Innocence

Oh to be a kid again. To experience the magical world of Disneyland for the first time. To sit on the floor playing with dolls, giving each one a personality and back story. To watch cartoon movies and waste away a Sunday afternoon without feeling guilty. To eat ice cream every night and go to bed before nine o'clock.

Childhood is innocence. It is basic questions and ideals. No worries or stress. It is being excited to go to school, see your friends and play tag on the playground. It is making up stories that involve wild adventures, talking animals and mystical creatures. 

A mother's warm embrace.  A bedtime story. A birthday party with face painting, chocolate cake, and your entire class. Bright colorful balloons, soft stuffed animals, trips to the Zoo, a lollipop the size of you head, lavender bows tied to the end of your braids and white socks with frills along the rim.

Pain and sadness came in short bursts - a fall that scraped up your knee, a friend's mean comment - quickly forgotten or forgiven. Everything could be wiped away with a princess bandaid, a hug and an apology. Everyday was a clean slate, a new beginning.

The years blur together, a flip book of love, happiness and excitement. Oh to be a kid again, living through a filter of innocence, a protection against the outside world. Youth slowly fades, memories blend, time moves on. Nothing ever lasts. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fb4qyuR7_cc

Nine Inch Nails- "Hurt" Live

I posted this particular live performance of Trent Reznor, because I feel the compiled videos they showed for this song was incredibly powerful. We had analyzed this version, as well as Cash's cover of the song, in my Literature course in high school, and this video has stuck with me since then. It portrays a sense of desperation, yet certainty with his performance of the words. It's difficult for me to describe exactly what Nine Inch Nails' performance does here, but hopefully you guys will understand what I'm referring to when you watch it.

On Writing

I read somewhere recently that a writer can’t ever be just a writer, and I think I agree.  A writer has to be, not just a writer, but in part a poet, a reader, a movie goer, a lover, a scientist, an engineer.  A writer has to be a girl that has died and gone to heaven, a boy suffering from depression, the group of kids on the playground, and the gathering of old men at a hotel.  He has to be the girl sifting through novels in the bookstore and the man cradling a broken heart; the father that has lost his family and the mother who could never start one.  He has to be the scientist that has discovered something fantastic and the writer who is writing in every spare minute on napkins gathered at a coffeehouse.  He has to be the old lady telling her grandson about the stories of her youth and the pianist who has forgotten the sheet music to his piece.  He has to be the assassin hidden behind windows and curled in dark corners and the first man to ever travel beyond the solar system. 

He has to be incredibly intelligent and gloriously naïve.  Spectacularly clever and remarkably ordinary.  He has to be brave, cowardly, ecstatic, miserable, excited, and bored.  He has to fall in love—not just with people, but with places, things, activities, ideas—and he has to fall out of love.  The writer has to be a million things—taking scraps of everything he is and everything he can possibly imagine, and try to construct a story and characters that can somehow stand on its own.  From his mind, a writer can build worlds upon worlds and fill it with creatures of the most complex variety or those that are most simple.  He can craft themes that beg people to think about the way things appear to be and he can write lines that stick with the reader for ages to come. 

It’s not to say that someone has to be all of these things, or even some of these things, to write.  One can write by simply coming to the page and bleeding, as Ernest Hemingway puts it—filling the page with every emotion felt that day or any other day.  Writing of everything that’s ever hurt or healed, anything that’s left a dent or scarred.  Or writing could be months of plotting and tying up loose ends, placing the story under a microscope like a scientist and examining it until everything falls into place. 

The most interesting thing about writing is how different it can be for each person—and how many different worlds the millions of different writers can live in.  The millions of different people they can create and the millions of different conversations they can be having in their heads.  

Character Exploration #2

Anne and Eric took the bus in the early morning, arriving at least a half hour before class started every morning, which they spent wandering the library. One day, the two stumbled upon a book on lucid dreaming, which Eric checked out just moments before the first bell rang, and the siblings split ways. In the mid-afternoon, Anne met Eric outside nir Language class, and they shared a seat for the bus ride home as per usual.

With pop music blasting from their little silver radio perched over the stove, they did chores, made dinner, and ate together when their uncle came home. Marcos was a tall wiry man with a dark farmer’s tan from working outside all day fixing roofs. Eric did the dishes while Anne took out the garbage and recycling. Afterward, the two did their homework together, and when Marcos went into the living room to lift his fold-out bed from the couch, they settled into the single bedroom for the night.

