I think.

So November closes with a whoosh and a bang. Short post tonight. (but aren't they all lately??)

photo cred. kismint plinkadink 2013

  Time to Christmasize everything. Time to break out the sweaters, because yes indeed, it's turning nippy outside in the morning. Time to think about 2013, and how it's been a weirdish sort of year. I mean that in a good way. I think. I think a lot of things. Not that it goes to show anything. But it's my way to amuse myself. I play think games. Funny because I know I'm not the only one. You think too. We all think. Because God gave us amazing thinking heads. But I think that it's important for us to think about things that actually matter. I believe it could be dangerous to fill up the think tank with garbage and waste-y stuff, couldn't it? It's damaging to our minds when we don't spend out time mentally shuffling through things that matter or things that won't last.
That's all.

Goodnight now. I go to dream.
 ---But I'll probably forget the dream, so no use in asking me about it tomorrow. (December!!)

Beautifully Shattered Messes

{A Salad Bug: (aka) random midnight word crafting, usually done when suffering from insomnia or deeply inspired by an incidental source}

   IT WAS A friendly day. With birds and bees alike, abouting their businesses and enjoying the breezy morning atmosphere. If only time might stay so loving---so free. The illusion of perfection in a single piece. But too much is twisted into gnarled messes. Beautifully shattered messes. Fractured  like a vintage mirror after a slingshot mayhap.
   Down the hall, beneath the stairs, the electric blues of an echoing past rent into sundering remains still flutters, half-alive. Half breathing. Like a beached whale still clinging to mortality. It's intriguing. A mystery, breathing each clue onto scattered pages of day-old paper. Scary, frightening, like a quickening shadow belonging to nothing but the pretend monsters that chase you at night. But there is deliciousness. Sweetness from sorrow, salvation from suffering. A pinch of cinnamon-sugar atop a slice of toast. A bank of marsh mellow drifting aimlessly in hot chocolate.
   Too much? Too little? Never enough.
   Your brain ceases to see a pattern. It fails to connect. You know these are words, phrases even, but meaningless at the same time. Maybe beautiful, but senseless too. Remember the those tears that welled in your eyeballs and wet your cheeks? Remembering hurts. Remembering stings, like a thousand hornets all merciless, all mad. But you feel.
   Your eyes close. You listen. Perhaps to nothing at all. But alive in the quietness, pitterpatters of hopeful healing--they shatter silence and end all despair of the moment. It's wild. Wild enough to release a breath of relief, enough to carry you further than you'd ever hope to go.
Can you be sad and still be bubbly? Can you be burning inside and still smile brighter than ever before? I knew someone who did. I knew someone who was. I know someone who is.

(via pinterest)

   The day is over. It's dark now. Darker than before. The electric blue beneath the stairs is brighter now. There are wings. Butterflies, bountiful in numbers, are the ghosts in the house of my imagination. They sing me to sleep, as I lay fretful in my own recollection of what will never be again. But it's okay.

   Everything will be all right.

Too Cold To Fly

Spent the day sitting in puddles and making a very strange looking scene for the neighbors to see.
My brother is embarrassed for me. 
Rain makes me happy.
And obsessive.
I worked on this
all.
day.
long.
I love Thanksgiving break.



K-Minty

The Point...and Why Us Strangelings Are Really Dense

I'd like to begin this post by saying...I am a deep thinker. However, I feel more comfortable when absorbing shallower emotions because emotions are weird to me and don't make boatloads of sense.

I laugh easily, love easily, and generally find it easy to deal with what a lot of people call "life problems" because I have personally uncovered a secret that shouldn't be so secret-atized: 

We have a point. We have a reason for existence. There is hope. 

It hurts me so much when I see that people don't believe this. It stings, burns, tortures me from the inside to watch when someone can't see worth in the most priceless of things. It's a deep sort of hurt. And I have a hard time dealing with it. With it comes frustration because I honestly can't make you understand. I can never "make" you do anything.
---which, by the way, is a really good thing, because if I could it's very very likely that I would become a twisted overlord and dominate the earth.

