My Daily Schedule

I guess you might wonder what writers do with their days while normal people are out working normal jobs. Well, if it's not obvious already, we write.

Actually, very little of my time is spent writing. I talk on the phone a lot, I read books, and I pick on my cat. Today I have had my laptop on for about three hours, and I have organized about two thousand words.

Hint the word 'organized.' I only wrote about five hundred today, but I found some writing I did awhile ago and added it to my new novel. That's why it's great to write every day, even if it's going nowhere. Sometimes, it ends up fitting in with your story.

This morning, my cat woke me up at six. I carried him out to the kitchen, made a big pot of coffee, and took a shower. I then read Good Housekeeping magazine, put on some mascara, and started the laptop.

I surfed the internet and wrote one or two sentences until eight, when I turned on Good Morning America. I watched and wrote, alternating until nine, when I answered a phone call and ate some cookies. Then I got back to work.

I don't do much in summer except writing. School is different. I write during class, in every class, throughout the day. I never stop writing when I am faced the responsibility to do something else.

Ugh, homework.

Seeing how today is my last day of summer before I start school again, I'm using it well.

Alice is coming over! YAY!

I Will Never Sympathize With Stupid Teenagers

 

There is a terrific thunderstorm outside, so I've taken it upon myself to light some candles and write naturally. Except for the whole laptop thing.

I was pretty upset today when I heard one of my teenage friends advertising how he got to go buy stuff from a liquor store. Like, come on. You aren't even close to the legal age.

And he put pictures of what he bought in his blog. While, in my blog, I have pictures of novel covers. Like I am making right now.

I do have to say, I'm giddy about it. Me and Alice's novel-- still Untitled as of the moment, is halfway done. It's beautiful, actually. I've gotten a little into it, so I downloaded a free trial of Corel Paint Shop Pro Photo X2, and I am going to make a cover. I'm super happy. We are putting on photos of our ideal main characters... Blake Lively and Nick Jonas.

Or at least, my ideas of the main characters. As Alice suddenly stopped IMing me as we were deciding.

But whatever! I feel creative.

Studying Writers. Like Meg Cabot, I mean.

Okay, I was reading Ready or Not by Meg Cabot, and in the first two pages... there are about six of these.

"_____________________. ____________, I mean."

I love Meg Cabot. She is my favourite writer. But she is always saying .. I mean. It's starting to get a little annoying. As much as I love you Meg, BAN THAT WORD FROM YOUR VOCABULARY. Mean, I mean.

Long Time, No Updates!

So I abandoned the blog a little because I started writing a new novel. Around halfway in, I realized the novel had the same idea as The Uglies by Scott Westerfield. Considering I never even heard of that book until today, it made me pretty mad. How often do we come up with ideas that someone else has already taken?

The answer is always.

So you fell in love with your bestfriend's boyfriend/fioncee/husband etc. That's already a book, or more than one. There's many actually.

If you are in desperate need of an idea!, which most writers are who are like me, and not Alice... because Alice comes up with an idea or two everyday. Except she always abandons her novels for her new ideas... again. And again. And again.

I, nevertheless, can write a whole novel without getting a new idea. Then I wait for the next one. So, if you are like me, and still want practice but suck at ideas, try this.

Write out a scene from your favourite movie. Pick a scene, any scene, and describe it as if it was a novel. You know how some writers say "my books are so vivid to me, like a movie in my head." Pretend this is your movie. And write.

THE HOST COMES OUT TODAY

Hello world. The Host has been released. And I have little tolerance today, so I might just Take Things Out On The People Who Look Alike Because They Have No Brainpower.

Because, hello? They assume everything I write is about them. Which-- it's not. Sucks for them, I guess. If I write one thing, they are quick to make a comeback to it saying how I am the scum.

I have another word of advice for you people.
Do not aggravate an artist. That includes writer, artist, painter, actor.. etc. Writers (like me and probably some of you) get very angry when you diss them. Sometimes they get so angry they go out and write a whole story about a plan for revenge. (like me) Sometimes when you piss off a writer you can expect yourself to wind up in novels.

It's bad enough I have these people on my back, but writing stories help. I also have to deal with the fact that my friend, Rena, broke up with her boyfriend. AGAIN.

No, really. I know she is sad and everything -- BUT WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?

Poetry

Well lately I have been writing alot of poems, mainly for the reason that they are simple. A simple poem can inspire people the same way a good novel can. Sometimes I've been turning my poems into songs, and my rock band plays them. Poems are a different medium to experiment with.


