In Which I Write a Post for Anna

Dear Void,

Nope, it's not her birthday. I don't keep track of birthdays well enough to do tribute posts on them. And she isn't having some kind of breakdown either. My friend Anna just mentioned that she enjoyed my blog. So I told her I'd write her a post. So, Anna Banana Hannah Montana Latifah Elizabeth CENSORED, IT'S THE INTERNET!!, this one's for you.

I hope you enjoy it.

Diction. Also known as enunciation. It resides in a very cold and frustrated place in the hearts of theatre kids, because we're always being told that we don't do it well enough. But at least we're in the habit of pronouncing the words we say as if they carry weight (even when all we're saying is, "I like your shoes," it usually doesn't come out, "Ah lekk yur shus.") I guess I'm spoiled; I go through life expecting that everyone will speak clearly.

I've developed a new pet peeve.

I went to a speech competition on Saturday. It was alright--of course a few speeches were awful, but some were very well written and nicely presented. However. Almost every single person used the word "important" in their speech. And I had this realization: when "important" is pronounced "amporan" (say it in your head, sorry for making you wince,) it loses all of its weight. Maybe that's just me, but "this was one of the most amporan and exidin ["exciting"] battles in history" makes me not care what they're saying. At all.

So I guess what I'm saying is... treasure your words. Love them. If you do, you may yet learn (if you don't already know) how powerful and beautiful they can be.

Remember to use diction. It's amporan.

Over & Out.

In Which I Wonder About Zombies

Dear Void,

Let's have a chat about why I am opposed to waking up in the morning. I'm convinced that the world is trying to turn everyone into zombies. But since biting people is a terrible way to spread disease (it's so inefective, think about it,) the zombie-plot-makers had to come up with a new idea. So they chose sleep deprivation.

If I want to be a sucessful high school student--that is to say, if I want to get into college with any hope of a scholarship--I have very few choices about how to live my life. Or so I've been brainwashed into believing. First, I have to take AP classes--and get A's in all of them--and pass the test in all of them. Translation: roughly three and half hours of homework per night, if I only take a few of them. Then I have to fill up my class schedule with other classes as well. So throw in another hour of homework. Then I have to be involved in extracirricular activities, so add another two-five hours of work there. Sometimes more. So just with those and the six regular hours if school, we're looking at about thirteen hours of dedicated time every day.

Then there are social requirements. For instance, I have to spend time with my friends if I want to be a socially normal (and therefore easy-to-work-with) person in my life. Throw in maybe half an hour every day. Then, dating. If I wanted to get into a relationship (which I don't, which is a rant for another day,) I would be required to give roughly another hour per day to my boyfriend. More if he's the needy type.

Then with family, church reponsibilities, doctor appointments, and the obligatory slavery to Facebook, we're looking at a required eighteen hours or so of being up and running every day. Then throw in travel time--nineteen, nineteen and a half hours per day? and finally "relaxation" time where I need to do something for myself--because it's healthy, say all the doctors (they, by the way, fully support the zombie conspiracy)--and in which I actually spend my time wishing I were asleep. So that leaves about... four hours of sleep per night, assuming I give in to all of the wishes of a world run by zombieists.

Want to meet for lunch tomorrow? We can eat the brains of some unsuspecting humans!

In Which I Prove that I am Still Alive

Dear Void,

*cough* no, of course I didn't actually forget that I have a blog. What are you on about? Actually, my life has been extremely boring. No philosophical observations. No adventures. Just lots and lots of hours running makeup for a show I was not supposed to work this hard for.

Sorry, my annoyance is showing.

But I do want to pass on a message that I taught in my local religious group recently: it's okay to love yourself. Really. In fact, it's healthy. Don't let the media tell you you're not good enough. You are.

Okay, that's all I've got for now. Over and out.

In Which I Discover a Dangerous Problem

Dear Void,

Breakfast. It's supposed to be the most important meal of the day, right? Then why is it so hard to stomach? Seriously, making myself eat breakfast is so much more difficult than makes sense. I thought during the school year that my issue was only with eating at 6:00 in the morning in the middle of winter when every part of me is freezing and I just want to curl back up in bed for the next many many hours. (Note: read that like a Lorelai rant in your head. If you don't know what I mean, you need to go watch Gilmore Girls right now!) But it turns out that I just don't like to eat breakfast! This morning I rolled out of bed slothishly at 10:30 (which disgusts me slightly, but what can you do?) and when I came upstairs to find something to eat so that I would stop shaking, I found that the concept of putting food in my mouth sounded completely miserable.

This can't be healthy. But what do I do to change it? I especially need to eat in the mornings or my body will throw a tantrum that will probably involve me passing out. And yet here I sit, blogging, not eating breakfast...

Help?

In Which I Admit that I am Crazy

Dear Void,

There is a kind of insanity that most--if not all--good authors share. Many of them admit to it, too. It is that their stories write themselves, and the author's only purpose is to write it down (and fix some things along the way so that it reads better. Goodness knows there are enough good stories who didn't find their way to good writers. Poor little stories. *sniffle*) Often when talking about this madness, authors will say that it started with one character in their head who wouldn't stop telling his or her story.

I am feeling very cheerful. I have this same madness. :)

The other night I couldn't sleep. As I lay in bed pretending I could, a character strolled in through one of my ears and started chatting. And wouldn't shut up. (Not for the first time.) So I rolled out of bed, grabbed a notebook, and started writing it down. (If you were confronted by a dragon in the middle of the night, you would do the same thing.)

I guess the reason I'm sharing this story with you is that I'm excited about it. I've wanted to be a writer for most of my life, and now I have four different stories clamoring for attention and time on the page (which is like time on the stage but, you know, different.) Hooray for insanity! It generates such interesting things. I hope you enjoy my lunatic posts, this one being the most random and disjointed yet.