But yeah, I haffta deal with my own frustration. Sometimes I want to facepalm because peace (and piece of mind) that comes from faith in Jesus Christ makes it hard for comprehend just how stranded and nasty you (figuratively) might be feeling. It bothers me because I have something that will help. I have something that will cure. I should be waving it in the air and shouting about it at the top of my lungs. But I'm not. I fail. I and my fellow Christians are the ones with the [literally] life-saving vaccine, but we're also the ones who are hiding it in our pockets.

I'm watching the world burn to ashes, and I'm the one with all access to the oceans.

Some people live with the notion that they will be happy.
 "Not yet, but soon. I'll be happy eventually. I'll work hard. I'll earn respect. I'll be loved. I'll have money, a warm place to sleep, and a family. I'll be able to hold my head high because of the pricetag on my shoes and the souffle in my oven. And then I will love my life. That's when I'll be content."

---Are you blind??!

 Look pal. Hate to break it to ya this way. But people are cruddy. Ever. Single. One. We are flawed. We are dirty. We are imperfect, screwed, and not one of us could stand in front of another and say without lying between our teeth:
"I've done it right. I've got no sploches on my record, no stains on my shirt."
 So do you really expect to find contentedness in another human's love, money, respect, or acknowledgement? If people are fickle, is it not rational to assume that what they give will be fickle as well? How can you argue otherwise?

We fail. We mess up. Time over time over time. We are both false and faux, therefore, our actions will be the same.

"A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, neither can a bad tree bear good fruit." 

If you think your happiness is coming from your destiny and future sucess, you may as well be expecting to get a pineapple from a cherry tree.
I'm nadda botinast, but I'm thinking this isn't gunna happen... -_-

Errm---so if that's my reasoning, it sounds like I don't believe in happiness. Apparently I'm saying humans are trash (?). I basically just blared out that there is not meaning whatsoever, and you will never find anything worthwhile.

WELL HEY NOW, I'M NOT DONE YET.

Hey now---I said there was Hope.
Hey now---I said there was Peace.
Hey now---I'm saying there is purpose, beauty, and joy.

But we know that these things do not come from humankind. Even if you didn't agree with me up there (^), I know that you're looking for something. Something...you aren't sure what it is yet. But you're always searching. Always on the look-out. You can stop, and it's eating you up. Every day it's turning you a little bit more mad. Still, you search. On and on. Quietly relentless, until you've persued everything the world teases. You have a hole in your heart. A chasm in your soul. It's wearing on you mind, and gnawing the strength in your body. You need the antidote. You need the missing puzzle piece. You'll work yourself silly, to stuff whatever the world offers into that hole. You'll do everything you can to plug it up. But nothing fits. No matter how hard you try to shove it.

And I'll tell you now. I'll tell you now. You won't find it here.

Have you ever wondered why we wonder? Animals don't wonder. Plants don't wonder. The skies and the seas---they don't wonder. They don't toil to find the filler that you and I quest for. What makes us think? What makes us unsatisfied? What makes us...us? The answer? Our souls.

"You do not have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body."

'tunes.

"Isn't if funny the way a melody sounds like a memory feels?"

As a narrow-minded youngling, I must admit to showing favoritism for a few music groups. Should music really be judged? If so, is it our place to judge it?

Probably not. But that's why I'm narrow minded.

For the past few days, I've been acclimating to waking up when it's still dark out and going to bed snuggled up in fleece blankets. These actions are things that I associate with wintertime. There are a few songs that I associate with wintertime too. But why?? I mean, sure, maybe a few of them mention something about Christmas or snowflakes or sleigh rides, but what about the other ones? What about the songs that I hear and I just think---oh. winter. yes. this one.---even as the lyrics are singing about...randomness that has nothing to do with the Yuletide. What is it in our brains that allow us to connect songs to seasons? Or am I just crazy?

---Also, why do I even bother to bring up questions that I honestly can't answer?