The Story of a Poem (Narrative Poem)


Prepared to ridicule himself, this fool
Is guarded against the jibes
Of those he thinks less inclined to self-criticism.
How then is he to gauge his faults
And turn them into something worthwhile?

How can he define his foolishness
If uncertain as to the extent of his limitations?
How can he begin to accept the advice of others -
'Go jump! ' 'Take a good hard look at yourself! ' 'Grow up! ' -
If he isn't prepared to be objective?

Unprepared to accept objectivity as objective
'I know what I know', he spouts
Ill-mannered, inconsiderate and obstinate.
How is he to assume the more demanding role
Of the one being spoken to?

No words, it seems,
Can convince him of his stupidity.
No words, that is,
Except his own.
Um.... ah.... um.... a poem takes form.

Ironically, loneliness is his theme
Nothing else can say what he wants to say.
Happiest is he, when miserable
Exposing his misery for all the world to see.
No one, it seems, is quite as miserable as he.

He takes care not to say too much
In case,
To make his point
He admits (in the mode of a tragic figure)
That there is nothing to say.

Logically, 'there is nothing to say' explains
His actions
Although failing to describe
What bothers him.
It seems that that can only be other people.

In them, real feelings express themselves
And a challenge presents itself for him to understand them
No matter
It is they not understanding him
That concerns me.

As querulous as it may sound
It is their obsession with 'reality'
That he objects to.
No amount of persuasion can convince them
That his feelings are real.

'Such as absurd notion demands an explanation'
He hears them say, but he is only prepared
To go on dreaming -
Observing others observing him
Observing them.

His sincerity
Isn't expressed in conventional terms.
Unbeknownst to them, he cares
And unknowingly they add to his suffering
As they refuse to acknowledge his feelings.

His suffering -
A product of a trivial pursuit
For universal meanings -
Is compounded by those who think him
Lacking.

***

Lacking in those human qualities
He most desires
He turns to someone, who,
Without her knowing,
Possesses them for him.

Kindly, she admits him -
Herself lacking the assurance
To comprehend the extent of his need.
She feels for him
As one would a child, an innocent, a poet.

His feelings exist in her eyes,
And his failings form
His 'uniqueness' -
A reason
For loving him.

Sufficent reason, in itself,
For him to love her.
Nevertheless he feels
An even greater need
To justify his feelings.

Their differences,
His reliance on her
And, equally,
Hers on him
Need explaining.

As others see it
Their differences contain the germs of disunity,
And in their interdependence, signs of submission.
Again they see things in 'real terms'
Neglecting to take into account the power of the imagination.

She isn't what she appears to be
Her beauty transcends experience
With all pain absorbed in her -
He shares in her happiness
And is privy to her sensitivity.

She instills in him a new faith,
Another reason to write -
A belief in humanity.
This is what he must explain
To those who think him foolish.

But he remains aloof
Barred by a certain quirk in his character -
Whenever he tries to be serious
He gives the impression
Of being insincere.

When he tries to explain his feelings
It's as if he is the one
Who needs to be convinced -
His new found faith seems void
Without someone else to believe it.

Yet people want to listen
And give him the chance he's been looking for -
The chance to prove himself to them.
They're not heartless,
And would rather not judge anyone unfairly.

The truth is, however,
That he is such a fool
That he needs to hear his own words
From someone else's mouth
Before he can believe them.

I've Been Away..

My internet has been basically as screwed as Mia in Princess Mia by Meg Cabot. I love Meg Cabot, and I have been reading her books since I was nine. I've learnt about things I probably shouldn't have when other girls my age were riding bicycles and drawing cats. I've always been different. But yeah, my internet sucks. I wanted to try Mobile Blogging, but my cellphone is about as dumb as... these stupid similies.

Get my drift?

Anyways, it's bad enough I don't even live in the U.S, which adds to my dumb you-can't-mobile-blog-from-your-phone situation. So, I must live with what I have... and go chill at an internet cafe or something.

Speaking of Meg Cabot, her new book Airhead is coming out on May 13. I am so excited. Seriously, I've become almost as obsessive with writing fan fiction for this novel, than I am for hisgoldeneyes.com. Which, I may add, has the update on Twilight The Movie information 24/7.
For example, THE TWILIGHT TEASER WILL BE BEFORE THE MOVIE SPEED RACER!

Which is reason enough to go, for me at least.

Signed, Reading Roxanne