to the weekend. However, the Thursday in particular rises from the mediocre deeps in that it was The First Day of Fall. Or Autumn, I suppose; contrary to popular belief, some Americans do in fact refer to the season by the latter name, instead of the more common (and more literal) first.

     Speaking of fall (and of taking things literally, I suppose), do you know how hard it was to resist beginning with a Sherlock GIF? Ah, the perks of attempting to stay family-friendly.... Surely my characters are rising up to denounce my hypocrisy of not taking the opportunity to make a violent pun. I sense pitchforks in my immediate future. Sometimes I'm afraid the figments of my own imagination, but I doubt a incorporeal being could skewer me with aforementioned farming implement. Besides, if something is fictional it can't exactly weep over the death of Sherlock Holmes. My characters have enough problems of their own to cry about, like the death of [censored for spoilers]. But I guess sometimes they do wish to tell their dead friends....

Image found on Tumblr. Sherlock is BBC property; I, an American,
claim none of it

     Great, now half the readership is hopelessly confused and the other half is crying on the floor. Spectacular job, Elizabeth.

     Let's switch from falls of the Reichenbach nature to the falls of the pumpkin spice latte nature. Which reminds me... why is that particular sort of coffee both venerated and ridiculed above all other ridiculously overpriced beverages? Sure, I would probably fight someone over pumpkin pie, but over a $5 drink saturated with 1,000,000 kilograms of sugar... I'm confused.

Disclaimer: the author has never tried a pumpkin spice latte, despite the fact that she has a Starbucks less than 5 minutes from her house. She realizes she may have offended the entirety of the internet and fears...nothing. And yes, she used the metric system even though she's a hopelessly pale American. Fight her.

    I think I'm having an existential crisis about coffee now. Perhaps later I'll pen a pseudo-philosophical rant about the cliches tied into Starbucks.

     For now, though, I'll add it to the list of things I intend to do but probably will forget about five minutes later. Whatever doesn't guilt-trip you into doing it gets put off until you forget about it. But at least this time I'm procrastinating by doing something somewhat useful, which is... probably good? Surprisingly, though, I'm not procrastinating writing an essay; actually, I've been assigned no essay this semester (yet at least). So, I decided to fill that gap in my schedule by sharing tips on how to do something I haven't properly done in... years?

     After sitting down at one's computer (an essential first step, though I shan't judge you if you choose to exercise your Right to American Freedom and Stand Tall and Proud. Or Short and Proud, depending on the circumstances), there are many ways to go about writing a paper, which I have organized into a List. I'm most certainly being productive if I'm making lists.

1. Bang one's head against the keyboard repeatedly. Let spellcheck lend some feeble sense of order to the garbled mess. Format it properly. Turn the atrocity in. Cry.

2. Copy and paste the whole thing from Wikipedia. Pray the professor hasn't heard of said website and takes you at your word. Or Word. Microsoft Word. If you dislike puns or hate Microsoft even more than you hate actually writing essays, you've probably murdered me by now.

3. Write it all at 4 a.m. the night before it's due, fueled by coffee, Redbull, and deep-seated hatred for the American education system. Is passing the class really worth it?

4. Behave like the responsible human being everyone believes you to be and start the assignment as soon as you receive it. Budget your time well. End up actually sleeping instead of crying the night away.

     Why is it that nobody, nobody chooses the last option? Are we lazy? Are we perfectionists? Are we hopeless procrastinators doomed to flunk out of college and spend our lives flipping "burgers" and protesting minimum wage laws with hopelessly misspelled signs?

     As I lack a satisfactory answer, I shall blame everything on Habits. They say it takes a month to form a habit; I wonder how many essays one could write in a month, given that Alexander Hamilton wrote...

     Wait, no; if I'm to reference the $10 founding father I must do it properly.

*deep breath*

HAMILTON. WROTE.

THE OTHER FIFTY ONE.

     I'm not remotely sorry. However, if you're here for Hamilton puns, I'm afraid you're just going to have to Wait for It.

*historical chortling*

     Besides essays and expensive coffee, fall has quite a variety of occurances to warrant the mass rejoicing over the death of summer--and, by extension, the death of mosquitoes. Warm drinks, sweaters, Halloween (a.k.a. Reformation Day, depending on which way you look at it--I wonder how hard it would be to carve the 95 Theses into a Jack-o-lantern), Thanksgiving, the Beginning of the Christmas Season, and...