“Goodnight!” Anne called cheerily. She turned off the kitchen lights upon request, and disappeared into their room. Inside, Eric sat on the ground propped up against one of the twin beds, already pouring over the dream book. Ne signed for Anne to hurry up. She smiled, and joined nem on the floor. Anne tapped nir shoulder for attention, and when ne looked up, she signed, Have you found anything useful?

Ne shook nir head. Just how to sleep. I know how to sleep.

She peered over nir shoulder, her long dark hair falling in front of her face before she absentmindedly curled it back behind her ear. Maybe that is part of it? Anne suggested, If we want to control them, we need to start from the beginning.

By the night’s end, Eric first dreamt of falling; just hands and hands and hands before everything faded to black. Anne dreamt of flying through the air. She swooped down and twisted onto her back low enough to glide through a field of flowers. When she stopped, she turned her head to find someone lying beside her. The shape was dark and blurry. Anne reached out to touch. 

From the beginning, neither knew what they were getting into.

Scary

Writing is not a frightening thing.  Not in and of itself.  Writing is a release, an opportunity that is different from any other outlet.  You choose words that you believe convey the meaning that you are wanting to express and arrange them in a way that makes sense and sounds “nice” to you.  It can be a purging of emotion, an explanation of a perspective, a creative outlet.  No, writing is not scary.

Sharing your writing is scary.  For some, it’s downright terrifying.  But why?  What are we so afraid of in sharing our writing that is so different than sharing our other works?  We aren’t afraid to share our homework, we often aren’t terrified of sharing our opinion (though I realize this depends almost entirely on context).  Writing is terrifying because it’s so gosh darn personal.  The same reason why it’s such a release, such a freedom in choosing and fitting together words to provide a platform for your thoughts in a way that no other form of creativity can manage – is exactly why it’s so scary.  When we share our writing, we are saying, “I chose these words,” and, “this represents thoughts that were in my head,” and, “I thought that this was worthy of showing other people”.  We give unconscious permission for not only support of our work, our deeply personal, individualized, self-reflecting work, but also for criticism.  For someone to disagree with an idea or use of grammar or metaphor or viewpoint or whatever it is that you made with words and to be able to point with specificity to the piece of your work (see full description above) that they do not like.  Even if there is no blatant commentary at all, your own self-doubt can often provide that criticism you’re otherwise missing.

Now we all know that this does not meant that your critics do not like you, or even your work in its entirety.  And this is also not to say that I cannot handle constructive criticism – as any writer, student, or really person ought to I welcome it and its ability to refine my work and perhaps even myself.  But that doesn’t mean it’s not scary.

I mean, if I'm being honest, wasn’t writing this a whole lot less risky than posting a poem or short story I’ve written?

First Stars I See Tonight

http://youtu.be/nX5iuHnLlX8

As someone who is very interested in film, this new short caught my eye. It is the final product of a huge collaborative effort. If you haven't heard of HitRecord.org, I suggest looking into it, especially as a writer. It was founded by Joseph Gordon-Levitt and is a collaborative production company. I have jotted a few things down on the website and also done some voice over work.

HitRecord TV just recently launched, and this short film was featured in the first episode. The theme of the episode was 1, whether it be all is one, your first time, or being number one. This story left the biggest impression on me.

The story was not very complex, but the way it was written and the imagery it evoked through the words was what made it so intriguing.  The imagery of the stars made a crisp image in my mind, and I loved how the film was tinted green as to reflect the night vision goggles. The production design of the film added a whimsical element to the story as well.

Seeing a story like this come to life through the collaborative effort of normal people all around the world reinforces why I want to go into the creative field of film and television. The collaborative creative process is just as rewarding as the individual process.

Powerful character creation and backstory.

My girlfriend and I were watching Goodfellas over the weekend, a movie I'd seen at least a couple of times in the last few years, and Martin Scorsese's character development and background pacing reminded me why he has more than one great film to re-watch on a Saturday night. This early scene revolves around the main character Henry Hill and depicts how great of a job he has working for the mobsters across the street, making more money than kids his age, and being treated as one of the adults. This scene was brief - only 3 minutes for this clip - but it provided relevant back story for Henry, his family situation, and his importance in this new organization.