Questions aside, I'd like to introduce you to my winter songs (I'm sorry, I know it's not even Thanksgiving yet, but I'm getting festive, alright??). Some of them are obvious. Some not so much. Some might be stretching the winter theme a bit. But this is my playlist tonight, and I may as well share. So pull out the mittens, hot chocolate, and earbuds and listen at will. :)

 

That's all for tonight. I meant to write more, but I figure that music should speak for itself and bedtime approacheth.

Good night,

K-Minty

Endendendend...err.

I'd like to take a moment and sigh with satisfaction. FOR I HAVE FINISHED A BOOK.

This particular book was Ender's Game (*oh golly, what a surprise*), and after completing it, I can officially add this chunk of literary genius to the slowly-growing pile of stories that I have come to love very passionately. I'm not here to review, but instead, to tell you how happy I am with myself. I feel like it's been a long time since I finished a book that I set out to read on my own, for pure enjoyment, and not because my schooling curriculum told me to.

Also, the ending was a million dollar ending.

I'm kind of weird when it comes story conclusions. 
---actually I'm really weird when it comes to a lot of things, but we aren't talking about things. We're talking about books.
I like it when a book ends, but still carries a promise. A promise to the reader that indeed, life does go one after the final chapter. The character(s) remain, continue, and carry on. The overall story will never end, even if their is no complete account of it between the covers.
The final paragraph of Ender's game is exactly what I'm talking about. It gives promise. It gives the reader hope in Ender's future. He will accomplish and conquer. He still has purpose, even after the meat of the story is done and over with.

This is what our own tales are like too.
We have our moments of adventure, romanticism, moral pitches, and yet, between these flights of the epic, there is stillness. We live on.

A good book is only a single shard of a splendid story. It's only a piece, a section, a memento of the main character's lifetime. In the life, he or she may have done great things. But when it's all over---once everything is said and everything done---the character moves on. His or her time may be finished in act I, but their life continues in act II. Even though act I is where the novel might end, it doesn't mean that act II never existed.

I draw this out now because I think God is like an author. He writes our tales, inking them down, jotting them out, creating the grandest most spectacular literature of all time. And if ever we feel that our pages have ended, we can still cling to a stirring hope, and remember that the story doesn't end. Ever. Just like our own earthly fictions: It goes on.


There are a lot of things about Ender's Game that make the book worth reading. On the other hand, there are parts that aren't to worth it to read either. In spite of this, it's fast become a favorite of mine.

So yeah...
Books.
I've been making a big deal out of them lately. Hope you haven't minded. Maybe I haven't and it's just me. Maybe a lot of things are just me. Maybe just me is the only one who cares about a lot of things. But who cares if only I do?

Thank you for reading.
Drop me a comment. About books. About Christmas. About David Tennant. Not about NaNo.

Cheerio,
K-Minty

The end.

It's a common fear. 

The fear of meeting new people.

I'm talking about that moment of shaking a hand, uttering a greeting, and then having nothing but awkward silence between you and your new aquaintence.

---Okay, so I have some friends. 

Yus. Friends. I have friends. I think.

And they suffer a chronic disease. It's called greetophobia. Greetophobia is often characterized by the slurring of speech, knocking of knees, quivering heartbeat, and slight nausea that occours when approaching a stranger with the intention of saying "hello" (or some other elementary salute).

Autumnal Feelz

November is...

Hot. I go to bed with the windows open and the ceiling fan on. It's still shorts and tshirts around here, people. Funny though---we like to pretend that a high of 85 is chilly, so you'll see lots of boots and beanies out too, but it's all for show.

A time to be creative. My original NaNo plans have been squished. But I'm heading in a few different writerly directions. Also, I've been editing stuffs. 

A birthday month. Lots of cake and celebration to be had. :P

A reading month. It's good to read, and it's good to finally find time to read. Especially while cocooning oneself in a cozy blanket, even if said cozy blanket is unnecessary.

A month for music. Sometimes Death Cab for Cutie sounds Autumnish to me. At any rate, their music makes for good homeworking tunes. Try not to judge.