Have a lovely day!

P.S. speaking of authors, I just stumbled recently across one I really like. If you want fantasy of good quality with some laugh-out-loud moments, I recommend looking up something by Jessica Day George. Fun stuff.

In Which I Bring a Real-Life Discussion With Me to My Blog.

Dear Void,

Today I went to Zupas (I love Zupas. If you are hungry, you should go experience the glory.) with some of my dear friends. While we were there we started discussing the potential of love in high school--to clarify, we were discussing whether it is possible to fall in love in high school. I vote yes.

Before decide to flog me, I don't think high school is the place where most people fall so deeply in love that they are actually ready to get married (even if they think they are.) I don't think almost any high school student has the capacity to love that much.

However. I think people can love in high school. My aunt and uncle who were high school (actually, middle school) sweethearts and now have four children? I think they were probably in love in high school--you'd have to ask them to what degree. A couple of my dear high school friends? I believe them when they say they're in love because I've watched how they take care of the other person.

I don't think infatuation is love. I also DO NOT think "I love you" should be thrown around as lightly as it is.

I'm just saying I think it's possible. What do you think?

P.S. today two of the preschoolers I teach kissed. Probably the greatest thing I've ever seen. Thought I'd share.

In Which I Mock the English Language

Have you ever noticed that most of the words that mean laugh are ugly? "Giggle" is alright, but seriously, "chortle"? Who in the world thought that was a proper description of a laugh?

Sorry if you're a chortler.

"Snort"? Yes, my best friend snorts when she laughs. Lots of people snort when they laugh. It's just that I try to refer to it as laughing. "Chuckle"? Sounds completely creepy. "Snicker" is a candy bar, and an acceptable name for that. Only that.

Don't even get me started on "guffaw." Ew.

"Cackle," "titter," "cachinnate"... okay that last one is actually pretty cool. But nobody uses it--I'd never even heard of it before just now when I used the thesaurus.

My point is that we need more acceptable words to describe laughter. The ones before us are rather wretched.

Over & out.

In Which I Glory in the Sunshine of Childhood

Dear Void,

Today I went for a walk on my mountain. (Yes, like Maria in The Sound of Music, I have my own mountain. Accept it.) I went to feel the sunshine and perhaps find some Indian Paintbrush in bloom (silly me, it's much too early in the summer for that.) I had forgotten what was truly magical about my mountain: imagination blooms there as well, regardless of the season. And if you listen very quietly to what the wind says, it will tell you a story that may change your simple walk into a marvelous adventure.

Naturally, just as happened many years ago, when I left civilization behind me and entered a rocky terrain of endless possibilities, I became a princess. Don't judge. I was on a quest to find--well, I wasn't sure at first what I was hoping to find, but that is the joy of making it up as you go along. It was a dangerous quest. I had a long way to go.

Before long I entered a forest, thick with bears and wolves and possibly giraffes. Anything is possible!

Next came the exhausting battle for survival as I crossed a perilous desert. I was dying from thirst.

Thankfully, I was saved. The butterflies showed me how to get water in the desert, and I continued my quest.

After many struggles, I came to a field of flowers which were no doubt magical. I knew this was what I needed to find.

I came home from my quest, satisfied that I would save the kingdom.

Don't mock. I'm certain that my morning was more exciting than yours. I came down my mountain, and as I returned my castle became my home again, the grasslands around it my lawn. I ceased to be a princess. And yet the joy of discovery stayed with me. The magic stayed in my heart. Why is it that we ever stop playing pretend? We allow our imaginations to dwindle, and why? To be so lost in fantasies that you cannot see reality is unhealthy, yes. But I would argue that to be so lost in reality that you have no dreams at all is equally damaging. To dream is to create, to inspire, to come to life. I hope never to be so grown-up that I lose the child in my heart.

If you listen closely to what the wind says, perhaps you will hear it whisper a story to you. And if you are quiet, if you are still, if you bring with you no contention or anger, perhaps you may come with me to my mountain. And perhaps it will whisper a story to you as well. Perhaps.

Where will your imagination take you today?

In Which I Enter the Blogging Sphere

Dear Void (go watch You've Got Mail),

Today as I walked into a restroom I overheard a mother assisting her young daughter. The mother, surely with good intentions, was hurrying her daughter along so that both of them could get to their meetings. But let's be real here. Telling her daughter to hurry likely made no difference in how long she took. What struck me about the exchange was the little girl's repetition of the phrase, "I love you. I love you. I love you." She must have said it at least fifteen times. And the mother, so focused on getting to her meeting, never responded.

Now, I'm sure whoever she was she is a great mom. Obviously her daughter loves her! But I started thinking--how often do we let the opportunity to share our love slide by us? I have little doubt that if the mother had taken the moment to tell her daughter sincerely that she loved her too, she would not have been scolding the girl a minute later.

I'm aware that I have no right to judge.

I only wondered: why is it that the older we get, the harder it is to express real love? I'm not talking about a casual "love ya!" in the hallway. That's nice, but after a while it really means nothing. I'm talking about looking into someone's eyes and telling them that they matter to you. I think if we did that more as humans, there would be a lot less corruption, less pride, less anger, less selfishness.

So there's my two cents, hypocritical as it might be.

By the way, I decided to start writing a blog. I'm not really sure why, but it sounded like fun. I think I was inspired by my friend Caroline. Also, I'm addicted to writing. But as for the technological side of all this, I'm still kinda lost. Maybe I'll improve, but for now just don't worry about it! I'm here to make sweeping generalizations and the occasional profound point. Smiley face. (Ha. Haha. Okay I'm shutting up now.)

Best of luck with everything until we meet again.