The film could have spent a lengthy time exposing Henry's upbringing and life before the mobsters were on his mind, but this freed up Scorsese's plot to focus on the characters where it really mattered such as in their daily conversations with each other, 'business' dealings, political factions within the organization, and personal shortcomings (mostly Tommy's lack of self restraint, and the group's lack of good judgement towards his actions, and their own, that destroys the organization). I believe there's something to gain in our writing from great movies like these and their structure.

A Bit of Inspiration

So I don't know how many of you are familiar with the book Blindness by Jose Saramago, but I started reading it this past summer and I have to say, it definitely has caught my attention. Not just as a reader, but as a writer. Blindness is about an epidemic that causes people to see nothing but white. The government quarantines those declared blind into an old, rundown mental hospital. Food is rationed out and everybody is left to fend for themselves. Of course with everybody being blind, humans begin to start acting like animals. There is stealing and assaults that occur. And like any other book I start, I read halfway and life forbids me to finish.

Anyway, I really think writing about a situation where something has a ripple effect onto others which in turn leads to a catastrophe. After reading Connor's science fiction story, that has me thinking of multiple ideas I want to write about. Will I win a Pulitzer Prize? Probably not. But if I can write a story where a small event becomes a national crisis or some science fiction adventure, I'll call it a success.

But you guys should definitely check out this book. It won a Pulitzer Prize and is just an interesting scenario to think about. How would you deal with being blind and being surrounded by seven strangers who are also blind? Who would you trust and how would you use your other senses to help you live? Will you go crazy or will you be able to push through the adversity?

The Harvest Machine

            The Union has taken a different turn since the end of the Civil War. Reconstruction has begun in the South already but a second industrial revolution has begun in the North: the Brass Enlightenment. Many inventors such as me have been making machines to make the rebuilding of the lives and homes of the victims of the war. Philip Dunham’s automatic bricking machine, which not only creates bricks, but lays them as well, and Milton Wright’s airship, which is used to transport materials and machines to the South, both created a revolution and a fast recovery for the South. However, resources in the North are running dry and for some reason unbeknownst to any American outside of the political ring (including myself), Canada is refusing to trade. There is a deep forest in the South which seems to contain a vast amount of wood, coal, and many lakes.

I am Daniel Shaffer, inventor of the marvelous and cunningly designed Harvest Machine. It will cut down and gather trees into a cart, take in water to a mobile tank, and mine coal with extending arms that can be operated from the outside of a mine shaft. The Union government has charged me with retrieving the proper resources to continue Reconstruction. With science and ingenuity on my side, I cannot and will not fail.

...

            I have made my way to the South, just in the town next to the great forest I am to harvest; it’s in the northern part of Georgia and it is quite vast. Looking down on it from the airship was quite like looking upon the face of a green marble tile with silvery blue rivers and patches of gray where the rivers and rock formations stood out against the foliage. Beginning tomorrow I will hire some men to help operate the Harvest Machine and its various working parts, and also a few guards and hunters and cooks. Then the next day I shall take the whole lot and go to the edge of the forest and I shall begin to reap the benefits of nature.

…

            I am a week behind schedule! It took me all this time to find just ten men to come on this expedition, all because the local residents are convinced the forest is inhabited by creatures of myth and superstition! They say fairies and druids and ghosts live in the woods and that it would mean devastation on the town if their woods were to be obliterated in such a manner. Of course this is all pure nonsense and I managed to find a few former slaves who were willing to take the jobs. I now have one cook, one hunter, three guards, and five men to operate my Harvest Machine. We will be off to the woods tomorrow, and from there, we shall begin our mission.

…

            The streets on the way to our destination were lined with the citizens of the town. It was dead silent all the way there. One of the men I hired explained that the people were upset about our mission. However, this did not deter our assignment.

We continued to the forest, and just outside of the edge we set up camp. A tent with a steam-powered heater and an outdoor kitchen. As soon as we were settled, I activated the Harvest Machine. The central control panel grounded itself into the soil and each of the three collectors of the machine broke off only to remain connected by the gears and pipes that operated them. One guard and one operator separated with each component and two operators remained at the control panel. Each part of the machine was set to work by an operator.

            The part of the machine that collected wood was made up of twenty axes, ten clamps to pick up the trees, and two trailers to haul wood. Each axe is manually placed exactly six inches to the right of a tree, held up by extending arms from the central part of that machine, and then a lever is pulled by the operator which activates the chopping process. Then the automatic arms with clamps calculate the position of the tree and reach out to pick up the trees and place them in the trailer in sets of one hundred.