A month for exploration and experimentation. For example, did you know that it's okay to ditch pajamas and sleep in your everyday clothes? I've proven it to be scientific law. Also, cranberries and peanut butter go nicely together.

A time to be thankful. Especially for people. This year has been a good year for cultivating new friendships.

A time to appreciate the alarm clock. Dark mornings and early evenings make it hard to be punctual. Really bro. It's hard.

A month of movies. adfsjldfakjfd!!! Unfortunately, due to ticket prices, it looks like I'll be auctioning off all worldly belongings in order to make it into the theatre. Totally worth it though, am I right? ;D

A time of preparation. Not only for the holidays and the new year, but for faraway things too. "I live in the now, once lived in the past, but think now in the future."

(flagstaff arizona, october 2013)

Cheerio, 

K-Minty

The Critic Consumes: A Review

As the end of the year approaches, a plethora of long-awaited movies are about to be launched.
---and now I realize the irony of my subject, because it was only yesterday that I explained to you my hopes in learning to love books again just as much as I love films.

But I do love films.

As a psychoanalyzer, I enjoy the complexity of a cinema production. In a book, you have pages upon pages to sprawl luxuriously upon. You have a broad band of elasticity in which your character(s) can grow and change. There is no time limit, and your words have power only in the mind of the reader. It's up to them to formulate what you yourself have put upon the page. In a way, you are freed from that particular responsibility.
With film, the director, writers, and producers are given a generalized amount of time in which they are to present a scenario to capture interest, intrigue, and conflict that appeals to the emotions of the audience. A posse of characters have to have full development by the time your 180 minutes is up. The process of combining cast members, editors, concept artists, set designers, and hundreds of other elements to produce a sustainable piece of work that captures human emotion is outrageously complicated. All of this under a tightly belted time restraint and a budget to match. Even after completion, after each thousandth upon thousandth frame has been poured over and carefully crafted, after anticipation and commercialization, the final step in film making has nothing to do with the creators, but with the critics.
Many have undertaken the grueling task of "movie-maker", but few have anything to show for it.

I love to critique. I enjoy sifting my thoughts out, panning through the details, and formulating my conclusion over what has been presented to me. Granted, I know very little of anything and claim ownership to an extremely sophomoric outlook (haha, I just made an inside joke with myself). 

And now we get to the meat of things. I present to you, Asa Butterfield's beautiful eyeballs Ender's Game. 

i gif stuff now. gifs are cool. (props to you, ninja girl, for explaining to me how simple it was!!)

 I'll be the first to stand up on my chair and proclaim: I haven't finished the book yet. 

Because of that small particle of insight, you may want to write off this review entirely.

Ender's Game, like so many other young adult fictions, is often compared to The Hunger Games. Children fighting. Political conflict. Young-hero-must-stand-under-extreme-pressure-to-save-humankind.
To be noted: I think it would be correct (correcterer?) to compare The Hunger Games to Ender's Game, rather than vise-versa. The book was written in 1985, and is senior to Katniss Everdeen's plight by a big fat 23 years.
Timestream aside, we are left with two stories about two young people who are forced to take action and become figureheads. They are both educated in combat, warfare, and the government's sickening screwed-upness. As a result, both are forced to deal these problems using their best (but untested) judgement.

That will be where I end the parallels, seeing as their are too many perpendiculars to get in the way of any other similarities. An issue that never rests when it comes to the two "Gameses" (as I choose to call them), is the ages of the characters.
Children. Children fighting. Children dying. Children trying to be adults.
This is a main object in both books that is meant as (1) an attention grabber and (2) a way to reflect and play upon our society's feelings. Or society has a lot to say about children. Being a children myself, this is kind of weird to discuss. But when a story takes children and throws them into a place of turmoil and an adult situation, the reader/watcher/listener will be sympathetic. Emotions are sharpest of a storyteller's tools, and with them, whole nations can be moved to action. History can attest to that.

So we have young people. And because of the young people, we have sympathy. With old people (ha.), we would still have sympathy, but not as much. Also, the young readers will more easily relate, and the plot, if narrated by a juvenile, suddenly holds the a more innocent, and possibly richer, contrasted outlook.