     Nanowrimo.

     Time to decide which character(s) will proverbially get it.

     *devious cackling* *sudden realization and existential crisis about joking about destroying characters* *because characters carry shards of one's soul* *and to kill them off sometimes says something deep about you* *but it makes readers cry* *and sometimes makes a point* *and so we do it* *and now I need to stop before I rant for another paragraph, entirely in asterisks* *and so* *goodnight*

In Which My Computer and I are #notdead Despite Rumors to the Contrary

   
     I survived for a month.

     A month without having the luxury of being able to type out my thoughts with ten fingers.

     A month with wifi being oh so maddeningly close, yet tantalizingly unavaible.

     A month without a fully function laptop.

     A month where anything resembling writing did nothing but accumulate proverbial dust.

     A.

     Month.

     Do you want to see the math for exactly how long I was deprived? I figured out how many hamburgers Canada could produce using all its 13+ million cows; figuring out how many seconds are in a month should be a piece of cake--Beef cake. (Is that a thing? Would anyone eat a baked good constructed from the tasty remains of cattle?) But my calculator is on the other side of the room, and I don't feel like going to get it, especially since "Burn" from Hamilton is playing. Poor Eliza... ALEXANDER WHY DID YOU CHEAT ON YOUR WIFE. WHY.

Note to self: giving up on graphic design and using comic sans is always an option.
Or, of course, you could use shorter titles.
...nah.

     *ahem* Anyway, why was I without a computer for so long? Well... Essentially, my laptop emulated Taylor Swift and decided to never ever get back together with my wifi. Well, at least for the agonizingly long time of, roughly, a month. But that month has passed, and, just like celebrity relationships, the mysterious problem has vanished. The magic of the reunion is credited wholly to the efforts of my long-suffering grandfather, who is fluent the language of the computers. Meanwhile, I can occasionally garble a few phrases with the help of the quasi-omniscient Google. However, lack of reliable internet changes the search engine from quasi-omniscient to quite out of reach. Staring at the Google Chrome icon, needing answers but unable to obtain them is like wandering through the desert, the ever-present empty promise of the mirage looming so close, so close... Except when one's computer has a maddeningly mysterious problem, instead of dying of dehydration, one merely screams and defenestrates the stubborn device. I was sorely tempted to chuck my laptop in pool, but that would have merely ruined my computer, giving me only a Dell rolling in the deep (end).

     I know. I'm not sure whether I should be proud or Very, Very Ashamed.

     Anyway...one might wonder what did I do in my long sojourn without a laptop. Sit and stare at the ceiling in the grip of one of the longest existential crises I've ever experienced?

     I mean yeah, I did, but that's not all I did. Just most of it.

     Organized people tend to make lists of things they've done or plan to do. I am not an organized person, but shall act the part. Imitation is said to be the sincerest form of flattery; perhaps if I flatter the organized people enough they'll teach me their ways.

1. Milligan Fine Arts camp. 

     Ah yes; I went back. The déjà vu was real. At least this time I had some clue of what I was doing and didn't freak out about actually socializing with other humans. Well, not as much, at any rate. The introvert corner was mostly unoccupied, though I did accidentally hide in my dorm room a few times. Here, have a few of the 1,000+ pictures I took.

     This year I probably successfully confused the heck out of my teachers by registering with my first name and then going by my middle name. Also, I experienced firsthand why it's hard to convince photographers to interview people, and realized that my camera doesn't automatically turn off when I accidentally leave it on all day. The death of the battery was more tragic and unexpected than many of my characters' untimely ends. SPEAKING OF WHICH:

2. My story suddenly and dramatically switched genres.

     No, not Sylv's story; the other one I've already written twice. You know, the horrendously cliche high fantasy that I'm tempted to delete just to put it out of its misery. You know the stereotypical teenaged protagonist? The one that had unique and original and glittery healing powers? Well... she's kind of a gangster now. A smol, cheerful gangster who really likes pastel colors. How did this happen? What switch flicked in my brain to encourage switching from high fantasy to modern...um....
     Hmm.
     What genre even is it now?
     On which shelves would the zombie-like creatures of the library's night shift place this theoretical novel?
     Surely...
     Surely it wouldn't fall under romance.
     None of my characters have or ever will fall in love during the course of my stories. Ever.
     ...well...
     I mean... I do have an entire Pinterest board devoted to a, um...a pair of...two young...
     ....
     Nah. Surely it doesn't count.
     ....
     No. I'm still keeping my theoretical promise to myself. They definitely do not fall in love. No romance to be seen in this novel, thank you very much.
     Besides, it's completely one sided. The guy needs the pain of rejection in order to grow... needs it more than he needs to get the girl.
     ....
     ...wait.
     ....
     *horrified screaming*

3. My brother started a blog.

     Yes. Look. It's shiny and new and he has a better color scheme going than I do. Encourage him. http://thefledgelingphoenix.blogspot.com/

4. I missed the Sherlock season 4 trailer.

     Do I need to elaborate?

     It feels surreal...there can't be new Sherlock in the not-impossibly-distant future. It's impossible. The hiatus has consumed the BBC...there can't....I can't....

     I can't. The entire internet can't. Send help and a decent psychiatrist.

 

     I take no financial responsibility for any psychiatric bills or overindulgence in Ben and Jerry's. Perhaps a pun would lighten the mood? Prevent things from coming to that?
     *ahem* Well, Moriarty is ReichenBACK, my friends. Surely you didn't FALL for that.
     ...why is everybody suddenly crying?
     ....
     Well. Okay. Oops.
   
     Anyway. Back to quasi-seriousness.

     I don't remember what else I did (besides making fanart for my own story), so thus the list dies a proverbial death. I have been at least somewhat productive since re-obtaining the internet; the Wandering Typewriter is shiny and new and updated. Plus there's more space to organize things. Space. Heh. That was bad--hopefully not bad enough to warrant a chair being flung in my direction. Wait... Please put it down; I have characters to make suffer.

     *a dodge occurs that would put ninjas to shame. No, really--look at them cringing. Wait...you can't look...they're ninjas. Oops*

     ANYWAY, at least now I have my computer back so I can procrastinate that much more easily. The stars have truly aligned. Speaking of stars, LOOK AT MY NEW BACKGROUND I'M SO HAPPYYY :D!!!!!!

     *the excess of exclamation points fades into the nearly ever-present void of indifference that is both the internet and my facial expression, and the monologue ends, as every sentence does, in a split second of silence*

Concerning Fireworks

     *ahem*

     Last post ended with a vague picture, promising future elaboration. I do very well intend on elaborating, because the vague picture was taken from the inside of a metal tube of death an airplane taking me towards a life-changing week (in Kansas). That's all I shall say at the moment, because I'd have to get emotional in my descriptions, and, though that's been getting easier lately, I have business to take care of. Actual, serious business, in the form of three announcements.

     Firstly, the Wandering Typewriter has stooped to the clicheity of actually getting a Facebook page. *dodges the various semirotten vegetables hurled towards the aforementioned social website* I know, I know; but my friends on Facebook probably don't appreciate being spammed with blogging stuff (like I update often enough to actually overwhelm people with content), and a Facebook page contributes to some degree of Officialness. Plus it's forcing me to learn some marketing skills , which I'll need if I ever actually publish a book. And so, wade amidst the slight travesty that is Facebook, and like the page. If you will. If not, I will resign myself to a life bereft of all readers, and force my cats to listen to whatever sort of thing crawls out of my mind at 2 am (which is usually a death scene, or something my twisted self deems comedy. Sometimes the two intertwine with very satisfying results.)

     Secondly, though she has kindly linked to my blog as a source of inspiration (something I'm still shocked about), I never linked back to hers. And so, behold.

     Thirdly, I have the beginnings of an idea. Well, not the beginnings of the idea itself; more like the beginnings of the motivation I'll need to actually follow through with it. I'm considering posting some of my "actual writing", meaning writing that isn't sarcastic commentary on small life events. A...journal, of sorts, detailing the life of a certain archer. (No, not Hawkeye. Still haven't seen a Marvel film; I can't exactly write fanfiction.) Would I get an entire new variety of rotten vegetables thrown at me if I did this? Would it be anticipated with much curiosity? Would it fade into the depths of mediocrity that is the fate of much online fiction? Who knows. I care, though--and am curious as to the opinion of the multitudes.