            The water gathering component of the machine contains a tank large enough to contain 12,000 gallons of water with a hose attached to take in water. The machine automatically detects water by measuring moisture density in the air down to the 0.000000001% of density. Then it extends the hose to that water source and begins to take in the water until there is less than one gallon left in that source.

            The mining component of the machine contains thirty picks at five foot intervals with sifters placed a foot under each pick. The picks and sifters are extended into a mine shaft and a lever activates their work. After every one hour, the sifters are to be retracted and picked through for coal, and all coal is to be distributed into a cart that is ten feet by ten feet and five feet in depth.

            Our job was carried out quite successfully today. Each of the trailers, tanks, and carts were completely filled by nightfall, and we began at noon! At this rate, the woods will be cleared in less than two weeks. The supplies we gained were loaded onto an airship and sent to Virginia. Afterwards was dinner and then rest. Tomorrow we shall continue our duties and we shall have twice as much as we have today.

…

            My marvelous machine has been destroyed! Some vandals must have snuck in late at night and mangled my machine! I fired my three guards for negligence this morning and set out at repairing my masterpiece. Oddly though, I have not seen any footprints around the ground of where the machine rests. The former slaves that still work for me are raving that it was the fairies and druids of the forest. While I agree there is something eerie about the forest, as if something were watching us, it is more likely to be the vandals than any superstitious nonsensical creatures.

…

            Two weeks behind schedule! I had ten guards brought in from the north by train while I repaired the Harvest Machine. Certain objects went missing that slowed my progress, but before accusing anyone of stealing I secretly checked their bags and bunks while finding none of my lost items. I could only assume the vandals are somehow returning, sneaking past my amateur and temporary replacements, and stealing these items to deter progress. But now we can continue with our mission.

            We set out at dawn and, while overseeing the men at work, I began to notice strange things around our camp and work area. There are strange footprints, like those of ravens, but too large to belong to a bird, and glowing red eyes in the hollows of the trees that disappear. I went to the camp to find the cook but he was missing. When I returned to find my crew, the machine was abandoned and the men were nowhere to be found. I no longer believe this to be a safe mission. I think it necessary to move to a different forest to harvest. This town is proving to be exceedingly hostile and influential enough to cause hallucinations. I shall depart in the morning.

Is there any value in looking at the dream-state?

So I was a little unsure as to what I wanted to post this week, but then something reminded me that I used to write down my dreams in a journal that I kept by my bed. I went through this stage in my sophomore year, I'm not sure if it was caused by stress or what, but I would have these really intense, vivid dreams that were always waking me up in the night. And really, I think it bothered me that my mind was getting so creative and insane and weird and interesting, but it would all disappear if I didn't make the effort to carefully remember the events of my dream in those first groggy, disorienting moments when I would find myself safe in my bedroom. Basically what I started to do was instantly start scribbling as fast as I could my little dream-stories down in my journal whether it was three o'clock in the morning or one o'clock in the afternoon, and usually I was still half-asleep so obviously the writing is lack-luster. So, I'm not sure if anyone will find these interesting since no one knows me or the characters involved in my dreams, but at least to me, dreams-- specifically reading dreams after they are written down-- are a lot like fiction where they can either be meaningless or they can be analyzed. Anyways, I typed them exactly as they appeared in my journal.

*

Dream 1: after watching Twister- 04/07/13

There was a tornado coming and no one, especially Bud would get underground, but we were running and running and then we got in the truck to drive to Nana. When we got to her, it was Louisiana. We watched as a crowd was running across the destroyed city to get away from an alligator. Nana told us that the gators fed on the carnage. Then the gator went and jumped in the water, and then we see Alec standing in the lake fishing. He tried to swim but the gator grabbed his foot and I woke up.

Dream 2: Terrorists holding captives in my apartment. I was locked safe in the bathroom. He took his prisoners and yelled he was going to light the place on fire. It started to get hot and I woke up. 

Dream 3: I was in a truck with Conor. Dani was running behind trying to hop in the bed. She made it onto the bumper but as she tried to pull herself up, she fell onto the pavement hitting her head. She was speaking gibberish so we were afraid.