...But whoa now, Ender Wiggin is HOW OLD?? Six years old?! Whaaaat?

say wut?

That's where we come to the first pro of the movie. They had the decency (or audacity, if you disagree) to move Ender Wiggin up a notch in the age-game, starting him out at twelve years old, and scrunching up his life. This meant packing everything into a neat little 114 minute happy meal.

Personally, and as a moviegoer, not book reader, I think this was okay. As previously mentioned, movies can't exactly afford wasted time or a stretched out plot. In a book, you might cut away clean with this, but in a movie, there's no room for it. Each minute costs money, and each minute could be your only hope of securing an attentive audience.

But I agree with the complaint argued before me---it's rushed.

see? he's obviously in a rush.

 Nevertheless, I liked having twelve year old Ender and not six year old Ender. No offense, but six year old brain childs who are capable of taking over the world are creepier than twelve year old brain childs who are capable of world domination. That is my own humble opinion.

I won't harp long on Asa Butterfield's performance, but I will say that the kid is a mad genius who has absolutely ruled the stage and screen from age ten, when he starred as lead in book adaption, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas (of which I have not read or watched, but only seen a few clips and read a few reviews). I'm serious, this kid knows his stuff when it comes to playing on the swing set of bittersweet.

...although i did miss the brit accent...

 Everybody talks about Harrison Ford. Cool guy. 'Nuff said. He played Graff the Gruff, and did his whole legendary actor thing like always.

I quickly became fond of the rest of the supporting cast too. Petra (Haliee Steinford) was pushing the fondness, as I really couldn't find it in myself to care about her character. Nevertheless, the rest of them were great and I found a place for each in my cupboard of admirable fictional characters almost immediately.

...Although Ben Kingsly's character was a little off... I mean, is he even supposed to be considered as "the supporting cast"?? He hardly made any screen time, and was not necessary in the time that he was there. I'm eager to get to that whole plot twisty-tie in the book.

Perhaps it should be mentioned that I absolutely loved Bonzo.
Bonzo is a good illustration to use in explaining exactly why I must must must see the movie before the book. 

Bonzo:

book: 

described as being good-looking, having Spanish linage, a respectable "you do what I tell you or else you'll taste blood" commander

movie: 

portrayed as a short (like, make 15 year old scrawny Asa Butterfield look like a brawny giant short), muscular, "you WILL do what I say, or else your gut will pay the price" type

As far as attitude and personality stretches---he's identical. However, if I were to read the book and then have watched the movie, I probably would have been a bit miffed at how...different he turned out physically. As it is now: WHOEVER DECIDED TO CAST MOISES ARIAS AS BONZO SHOULD BE APPLAUDED AND GIVE GREAT BUCKETLOADS OF CHOCOLATE. He did a fabulous job, and the fight scene between Ender and Bonzo was one of my very favoritest parts. 

After getting halfway through the book and looking back upon the movie, I am, like other fans, wishing that the movie might have made time for more development concerning Ender's family. 
---but that's just it. Like I was saying: there is no time. There is no time to throw something like that into this production. Process of elimination is tough stuff.

don't worry fandom, we'll make it through the lack of Wiggins-family appearances. just be strong.

Computer graphic imaging.
Mechanics of a film are pretty dang cool. Over the years, technology has allowed ordinary human beings to create something absolutely extraordinary in the line of computer graphics. This movie in particular, attempts to showcase that, in the sense that at least 75% of everything you see is green screen. That acknowledged, I'll take a moment and say props to the artists---you guys are cool, and I wouldn't mind embezzling your job one day.
However...I'd almost prefer to see...well...real stuff. The fact that there is so much green screen time almost makes me feel disappointed.

On the other hand, it makes me love the cast that much more for their vivid imaginations, as they had to play the acting game without the help of a visible set. That alone is pretty impressive.

"and over here, on this green panel, you are supposed have a great view of the entire universe..."