     Aaaaaaaaaand........


     ...really? I posted two days after the Fourth of July, the Most American of holidays, and only discussed strictly dry, dull orders of business without mentioning any events? Am I hoping to mesmerize people with my mediocrities?

     No.

     Instead of actually working on my novel (or the theoretical blog-story), I created commentary from the Main Character himself. Sylvester Glass. And yes, I'm ignoring the screams of horror and continuing on my merry way. (For some reason I've started accidentally alliterating lately--I'm not sure if I should apologize or relish it. Also, to any British person reading the following: I am so sorry for any accidentally horrendous caricature. Blame everything on Sylv, even though Sylv sounds suspiciously similar to me, sometimes.)

     Fireworks. 

     It was the Chinese who invented them, the history books reemphasize, along with the tale of inimitable virtue that is George Washington and his apple tree--or was it a pear tree? I want to guess orange, but despite the heat that metaphorically slaps me in the face whenever I visit that esteemed state of America, I don't think citrus fruits can successfully bear....fruit. Eh; whatever particular variety, the wood decayed centuries ago. I'm British; I have an excuse not to care. Perhaps I should pour myself a cup of tea, in solemn remembrance of the tea you lot DUMPED IN THE BLOODY HARBOR. I think I understand the sentiment behind it, but think of all the poor souls deprived of such a life-giving commodity. What did the tea ever do to you? To be fair, the tax would incite resentment, but to take out your anger on innocent crates of the priceless leaves... Hundreds of years have passed and it still shocks and pains me to my very core. I would say soul, but Anastasia has commented on my lack of such many times.

     Speaking of which, in the fear of beginning to sound like my dear colleague Ms. Forsyth (or is it Mrs. Washington now? Eh... I suppose she's both, if you look at the time-space continuum in its unbroken wholeness), I shall return to my original topic: pyrotechnics. 

     The Fourth of July. It captures the essence of the American caricature: an excess of processed food mixed with sheer, mindless destruction. Well, that might be a harsh description... perhaps I'm just jealous. And to be fair, fireworks aren't intended to be destructive (their original uses aside). Alas, intentions fade to the pain of reality, which can be both figurative and literal in this case, as thousands are injured each year due to the (albeit sometimes unintentional) misuses of fireworks. May the poor souls of the limbs untimely explod'd away rest in peace--or perhaps I should say in pieces?

    Well, despite the excessive but expected injuries, the Fourth of July is a marvelous excuse to blow things up for the sheer joy of destruction. Well.... that probably isn't the reason for the traditional pyrotechnics... Why does one shoot fireworks on holidays? Did someone think, "Hmm..... let's celebrate these happy events by risking our lives and potential future hearing abilities! Better yet, let's spend frightful amounts for that very purpose, and hopefully disturb everyone within three kilometers while we're at it!"

     I suppose that very few indulge in this thought process when they go out to purchase the paper-wrapped gunpowder death sticks. For many, fireworks are a display of joy and thanksgiving, or a way to take out their destructive impulses without harming anything (except perhaps the silence around them). When it comes to small children, though, gunpowder might not be the best option to sate their craving for stimulation--which is why many reasonably concerned parents don't let them touch anything beyond a flaming stick that spits thousands of sparks. Oh well; sparklers are pretty--the proverb says that we can always find beauty in pain, hmm? Besides, the mysteriously semi-omnipresent coolers provide conveniently cold water for any non-traumatic burns. 

     But I digress. The Fourth isn't about gunpowder and the inevitable burns, nor is it about the surpluses of greasy but delicious, violently American food. It's about remembering how America discovered she's a strong, independent country who don't need no king. Or queen. Or DARK PRINCE. Which is why I don't live in America--I, the DARK PRINCE, know when I'm not wanted. Knowledge and action are two different concepts, however. Perhaps that's why I visit so often... more often than anyone thinks, suspects, or dreams. For there are dreams that cannot be, and storms we cannot--wait, wrong country, wrong century, wrong language. Though I suppose the flag is red, white, and blue... 