STEM VS Liberal Arts

As a lover of science and the arts, I have noticed some division within the university.  Attending a public research university definitely makes it easy to focus more on the science aspects versus the arts and humanities departments. It is upsetting and frustrating to be around some individuals who do not understand the value of literature in society. Although everyone is unique and has strengths and weaknesses, I have always found it interesting how people view creativity and the importance of it. One of my good friends is a double major in biochemistry and creative writing, and he has explained how he almost feels as if he is having an identity crisis at times.
  I found this article interesting as it explains the importance of liberal arts.
http://ideas.time.com/2013/06/19/our-economy-can-still-support-liberal-arts-majors/

Game Theory: Zelda MM

Game Theory: Is Link Dead in Majora's Mask?

            What people enjoy a lot about video games, aside from the simple enjoyment of interacting with the world inside the cartridge or disk, is the amount of speculation fans of these different games think up based on the backstories of the characters in the games. Many fans today upload videos going on in detail about the different rumors and theories that have sprouted from the heads of other fans and posted on fansites for all to read. Some are considered creepypastas, stories meant to scare through that connection video games give.

            A lot of theories give a lot of insight on aspects of games that people would not think about before. For instance, The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask has one theory about the main character, Link, having died towards the beginning of the game. While it is not told straight-up, the speculation is caused through the different characters Link meets during his travels in this alternate universe of the usual world that The Legend of Zelda series is used to. The characters and situations within the game represent the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Although this may not be the true intentions of the video game creators, it is a bit of participation by fans and a different way for fans to really think about a different viewpoint on the game.

            While I don’t believe that this theory could be true, it was an interesting game theory to say the least and with the dozens upon dozens of game theories circling the Internet today, fans are continuing to keep even old games such as The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask (having come out in 2000) as popular entertainment today.

Sunken Star

Within the murky abyss of the ocean's depths, only one object shines. Claimed by the ancients to have fallen from the tumultuous heavens, the Moon's Tear was a source of amazement and light to defend against the evil forces that hid behind night. Trapped within a prison of solid sapphire, the azure light of the Tear has shone for over ten millennia. Even after the civilization that had found the gem had collapsed and fallen into the ancient sea the Moon's Tear has continued to share its light, though there are few that can appreciate it. At nearly twenty feet tall and weighing many tons, the once glorious temple had to have been built around the glorious wonder. Four thousand years ago the temple would have been bustling at all hours with the footsteps and labors of countless priests and slaves, but the current inhabitant of the temple has done nothing to stop the building's disrepair. Slithering and swimming through the sunken temple erected to the Tear's honor, the new guardian of the Moon's Tear roams the underwater city in search of prey and intruders. Over a hundred feet long, the sinuous sea serpent covetously gazes upon its light, staring into the shifting shapes and echoes of the past. The entire wealth of the extinct people lies within its sunken domain, and during its centuries of slithering its hide has become encrusted with a fortune's worth of jewels. However, this countless wealth is meaningless to the serpent, as it has eyes for its only love: the Moon's Tear.

This is about Sherlock

This past Sunday, I was finally able to watch "Sign of Three", albeit after all the other "dedicated" fans because I'm lame and don't get BBC. Needless to say, it was one of the most beautiful 90 minutes of my life. And I don't mean that as a cliched way of talking about how good the episode was. I truly mean that as a writer, as an introvert, and as a human being. There is something so incredibly human about the calculating and awkward genius that is Sherlock Holmes.

I won't bore you with the details of the episode. If you've seen it, you get it. If you haven't, stop reading this and get a Netflix subscription and a free hour and a half.

Honestly, I don't really know why I titled this as being about Sherlock. This is not about Sherlock. Not really. Even thought I can talk about how Benedict Cumberbatch's beautiful acting makes you forget that he looks like an otter, there are far more important matters at hand. This post is more about the idea of Sherlock Holmes: a pervasive figure of mystery. Since 1895, he's solved countless impossible cases, gone head to head with some of the most villainous masterminds, and most importantly, defied death. Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle couldn't kill him off. Not permanently anyway. Sherlock Holmes has survived more than a hundred years of Western society not through cunning or bravery, but through the minds and hearts of audiences.

As a writer, this idea both intrigues and terrifies me: the truth that what Doyle wrote doesn't belong to him. It belongs to everyone. And no one. Certainly there's copyright and other things to create a sense of control, but no half-decent character really belongs to a writer. Fan culture is amazing that way. It sort of sets the characters free. They can evolve and adapt, molding themselves to be successful in whatever world or time they occupy. And that's something to remember, as writers, and really as people. The characters in the worlds we write, and in our day to day lives, aren't really ours. They don't belong to us, just as we don't belong to them. We simply share the same space for a period of time, and eventually that time will come to an end, and we will go on without one another, living or not. Doyle is long gone, but Sherlock Holmes is still here, still present, still himself, despite his many changes and despite never really existing at all.