If you know nothing about Ender's Game, you should, at least know that it's very spacey. Like, outer-spacey (not abstract mind spacey). Outer-spacey means no gravity. And no gravity (for this film at least) means wire work. Lots and lots and lots of wire work. Every time I've ever heard an actor on interview questioned about wire work, they always answer the with the same "Oiy, those harnesses are really uncomfortable...". And yes---! They do look very uncomfortable.

 {And awkward.}

But look at how cool that can be!!

...actually, i'm fairly sure this shot is completely digital. but you get the drift.

So far I've gushed on about the coolness factor of this movie. A lot of that is because there is a coolness factor to this movie. There were some great scenes---the Ender/Bonzo fight was well done, the virtual video-game-whatever-you-call-them scenes were intriguing and impressive, and Ender's reaction to the truth at the end...all of these scenes were fantastic.

But, as with all things, there were flaws.

We've already gone over the "rushed" problem, but another issue still surfaces in it's place. There are areas---small patches, mind you---where the dialog becomes awkward. Like the script is hunky or choking out that actor's ability to deliver. It's not terrible, but it is noticeable.
Much of the script was taken directly from the book's text. Obviously, this pleases the Ender fandom, but from a purely film point of view, was this wise? I don't know. I don't know at all. It's only something to consider.
The aliens were all right, but nothing spectacular. The last scenes---no spoilers for youuuu---were interesting, but I couldn't help but think how funny it (she?) looked. I just...I don't know what to say for that either. Only that I was very impressed with Butterfield's ability to cry.

It's worth mentioning that Ender looks like he's about to burst out into tears throughout the entire movie. I was very satisfied when he finally did. (also, there was snot!! :D lol...another inside joke...)
But even with that portrayal of emotion, one can argue that there is no way an actor could show the audience all of the different raging emotions going on under Ender's cool. I agree completely. And yes, it's much much harder to show rather than tell. Just like it's harder to see rather than hear. Ender doesn't verbally share his feelings---at least, not usually---instead, you have to see the emotion acted out on the slight.

I can't say that I enjoyed watching the simulation scenes nearer to the end as much as I enjoyed viewing Ender's experience at battle school that was presented at the beginning. I guess I just wasn't that interested in watching a massive game of battleship going on in deep dark space. But I'm sure, absolutely positive in fact, that I'm not the only one who wishes they could have a simulation system that epic. 

neato.

I've spent my words of review not debating over the morality of the idea that exists in the story, but instead, on the mechanics that went into it. The morality is a whole different sort of slice of cake.

There are a lot of things left to say on the subject of Ender's Game concerning both the book and the movie. Yet again, I remind you that my ramblings on both are short-sided, as I still need to finish the book and have seen the film only once. Also, there are have sequels to look forward to (which is why the ending of this movie felt suspiciously like a feeder into another shot at plot). 

I don't understand why this adaption is getting such a low rating. Surely it deserves at least three out of five stars. Yes, there are people who have given it such, but as far as I can tell, the majority of viewers have attested to being underwhelmed. Perhaps Ender's Game as a film will never be able to stand on it's own two feet while under the yawning shadow of the novel upon which it is based. 

Is it good enough to fall in love with? Or is it just another space movie made by people who have too much fun with their computers? 

Watch it and see. I dare ya. It sticks with you after the credits have rolled in. And it might just leave you speechless.

 “In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them.... I destroy them."

Weak Knees

 Let's talk. (hopefully you already know what NaNo---err, NaNoWriMo---and their young writer's program is. otherwise none of this will make any sense. visit the NaNo YWP site here to become an informed human being.)

NaNo is important to a lot of people. But instead of diligently participating in it, I'm blogging. Blogging is important to a lot of people too. So which is more importanter? Depends on your Plot.

Plot and I do not get along. We squabble and bare our teeth at one another, and have lots of hissy fits between ourselves. Plot never follows along, always lags and pretends to be squeamish. She also never accumulates the smarts to get anywhere in life. On the other hand, she argues that I am to passive, lack any confidence whatsoever, have a severe depletion of patience, and have possession only of the very dimmest bulbs for brains.
We have no chemistry, no common ground, and no desire to work together.