     Oh well... I shan't waste anymore of anyone's time; time to dispose of all the leftover fireworks in a gloriously violent way. Wait, that's illegal, you say? Well, so was destroying a cargo of tea and signing such an earth-shaking breakup letter; see what that disregard of laws and loyalties let to. Tragically, my bendings of the rules seem only to lead in pain, usually because someone gets overly annoyed and stabs me. Which is quite rude. 

     Farewell until our next beautifully unexpected meeting,

     Sylvester Glass
     Dark Prince of Generic'lee Fantasia

Concerning Top Hats and Sleep Deprivation

     I did it again.

     I went back.

     I learned so many things and haunted a surprisingly moderate amount of corners and realized I am very weak in that I actually sometimes need to sleep.

     In short, I went back to the BWSC.

     There I realized that the only real point of hanging around one's friends is being able to follow them around, shoot them (with a camera), and therefore end up with extraordinarily  dramatic photos which are rather perfect for blog pictures. Without further ado, then, allow me to relate the awkward and mildly terrifying experience of constantly being around 130+ people for over a week.

Image credits to @smaugerellathenotsoterrible

     Reminiscing is a bit difficult when the week passed in a blur of caffeine and lectures. I suppose it was sort of like college? Or at least the internet's portrayal of college, which I sincerely hope is exaggerated. *glances at next semester with equal parts curiosity and deep foreboding* We didn't lose that much sleep, I suppose. But the campus at which the conference was held is quite the quintessential Tennessee landscape.

     ...which means the hills waged a continual war against one's leg muscles. 

     (The would normally be a pictorial example here, but I neglected to take many pictures besides the one with text slapped on it.)

     As I am a writer as well as a homeschooler, I don't tend to...go outside much. And even if I did, it would be rather difficult to tell, as for some reason my skin remains at a cadaver-like paleness even after prolonged exposure to the death rays we call sunlight. 

     Top hats. I'm supposed to talk about top hats.

     Top hats are beautiful things. They make one look quite sophisticated (or intentionally ridiculous) with minimal effort. They are large enough to hide small objects or animals in, but not large enough to cause difficulty in crowds or doorways. (See sombreros for a theoretical example.) 

     The also can make one look quite villainous. Perhaps I'm biased due to Sylvester's (who has been taking over my thought processes lately--story for another blog post) corrupting influence, but something about the black silhouette, paired with a suit... Instant sophistication. And so many villains attempt to be sophisticated that it's almost a trope of its own. 

     Why do villains try to look sophisticated? Why is it that the man in the suit and tie and dark sunglasses (seen in every action or disaster movie) is almost universally recognized instantly as the bad guy? Is it a critique on capitalism? Is it an attempt by the villain or the story teller to disguise or contrast the ugliness of the villain's actions with the perfection of their attire? 

Image credits to @shadow.cosplay

     Meh. I think it's just to screw with people's heads. Because enough people are confused by the odd headgear to make it quite easy to carry out one's "evil" plans.

     Top hats do have their disadvantages, though. They attract notice, but sometimes that notice is slightly unwelcome. For instance, when I had to read my novel excerpt aloud and my critique group leader noticed my top hat and thought I should be the very first to go, because...

     Well.
     I can't give away everything at once, can I?
     Perhaps I shan't write about the context of the above headgear predicament, and leave all you citizens of the interwebs in manageable suspense that shan't keep you awake at night.
     Nah... I actually have emotions about said event. I'll probably write about them.
     I also probably shouldn't be so vague, but being dark and mysterious is something I strive for, even though the aforementioned event isn't anything spectacular to the outside onlooker. One hint, though....

....there's no place like home.

Concerning Wings

     But guys.
     WINGS.

     Wings are such a cool concept

    I want story that contains a society in which having wings is normal, and, being normal, are reduced to the normality of other appendages. For example, one could tap someone on the shoulder with the tip of one's wing to get their attention, since wings are usually longer than arms are and make excellent instruments of poking. Or one could work out to get stronger wings to fly longer distances. Because it takes an incredible amount of muscle power to even fly a short distance and only the fit people could likely fly very far.

     Perhaps one would have wings that match one's personality; like the nerdy professor has owl like wings. Or contradict; the macho weightlifter has sparkly pink wings.

