On George Orwell's "Why I Write"

(This may give people some insight into how crazy I really am...)

Upon reading this selection by Orwell, I’ve been able to draw a good amount of parallels between us. Both he and I began to story-tell and to write from a very young age, and very few works are left over from that time period. We both have imagined our own lives as someone’s story, and begun to narrate it in our own minds as though we were writing it ourselves (which, it could be argued, I suppose we both were). Something that differentiates us, though, is that I have always known that I wanted to write, and never tried to deny the fact. Writing is something that has always come naturally to me, something that I have always cherished as a part of who I am. Writing itself has been a constant companion to me throughout my young life, and I anticipate will be for the rest of it.

There are many reasons that I write what I write, and the reason varies depending on the genre that I am writing. When I write my pieces of fiction, usually it is because some character or other has entered into my mind and walked around long enough to make a home there, thus inhabiting in my mind a space to set out their life, their background, their story. There is a particular room in my mind, painted a red-brown color with deep-stained bead-board on the walls, furnished with a simple rectangular table and a few wooden chairs. It is through the door and into this room that the characters enter and find their way around, so I’ve come to assume that they all come from whatever land of un-imagined lack-of-being lies beyond that door. Once they enter into my mind’s room, they exist, and it is my job to share who they are. So that their fictional biographies do not simply remain unshared and in my mind, I write them down, and try to piece together the things that the characters don’t remember, or will not share with me, to complete the puzzle that is their story.

When I write (as I am writing now) something short, personal, and explanatory, something that describes how I feel about whatever it is that I am feeling towards on that particular day, I usually write to vent that emotion (though, in this particular case, also due to the fact that it is a school assignment). When I feel overwhelmed by a strong case of emotion, I always get an undying desire to put my pen to paper or my fingers to a keyboard and to just sit and write. I write out my emotions in the same way that many composers take down emotions into their pieces of music, later to be played back and felt all over again, this time perhaps to be shared with many other people. My pieces such as those usually become blog entries or journal entries, the difference being whether I want others to read the composition of words and feel the symphony of the emotion or not. In both cases, I write from a deep desire that becomes a burning need to write, whether it be to share my own story or someone else’s story, my own life and emotions or those of my characters.

On Zora Neale Hurston's "How It Feels To Be Colored Me"

My very first thought upon reading this passage is to ask – “All right, now who am I?”

Hurston is, at different times, “Zora of Orange County” and “Cosmic Zora,” though she speaks specifically on the subject of being colored. She becomes a tribal dancer listening to jazz orchestras, and later becomes “the eternal feminine with its string of beads.” But, what am I? Who am I, and how can I find out?

I start from the beginning, building upward from the ground, brick by brick. At the foundation of the building that is me, I am a young woman. I am a daughter, a sister, a niece, a granddaughter. I am a friend. But what else is there? I continue to build upwards; I start with the vague things, the general things, the ordinary things. I am Caucasian, I’m 5’3” tall, I am nineteen years old, and I have blue eyes. I have four sisters, and two parents still married to one another. I am a student, and am a sophomore in college.

All these things are common, and do not all together make up the being that is me. I dig deeper into myself, searching for the bricks to lay down upon the foundation I have already set. What else am I? I’m an actress, and I’m a writer. I’m a Christian (Episcopalian, specifically) but I am very open-minded. I’m a nerd, a geek, a sci-fi/fantasy enthusiast, and an avid reader. I work as a summer camp counselor and I love my job. I’m the biggest mother hen that I know. I aspire to be a teacher, an author, and a community theatre director. These are the things that are plain to see about me, but I know that there’s a level to myself that’s deeper than that.

I cry at many things, and laugh at a hundred things more. I play Dungeons and Dragons, and have been for five years. I’m the oldest of five girls, and part of a very large extended family. I’m very loud, and I love to sing, much to the disappointment of many of my friends. I live by my emotions, and the instincts that they give me. I laugh with my whole self, and love the healthy, happy feeling I get when organic laughter overtakes me. I love with all my heart, and somehow still leave space for more love to form.

I don’t really care what others think about me. I live by the words of wisdom that I’ve accumulated over the years. Those who mind don’t matter, those who matter, don’t mind – Dr. Seuss. Love many, trust few, do wrong to no one – William Shakespeare. Since you get more joy out of giving joy to others, you should put a great deal of thought into the happiness that you are able to give – Eleanor Roosevelt.

