Grateful for Creative Frenzies

I'm currently going through a phase. I do this a lot.

I get exposed to something new and I like it and I really like it and I obsess with it for a while.

Last summer, I went and watched the Avengers. As much as I possibly could, which ended up actually only being twice, but anyway, I watched it more than I've ever watched any movie in the theater. And I went and dug around and found Internet fanbases and screamed with my friends over it and obsessed over it and bonded with my little brothers and father because Avengers I mean who doesn't?

But it was more than that.

I found stories and philosophy and hopes and dreams and little things that you only see for half a second, but behind that there's a 243 page novel waiting to tell the story behind it.

And I did something about it. I didn't just sit there and drown in all my feelings and stuff, I got actual usable creative ideas and stuff and I did something about it. I wrote two full-length novels. In less than a year. Because in part, I was inspired by the art and storytelling behind the Avengers and Joss Whedon.

It's this feeling, and I don't know how to explain it, when ideas come. First it's just an idea, and lots of people get that. Sometimes it stops there, and you never ever get that idea again. Sometimes that idea comes back, and sometimes you act on it early on. Sometimes you act on it later, sometimes you just never get around to doing it.

And sometimes you get a feeling that's so insistent you have to drop everything and do it now and then you do and it clicks and everything falls perfectly into place. Then it's done and you're exhausted and you look at it and you're proud of it.

I'm doing it again. It's slightly different, but it's coming again.

Almost a month ago, at the beginning of February, one of my besties decided she really needed to introduce me to One Direction because it's apparently the greatest thing in the world and I need to listen.

So I did. And watched lots of music videos and interviews and stuff just sitting on her couch talking about stuff. And I was surprised. I liked it. It's not like Avengers, where I had been looking forward to this for months and it was finally here and everything I ever could have wanted, this was a group I had consistently made fun of for a while now and the only song I ever had actually listened to was "What Makes You Beautiful"and that doesn't really count.

One Direction was the Mr. Darcy to my Lizzie Bennet, in the sense that my preconceived prejudices were suddenly and methodically smashed and I found myself liking something I had loudly proclaimed that I would never ever like, not in the sense that they saved my little sister from a scandal and then proceeded to marry me and we lived happily ever after. (Let's be real, that would be really weird. Not to mention illegal. There are 5 of them.)

Anyway, I really really really like One Direction. The music, the boys (ok, five cute British boys, cut me some slack here.) and just... yeah. I mean, yeah, there is the fanbase of like 14 year old girls who sometimes can't spell and post over and over and over how much they LOOOOVVVVVEEEEE ONE DIRECTIONNNNNNNN but we all did that when we were 14. There's also the fanbase of slightly older girls (and some guys maybe) which is nice.

I listen to it a lot and Daryl and I fangirl a lot and my little sisters and even some little brothers all like it and we dance and play and have fun, which is something I haven't been very good at doing, finding things both me and my little siblings like, but now we have something.

Like Avengers, One Direction isn't just boy band pop music.

It's friendship and youthful exuberance and music and stories and romance and bromance and a sense of building up and looking for the good things and hopes and dreams and sometimes sad and sometimes happy and humanity. Music exposes the raw humanity of people in a way that no other medium can.

They are yes, sometimes ridiculous. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. We all need something to make us laugh. Something to make us smile. Life is ridiculous.

And I soaked it up like a sponge. I wanted to sing again.

I wanted to sing again. After almost a year of being sick and tired of singing and performances and just stopping, I wanted to sing again.

I've started getting fresh ideas for stories, and I'm writing things.

I started gaining new enthusiasm for arranging songs on my harp, culminating in last night, when I rounded up my siblings and made us all work on an arrangement of "Come Thou Fount" for harp, flute, and recorder. And I finished the arrangement. All in one night.

I've felt happier, and I've been putting in more of an effort to notice the little things that make life the way it is.

I'm singing again and I'm happy about it. I don't really know if I can emphasize this enough.

I know you can't completely attribute this to the fact I've been obsessing with One Direction for the past few weeks.

My bigger point, the point in this post and the title, is that, like the phrase "You are what you eat," your art is what you put into yourself.

I saw that the summer and months following after I watched the Avengers. I see it now with One Direction. I saw it years ago with Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings and Rush and all the other art forms I have taken in that have influenced me. It's in my classes, in what I read, what I watch, what I listen to, who I hang out with. It's my church. It's my family.

It can be good. It can be bad. And you can only make those judgments for yourself.

I used to think creativity was just a lightbulb moment, something that just happened and that was it, you were creative or you weren't and art happened just because you got lucky.

But it's more like a river. You gather all these things from the little streams of influence you have, and they culminate inside you, and then sometimes things flow from you that are wonderful and beautiful and amazing and completely made up of what you had inside, which is both the uniqueness that is you and everything you put inside you.