Elsa, are you really Letting it Go?

This is a spoiler-y post, so if you haven't seen Frozen and don't want any spoilers, don't read this post!

http://youtu.be/moSFlvxnbgk

I read a post recently about this song and the character, Queen Elsa. Obviously since Frozen was a huge success, people have formed various thoughts and ideas about the movie and the characters.

One thing I read in terms of Elsa was that she was intended to play a villain, but when it came to the song "Let it Go", the post goes on to mention that the producers, according to the Internet Movie Database found that the song was too positively full of self-empowerment and self-acceptance for it to be a villainous song, causing for basically a movie and character re-write of Elsa. The post then goes on to state that one villainous line in the song remained: "Let the storm rage on/the cold never bothered me anyway" and notes that there is no storm raging on during this whole song but mentions that it probably was intended for the original plot.

My thoughts on this, however, are a bit different and to me, still work for the song and character.

Since the post did mention that it is a self-empowerment, self-accepting song, I think this villainous line "Let the storm rage on/the cold never bothered me anyway" works in that same respect. Elsa may not be mentioning a literal storm raging outside on the mountain as she climbs. She could be mentioning an inward storm.

Throughout the movie, Elsa struggles. Since taught at a young age that she is dangerous and to basically lock out her emotions and stay away from everyone and everything. She has an incredibly hard time accepting herself and her power. As such, a "storm" is clearly raging on inside of her, as she is depressed and conflicted because she clearly despises not only the position she is in but essentially herself.

So during "Let it Go", Elsa is unsuccesfully attempting to accept herself and accept this part of her, both storm and the cold she feels by stating "the cold never bothered me anyway".

Of course, she still has not fully accepted herself, as seen as the movie progresses onward, but she is at least, trying.

The vanity

The plush cushion seeped out around her thighs as she sank onto the stool. Leaning over the mahogany vanity, she surveyed her treasure. Tubes of lipstick stood next to a collection of perfume bottles. Round, square, tall, squat - the varying glass vials sparkled in the lamp light. She passed a small hand over the fragrances before picking a small cylindrical bottle with a fancy cap and puffer. She picked it up with two fingers and squeezed the round bulb, a sweet, thickness filling the air.
She reached for a tube of lipstick and pulled off the top, smoothing the tube across her thin mouth. She smacked her lips together, as she had seen so many woman do. The velvety red smear spread apart as she smiled at her reflection. The gap between her teeth stood out beneath her ruby lips.
On the other side of the vanity, sat a circular container. She lifted the lid and peeked inside. A white, velvet powder puff sat atop a thinning layer of blush. She picked up the puff and padded it on either side of her face. A flurry of fine pink dust floated into the air around her and sank onto the surface of the vanity, speckling the glazed, amber wood. The girl sneezed and blinked rapidly - trying to rid the powder from her eyes. She stared at her reflection through the pink haze, something was missing.
She pulled open the drawer to the vanity, directly above her thighs and picked up a long silver tube. Her chubby fingers unscrewed the top and tugged the brush, a thick black glob sticking to the end. With clumsy, unsteady swipes, she covered her upper lashes in a heavy coat - her eyelids strained under the makeup, pulling them down into a squint. She set down the tube and pushed the drawer back into place.
Pushing herself to the edge of the stool, her bare feet swung as she tried to touch her big toe to the floor. She slid off of the creamy, white seat and skipped out of the room, her pigtails bouncing behind her as she when to show her mother.

The Necessity of Fiction and other, semi-connected thoughts

"Literature is a luxury. Fiction is a necessity."
-G.K. Chesterton

"Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal and history only the particular."
-Aristotle

As (aspiring) fiction writers ourselves, it is impossible not to look up from our books and journals and screens and wonder, what is the damn point of fiction anyway. It is one of the odder things in the world if you stop and think about it. Why do we, as a human species, have a need--not just a vague desire, but a need--to create stories and tell them in any form, whether that be a film, a novel, a play, a short story, a poem or whatever. Why did the ancient Greeks need myths and onstage drama? Why do we need to read good books and go see good movies? Is it simply to inject some escapist fun into the empty spaces in our lives that punctuate the time when we're working and sleeping? Is "real life" so dull that we need a fabricated version of it to get by?