Now, there are also parts of me that live within my imagination, solid parts of myself though they are, as Cosmic Zora is to Hurston. I am an earthly creature, running barefoot through a warm, primal forest. I am a lady knight, valiantly guarding the kingdom I've sworn to protect. I am a naiad, dancing to the music of the thunderstorm rolling through the sky above me. I am a bird, my wings surging as I soar through the air, oblivious to the troubles of the lives going on below me. I am myself, and I am complete.

On Otter Lake

A small piece I wrote this summer, meditating by Otter Lake at camp:

The surface of Otter Lake is alive today. The gentle breeze that sweeps over the water folds and waves the lake's face the way that air ripples beneath flowing fabric. The birds in the trees chirp joyously to each other, filling the air with a chorus of nature's music. The sounds on the lake create a gentle symphony, played by an orchestra of the man-made and the natural, harmonizing in this glorious space. The creak of the dock on the lake's surface beautifully complements the sound of the water kissing the pebbles on the shore. The wind through the leaves sounds like a long exhale, mirroring a soft and gentle chime. My heartbeat becomes the percussion, oddly in-sync with this melodious moment.

The peace I feel is monumental, gracious and warm as the sun's embrace is on my back. I know this spot is sacred. Its gentle knowledge relaxes me. This spot on the water has seen so many years of joy, thousands of different faces, all experiencing an unfathomable balance between man and nature, whether they realized it then or not.

It's times like this one that make me remember why I keep coming back here every year, why I always think of this place as my favorite place in the world. The wholeness of my self in this place, of everyone in this place, is why I keep coming back. My heart is full to almost bursting when I am here, and yet I know that the capacity is still there for more love. This space is sacred. That much I know to be true, always and forever.

The video doesn't quite capture all the sounds, but I think it does do the space justice.

Imaginary Worlds

Today is one of those especially nerdy blogging days. I've been spending a good amount of my time the past few weeks thinking a lot about some of the writing that I've been trying to get done. I have a 2" binder currently more than half full of writing, character bios, and ideas for the different stories that I've been working on lately, and have been working on for ages. I've become especially determined as of late to unearth my old "Adventuria" stories that have been lying around virtually untouched for years and years. What is Adventuria, you may ask? Well, I'll tell you.

It was in the fifth grade that my neighbor and best friend, Charlotte, and I decided to create our own world. We had just finished reading "Bridge to Terabithia" in school, and the idea struck us that we wanted our own world to go to. We became sisters that day, the princess and queen of a small, forested nation called Adventuria, so named because of the many adventures we were to have there. We transformed and became the daughters of the late King Statsatorn and Queen Elizabeth Royalle (called Stan and Liza by friends). Charlotte was the eldest daughter, Queen Terabith Liza Royalle, young archmage and ruler of the land. I became the younger daughter, Princess Senora Kit Royalle, Lady Knight and learning mage. Terabith ruled the land while Senora enforced things, playing off each other's strengths and hiding each other's weaknesses. That day, we found ourselves.

It was in Charlotte's backyard that we first played Adventuria. We ritualized the beginning of the game, needing to walk through the arch of shrubs and trees that allowed us to cross the threshold into our world, discarding our old selves and becoming the new. The cares and weights of ourselves in the real world did not exist in Adventuria, and  we were free to do as we would. It was not long until Charlotte's brother Sam showed himself, wanting to play with us, too. He wanted to be our dog, until Terabith realized that it was a spell that had made him what he was. Lo and behold, he wasn't a dog at all, but the lost prince of Adventuria, Terrier Stan Royalle, the youngest child of Stan and Liza, thought to have died with his mother.

We played in Adventuria every weekend for years. We made Senora's sword, Terabith's mage staff, Terrier's bow and arrows, and even made costumes to be our characters one year for Halloween. Naturally, nobody knew at all who we were. We didn't care, though, as long as we knew who we were. Our adventures became part of our lives. Eventually, our friends started to become curious as to what we were doing. They joined in on our fun, but it was never the same. They had their own personas, their own ideas for the world, and soon they became bored with the world.

Though its active part of our lives came to an end shortly after, Charlotte and I continued to write about our adventures. I began documenting the adventures of Senora, Terabith, and Terrier, and she wrote the story of Stan and Liza's adventures. Though our stories ended up abandoned, they were, at least for me, a springboard into the writing that I love to do to this day. I plan to unearth our old stories and edit them, hopefully making them readable and (perhaps in the future) ready to be published.

If you were ever wondering why for so long I acted like I was living in a fantasy world, now you know. :)