Creativity is the river, and art is what floats to the top.

And I am so grateful to live now, in a time where information and ideas can be easily disseminated. Where I can watch a movie about superheros flying around the Earth and fighting in New York City. Where I can listen to British boy bands and read books from Canada and talk to people in the Philippines.

Where the words of a young adult from Hawaii can have an impact on someone she doesn't even know.

I'm grateful I can get these things, and I'm even more grateful that people made these things and did these things. We forget how much power and impact we have on people when we do things.

Thank you.

You might be a writer if...

I've had this conversation so many times. I'll be talking to a friend about something I'm writing, and I'll say something so completely out of the normal and bizarre that really, you would only understand if you're a writer.

One day I got curious, so I asked around: What hallmarks a writer?

It turned into this:

You might be a writer if...

you look at everyone you meet as potential characters in your next novel.

you wouldn't mind going to prison so long as they give you enough pencils and paper. (personal note: and Internet. I use the Internet a lot for research and stuff when I write. But that's just me.)

you don't remember important things but remember random details.

your margins are filled with doodles, one liners, and notes.

murder is a completely normal conversation topic.

you mumble dialogue to yourself.

you worry someone was watching you make all those weird expressions as you write.

you always use proper grammar and punctuation even in text messages. (personal note: but not tweets. Twitter is too small for always perfect grammar. But I do try.)

your thoughts sound an awful lot like prose.

the phrase "guess who I decided to kill" does not alarm you.

you can hold a conversation for hours and hours about people who don't exist.

you know a bunch of random name meanings.

you have the emotional range of a teaspoon. (personal note: I would disagree with this one, I have a very broad emotional range. I think all writers have to to some extent to be able to write well. Just might not be so good at expressing it not on paper.)

you spaz over every character death.

you've written more plotting and world building in your head than on your computer.

you talk to yourself and find your fingers moving as if they were typing on a keyboard. (personal note: I also have this problem with music and playing an invisible piano.)

truthfully speaking, the characters in your stories mean more to you than most of your "friends" on Facebook. (personal note: budding writers, real people are more important than fiction. remember that.)

you spend your free time plotting murders. (personal note: this keeps coming up. i'm sure writers do more terrible things than kill fictional characters. we're just more blatant about murders, i guess.)

you get distracted at the checkout, thinking about how you could write the cashier's interestingly shaped nose onto your next villan.

you write.

This is the Life we Lead.

Last week, I had the chance to get together with some fabulous friends and not only make new friends, but also get some free pancakes.

These are my new friends, just having an awesome time with pancakes. Note the multicolored syrup. The most important reason this picture exists.

Anyway, before we even got to Ihop and the mall, we got to ride all cramped together inside a tiny car and get to know each other very well, right up to the moment we drove past the stoplight where we were supposed to turn to get to the mall. Nobody realized it until some time later, at which point we had to turn around and go back.

Once there, we were told we would have to wait, as Ihop was super packed, and so we had some time to kill. We wandered for a while, eventually coming upon this in an Icing store.

This and other 50 Shades of Grey merchandise were on display, front and center of the store. We spent quite a bit of time looking at all the things and being collectively horrified that it existed.

Then, it being a long car ride, the girls all went to the restroom in the obligatory pack. When we came out, we couldn't find Matt anywhere, and rejoiced in our being faster than the single man in the group, when he came around the corner and we realized that we didn't beat him.

Back to waiting in front of Ihop, and we overheard this conversation between two boys.
"You suck at getting the girls to Ihop, man!"
Matt, always quick on the upbeat, said his bit: "Another resume skill."
Which, I might add, Matt had, not only taking his wife, but also three other girls to Ihop. Exactly what al the employers are looking for.

Our conversation continued as we waited, and I enjoyed it throughly. There's always something to be certain of when meeting new people, and that is the opportunity to hear new stories you hadn't heard before. I love hearing stories about people and their lives. I love telling stories about my life and stuff. In the course of our stories, not only did we come up with a new way to get rid of dead people (hint: it involves eating them) but we revisited some of the stuff that went on last year, Kony 2012, the presidential election, so forth. We talked about almost everything, and seemed in danger of waiting forever in awkward silence until finally we were seated.

So there we were, all seated with menus, and faced with making a decision. What did we want to eat? Other than the free pancakes, of course. Our server, the dearest person, dealt with us with the utmost patience, which was even more rewarding, concerning the fact that they were severely understaffed, for whatever reason that was.

Which brings up the question, why wasn't it staffed enough on National Pancake Day? Poor people who had to work by themselves.