I don't think it's mere escapism. It's easy to escape into the world of Twilight, but not so much into Dostoyevsky. Like the David Foster Wallace quote we explored in class, I believe that fiction tells something about the human condition that can, for some peculiar reason, be only expressed (or closest to being expressed) through story rather than explicit statement. If the human condition is that of a journey, The Lord of the Rings expresses it so much better than if you stated "the human condition is that of a journey." If the human condition is that life is essentially meaningless, it is expressed far better in The Stranger than in the statement "The human condition is that life is essentially meaningless." What is it about fiction that makes things stick with us? Why is the fabricated so much more real than reality?

A side note: if we accept that all good fiction is philosophical in this sense (as in expressing the nature of the human condition), where does the value of entertainment come in? Part of why we love good stories is because they are entertaining: they amuse and frighten us, keep us in the dark and astound us with shocking revelations, give us characters with can sympathize with and ones we hate, and then feel sorry for. Fiction seems to be the point where philosophy and entertainment intersect and it seems to be that the best fiction is the kind that blends the two. A philosophy essay is smart but not  entertaining, a dumb romantic comedy is entertaining but not smart, and the best is a keen balance.

Reforming My "Last Movie I Enjoyed" Response

I watched "Her" over the weekend, and it was a fantastic film.

To relate it to class, I especially found the writing to be great.  It's pretty incredible when you can watch a movie and every conversation and scenario, and the emotions that are put into it on screen, are ones you can relate to and pull from your own life.  "Her" was one of the rare movies that did this from beginning to end for me.  As I write more, I pay more attention to screenplays, and there are some real gems every now and then.  Spike Jonze (Director) always does a good job in taking our reality and adding bits of the surreal to give it a really unique impact.  That's something I strive to do with writing Fiction.

It also helps that the film looks absolutely beautiful.

I definitely recommend it.  Grab some Goobers, relax (it has a slower pace; patience is a virtue!), and take it all in.

"Falling in love is a crazy thing to do.  It's kind of like a form of socially acceptable insanity." - Amy ("Her")

The Stairs

He lumbers up the creaky wooden stairs, nimbly avoiding the gaping hole in the sixth step. He shouldn't be in here, hasn't been since he was a boy. He runs his fingers through his thinning hair, looks out the broken window, sees lightning send spiderweb cracks through the sky. Thunder crashes. Rain starts to fall through a hole in the ceiling above him; fat, languid drops that plop onto his knit sweater and snake their way down into the patterns of the wool. He sees the door at the top of the staircase now, barely. A flash of lightning illuminates it like the Holy Grail. Then, above the din of the storm, he hears it.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

A heartbeat.

But where is it coming from? He pauses on the rickety steps, trying to listen. He hears nothing more, starts making his way up again. Then he hears the unmistakable wailing cry of a newborn baby and a woman shrieking, "HELP!" He stops again. The yelling and the crying cease. He shrugs. All he wants to do is get in and get out. He only came for one thing. The thought of finally getting his hands on the treasure at the top of the stairs makes his mouth water.

He starts climbing again, faster and faster. The wailing of the baby starts up, the shrieking of the woman, the heartbeat. It's not real, he thinks, they don't want me to have it, I can't let them win.

He looks up, sees that he only has four more stairs. I'm not stopping now. As he bounds up, his right foot lands on a rotted piece of step. The last thing he sees is the brass doorknob, shining like a promise, before he plummets down to eternal darkness.

Things are not always what they seem

The rain is falling from the sky, if you look up the droplets look like thin needles aiming directly at the Earth. When they finally collide with the ground it’s as if the needle shatters into a million pieces that litter the ground with spots of water. The grey concrete begins to become damp with each drop forming larger and larger puddles. As he walks the sound changes to soft thuds against the wet floor, water sprays up from each step he takes. He is pacing around a pole that offers no protection from the weather. The rain can be seen either beading off his hair or seeping into the strand matting it to his skin. Drops land on his nose and roll off the tip where they quickly find their way to the puddle below.  The wind is rustling the trees around him as he stops his pacing and waits patiently. Suddenly a door to a nearby building opens and a woman can be found holding a coat tightly to her self. She runs to the pole where he can be found waiting. “Hi there buddy” she coos, “I didn’t think you would get stuck in the rain.”  And then suddenly she bends down to unlatch the leash that holds the loyal and patient dog to the pole outside the bank she had run into moments before.