Because of this I've come to a deadly conclusion. I am not a novelist.

I don't like to give in, give up, or get out. And it's against everything in me to give up on [ywp] NaNo. Weird though---It's not the word count that's choking me out this time. Nawww, I can spew a lengthy vocabulary whenever I so choose (well...okay maybe not, but adequate for a measly 25,000 goal). Wordiness is not the issue.
In fact, I won't say that I'm giving up, because I'm not. Exactly. I'm just frustrated. Frustrated because I've tried so many directions, and made the same amount of progress in each one of them.

---that is, roughly, no progress at all.

I've had so so very many false starts, and now I fear---yes, I really do mean that I'm afraid---that I will never finish anything. Ever. Or even worse, that I will never finish anything that I'm proud of.
I once heard someone, a real novelist I think, say something along the lines of: "When writing a book, make sure you fall in love with it. That way, when the editing gets rough and your work becomes boring, you'll still love it enough to want the final result."
(okay, so that was completely paraphrased, but you get the drift)

I don't love what I write.
In fact, I loath it's guts. All of the guts. Each story's gut ever.

I look at it, read it, analyze it, and hardly a moment passes before I roll my eyes and say: this. is. trash.

Here's the thing boys and girls, I know everyone has these moments. We are all such harsh critics on ourselves and sometimes we all deserve a break and we're supposed to stop bahumbuging. I'm a pessimist and I know it. I know all of this. There is no need to attempt to pull me from my slough of despair. I'm happy just wallowing in here with my fading self-esteem for my only company. That's perfectly cool with me.

But no matter how many times I hear tales of other novelists struggling with the same crashes and pulling through, I need you to know: I am not them. Nor is my Plot theirs (which is sad and upsetting because their Plots came out all nice and decent, whereas mine is just scowling at me, and chewing up the furniture, and rubbing my hopelessness in my face).

This is all hard to chirrup on about, mostly because I know that this will pass, and I'll be on the road of pretend novelism again. I cycle about like that. As long as I can remember, I've always drunk deep into the cider of storytelling. It stings a little to realize that I am a million miles away from becoming a good storyteller myself.

Returning to NaNo...I really don't know what to do. I'm drawing a blank, because I know one or two things about how December 1st might feel.

SCENERIO NUMBERO UNO: if I do end up winning NaNo '13, there will be a few bragging rights handed to me, but the 30,000 words that took up the space of 30 days will be some of the worst any human being could have ever jumbled together. These words will then proceed to sleep soundly in dusty file deep down in my cyber documents and never again see the light of day. That is, until I'm old and feeble and decide to take a trip down the chutes of my childish literary play. (annnnd, I rhymed -__- )

OR: I could put my foot down, squish my current wordplay itinerary, and go off on a mystical quest to capture a new (hopefully better behaved) Plot to domesticate and call my own. The downsides to this include
- the fact that I have tried this many times and never succeeded
- the fact that feral Plots are not housebroken

But wait! There is always a third door, right? I mean, if you don't like the door to the left, nor the door to the right......that's when you break out the TNT, yeah?
And so, option number three is to do none of these things. Instead, we pull a whole new spin on it.

I stop writing. And then read.

I want to crunch books. I want to gobble them up, and enjoy their many different flavors. I've been trying to do this for some time. But the reading is slow and droopy, and the homework hinders, and for some reason, I've developed a tooth for movies and filmy stuffs and such.

But if I read, that's like putting words into my head, right? And if I write, that's like taking the words out of my head, and lining them up in neat little columns through osmosis of the fingertips, correct? I hope I'm right. I hope that one will squash with the other, and once those two processes are assembled like a PBJ, the author will able to share her story effectively and effortlessly.

And so these are my thoughts. You've now read them and you're probably not understanding any of me. But that's what I have to say tonight. Or rather, this morning. I'm only half-conscious when I write these things, you know.

And so I will read.
And write.
And blog.

Cheerio, {and it's nice to be back}
K-Minty