Anyway, we were completely unable to decide what we wanted, so we asked her if we could just get our pancakes and we could decide something else afterwards. She agreed, and our hunger was rapidly satiated as we devoured our sweet, sweet, pancakes.

After we finished eating our pancakes, we found ourselves craving salt. So we got bacon and french fries and ate them all. When we finally finished, we went to go pay our bill, and discovered our wonderful server didn't charge us anything. At all. It was amazing, and with the store in the condition it was, surprising. With this amazing act of kindness, we decided we would split what we were gonna pay in between her tip and the charity she asked us to donate to. It was nice to see her face light up when we handed her both the charity envelope and the tip. It's nice to make people feel nice for the kindness they give to others.

Then it was back into the little car for the long drive home at night. Once we got back, we were turning down the street, and we saw someone out in their yard in the dark, and they had a fireknife out, looking like they were about to practice.

"Is he gonna fireknife?" Sydney asked, astonishment in her voice.
"I think so," I said.
Matt quickly pulled over the car and we sat there in silence, watching his amazing performance. When he finally finished, we applauded and cheered, and then were on our way.

It was a good night, spent with great friends, food, and fun. As Sydney noted as we drove home,

"This is the life we lead. But it's a good life."

A Short Story: Part 3-The End

Part three of my short story. You can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

They fought the wave of soldiers that attacked them as they attempted to make their way to the throne room, where the main brunt of the attack was.

“There he is!” James heard a rough call among the enemy. “The man who escaped!” He saw Thomas, who had heard the call as well. His face was pale and worried, but he didn’t have time to think about that, for as soon as the call was heard, he was overwhelmed with all the soldiers attacking him, he was fighting for survival.

“James!” Thomas cried, trying to reach him.

Someone grabbed James from behind, and he gave a choked cry.

“I’m gonna slice you to pieces,” a harsh voice whispered in his ear. “Then you’ll be able to see your lovely wife. Did you like the work I did on her? No marks, no blood. But she’s dead all right.” James felt a blinding pain in his side. “Give her my regards.”

James felt the man let go of him, and he fell to his knees, pain washing over him. The man walked away from him, coming at Thomas from behind.

James gritted his teeth. “No…” Slowly he pulled himself up, crying out as his pain threatened to overwhelm him. Thomas turned.

“James!” His face was pale, and he pushed past everyone, rushing to his brother’s side.

“Thomas,” James whispered, sweat beading on his forehead. “It’s him, he’s the one who killed Jessica…” The man was getting closer. “Thomas…”

“What man? Who?” Thomas asked. “James… are you hurt?”

“Just like you will be,” the man said, grabbing Thomas.

“No!” James forced himself up, feeling adrenaline pumping through him. He might have gotten his wife. He might have hurt him. But there was no way he was going to let this man kill his little brother. He ripped Thomas out of the man’s grip, and then stabbed the man’s heart, killing him instantly. The man stood for a moment, bleeding, then collapsed.

“James!” Thomas grabbed his brother. He was pale. Thomas couldn’t see any blood, but he could tell James was hurt, severely. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

James shook his head. “No, I’m not going to make it.”

“What are you talking about?” Thomas asked. “Of course you are.”

James shook his head again, his breathing ragged. “Go. Save yourself.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Thomas said, tears in his voice. “I lost you for five years. I lost Jessica. I’m not losing you again.”

“No, Thomas… It’s too late for me.” He grabbed his brother’s hand. “I’m sorry. For everything. Tell Father I wish…” he pause, gasping. “I wish this had all turned out differently.”

Tears streamed down Thomas’ cheeks. “Me too, brother.”

“Thomas?” he asked.

“What is it?”

“Do you think I’ll see Jessica?”

“Yes,” Thomas reassured him. “I’m sure you will.” James couldn’t see the pain on Thomas’ face as he spoke.

James smiled, his eyes distant. He squeezed his brother’s hand. “Then don’t let this be a goodbye, brother. I’ll see you again.”

Thomas was silent, holding his weakened brother in his arms.

“Remember not that I left, please,” James asked. “But remember that I came back.”

“For Jessica.” Thomas whispered.

James shook his head. “For my family.” He closed his eyes, and silently his breath left him.

Thomas continued to cry, then bent and kissed his brother’s forehead. “Goodbye, James.” He stood and carried him to the room where Jessica lay. He lay his still form next to hers, then stood and left.

If he had stayed and looked at them, Thomas might have noticed that if he looked closely enough, it looked as though James and Jessica were sleeping, finally together again. 

A Short Story: Part 2

In lieu of keeping up with publishing these things when I'm supposed to be reading things for my International Law class, here is part 2 of my recently written short story. If you missed Part 1 (which I would recommend reading first, or again before you read this) you can find it here.

Here is part 2.