     Just...
     Wings.

     (And no, I did not steal this from a popular Tumblr post. I'm just overly excited.)

     After abandoning the draft of this post for several weeks, I started thinking about how I apply this weird enthusiasm to a story. Thus, the obvious came to mind: fairies.

     When I was little I loved fairies. I had multiple fairy dolls, costumes, and some tiny figurines I had to use extra care with because they were just so fragile. Much like the fairies themselves. And humans, too, but we don't often realize how fragile we are, possibly because we, unlike fairy figurines, don't have breakable plastic wings.

     I firmly believed in them until I was four or five, I think. Though I stopped believing in them, I don't think I ever really stopped liking them (a short, induced tomboy stage aside). Liking my perception of them, I mean. True, I shifted interests to more "grown up" fantasy creatures and concepts--Tolkien's elves, for example. (I won an argument with my teacher once, concerning whether or not Gandalf was a Maia, bringing in the Silmarillion to back me up. But that's bragging, and a rather boring story on my end of things.)

     But why are the fairy stories always included or written towards the juvenile side of things? (Well, unless you count the side of people who actually believe in them and in magic....and produce books that reflect such things....I am not one of those people. Just a disclaimer.) The fairy legends are so dark; I don't understand why the creatures are included in children's stories as the sparkling embodiments of hope and caffeine. If one were to meet an actual fairy portrayed in many of the legends, it wouldn't be a dream come true. One would grab one's iron implement of choice or hold in shaking hands one of the plants said to repel fairies, or take the wiser route and run away screaming. (It's rather useless to bargain with or beg for mercy from the demonic embodiment of mischief.) Why are they relegated to the juvenile side of American media? (I'm looking at you, '90s-early 2000s Barbie fairy movies. WHY DO YOU EXIST, and why did eight year old me like you so much. If I watched you now it would be to mock you, unless it was the one in which Tom Hiddleston voice acts the villain. In that case I'd watch it to hear Tom Hiddleston sing. And no, that's not an endorsement. I merely wish everyone to be made aware of the fact that TOM HIDDLESTON AKA ONE OF THE MOST COMPLICATED MARVEL VILLAINS AND AN ACCLAIMED SHAKESPEAREAN ACTOR IS A VOICE ACTOR IN A FAIRY MOVIE.) Is it because our young nation lacks the centuries-in-the-brewing superstitious lore that Europe is steeped in? Have we all been brainwashed by the American media to expect pastel hyperness? Is the Illuminati hiding some key secret to the human psyche that could unravel the very fabric of the universe if it was discovered and exploited??

     Also, why is there so little variety in fairy stories (at least in America). why are there no fairy dystopias? And few modern fairy stories? (Forgive the homeschoolism if I'm missing a wildly popular book or series that includes fairies in a modern setting. Perhaps Artemis Fowl is an obvious example, but I know next to nothing about it besides the fact it exists.) Why does a human always have to save the fairy world? Why do fairies always tend to speak in high pitched voices? Why are they so darn cheerful all the time? Where are their personalities outside of cliche niches and terrible song lyrics? Why do humans have to save extraordinarily powerful magical beings from the Dark Powers? If the fairies can't handle it then why could a human, usually an angsty human teenager, possibly expect to be taken seriously? Why is everything saved through the Power of Friendship, which is the True Magic All Fairies Seem to Forget About? Why do people forget about the changelings? Why do people romanticize changelings? Why aren't there any emo fairies??

     (Wait, wait; I remembered an exception to some of the cliches: N. D. Wilson's 100 Cupboards books. Go read them. The first one's slow but the foreshadowing is beautiful. And no, I'm not getting paid to endorse it. And yet I still endorse it.)

     But that's the only series I can think of at the moment that takes an not commonly taken spin on fairies. All that's coming to mind are the memories of childhood movies and stereotypes and cliches. (Though cliches can be useful, which is a rant for another time.) I've heard these things are better in Britain--yet another reason why I should Forget About the Silly Notion of Education and Move to Scotland. Anyway, despite the fact that Sylvester's story has a deadline attached to it now, and Tinumali's story is simmering in the proverbial back of my mind, begging to be written....

     I wanna write a fairy story.