~5 years later~

James burst into the room, sword in hand. He saw Jessica’s still form, collapsed on the floor.

“No…” he moaned, dropping his sword and rushing to her side. He felt as if his world was collapsing inward. “Jessica, no, please…” He picked her up, smoothing her hair out of her face. She was so still.

“I didn’t find my way back to you for this,” James whispered, a lump in his throat.

Jessica remained unresponsive; her beautiful body limp in his arms. Tears slowly streamed down his face, and he kissed her cold cheek. Gently he set her down.

“James?” a voice came from the doorway behind him. He turned and found his little brother, Thomas, standing in the doorway.

“Thomas,” James’ voice choked up. He had grown up since James left. The little Tommy was now almost a man.

Thomas stepped inside. “James, what—“ his eyes flickered to Jessica’s still form, and he stiffened, paling. “What happened?” his voice was harsh, rough.

James fought back tears. “I was too late.”

“What did it?”

“I don’t know, I got here too late.”

“James. What killed Jessica?” Thomas’ face was dark.

“I don’t know!”

Thomas growled, punching the wall.

“I came in here, and she was collapsed on the floor, alone. She wasn’t breathing, and there wasn’t a pulse.” James paused, eyes narrowed. “You promised to protect her, Thomas. Where were you?”

“I was protecting her,” Thomas spat. “I was fighting the men who followed you here.”

James bowed his head.

“We were getting overwhelmed. We still are—and now they got what they want,” Thomas said, his jaw clenched. “You’re back and she’s dead.” He glared at his older brother, unshed tears glistening in his eyes.

James felt some measure of pity for Thomas. “Thomas…” he began, but was cut off.

“Why did you come back?” Thomas asked. “Why did you have to come back now?”

James stood up. “I made a promise, Thomas. I promised Jessica I would come back. For her.” His voice was dreadfully quiet.

“She’s dead, James! She’s dead because you couldn’t be bothered to be a little more careful while you were escaping!”

Anger boiled through James’ veins, and he quickly slapped his little brother across the face. “Don’t you dare speak like that to me. I was careful.” He glanced at Jessica. “Even I’m not perfect. I lost my wife.”

“You didn’t just lose a wife.” Tears stood in Thomas’ eyes. “I lost a sister. She’s all we’ve had for the past five years.” He turned away. “And now she’s gone.”

“Where are you going?” James asked. He was startled by how raw his voice sounded.

Thomas turned around to face him. “To go fight. We’re still being attacked.” He paused. “Are you coming?”

James hesitated.

“Staying here isn’t going to bring her back,” Thomas said softly. “But answers are out there.” He opened the door. “And I intend to find them.”

“Thomas!” James called.

Thomas stopped.

James put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let’s go.” 

A Short Story

I recently wrote a short story, mostly while I was putting off writing papers for class. Or reading things for class. Or practicing things for class. Or sleeping. Things like that. But only for like a day, because it is a short story.

Anyway, I've decided to present it in three parts, so here goes nothing.

Part 1

He looked at her.

She lay there, her dark auburn hair framing her pale face. Sighing, he sat down beside her. She didn’t even stir. Slowly, he wiped the tears that had formed in his eyes away.

“What’s the matter, James?” she asked, sitting up. James marveled at her. Somehow, she always knew when he was upset, even when he didn’t want to admit it.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He took her hand and squeezed it gently.

“How am I supposed to not worry about my husband?” she asked, resting her head on his shoulder.

At her words, James felt tears begin to prick his eyes again. He quickly turned his face away. He couldn’t bear the guilt that overwhelmed him. “Jessica…” His voice was choked. He felt her touch his arm, worried. “They want you back.” He felt her hand tighten around his arm.

“What?” James could hear the fear in her voice, tense, sharp.

“They’re claiming we kidnapped you, forced you to marry me.” James could feel his throat tighten even as he spoke. He turned to face her again. “They gave an ultimatum.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“They want you back… or me in your place.”

“No…” she whispered. “James, no!” Tears began to fall down her cheeks.

“I have to do this,” James whispered to her. “Our country can’t afford a war right now.”

“You can’t leave…” Jessica said. James felt his heart breaking as he watched her. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d survive,” he said, touching her cheek. “You’re not going back there.”

“James…”

“Don’t.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth. “It’s done.”

Jessica sniffed, stifling her tears. “I really do love you, James.”

“I know,” he smoothed her hair down her back. “And I love you too.”

She kissed him then, her lips brushing his, somehow holding them together with a soft touch.

“Promise you’ll come back to me,” Jessica begged.

“You won’t be alone forever,” James promised. “I’ll find a way back.” He held her close to him, her slim frame fitting perfectly in his arms.

They eventually fell asleep like that, clinging to each other, and neither of them let go until the sun came up.