One Sparkling Star

About College

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 30 Jul 2013 04:17:00 +0000

One year ago, I was preparing -- frantically, by this point -- to move into my college dorm.

I'm writing this now, looking back over my first year, partly for myself and partly for any other scared soon-to-be college kids.

Disclosure: These are my opinions. They are my personal facts, which may not be the same as yours. These are also spoken as if you are at college, and if you want to be there.

Now.

What is college like? What was it like for me?

It would be my first (super) extended trip away from home. I wasn't going very far, and in fact, found myself a little annoyed that I would be only three hours away from the place where I went to high school, but I still had to like, pack. I was still moving in with a complete stranger, sharing a bathroom with 25 girls, and living on a floor with 70 people. (Coincidentally, my dorm building held about 600 students. My graduating class held about 380.)

Voila. That's, approximately, what I was living in.

In many ways, I was -- and am -- very lucky. First, I get to go to college. It's no surprise to any of us that the economy sucks, that student loans are vicious, and that not having a degree can make life painfully complicated. So, because of that that, I'm telling you this:

Be happy, if you're at college, if you've graduated and be grateful. It's a privilege. Even if it's a school that would not normally decorate your dreams, it's a luxury. We are lucky. There is nothing more annoying than a college student who openly and loudly thinks their college is beneath them. Maybe the school isn't for you, and that's fine. Leave.

It's okay to transfer schools.

I have several friends that have done so. If you don't like where you are, leave. If you don't want to pay money for the experience, don't. It's your life. It's your experience. Try not to be selfish, but also, look out for yourself.

Which leads me to another thought --

Going to college with your friends from home? It's hard. It's . . . impossible, in a lot of ways, because you aren't the same people you used to be.

You may lose them. It will hurt. It will hurt in ways you never expected and ways that I can't really describe. You'll look at people that you've known for years and you won't recognize who they've become.
Worse, they won't recognize you.

I'm so sorry for that. But you can't lose heart, dear freshman, because there is still a lot left to see, a lot left to do, and a lot of people to meet.

You may move into a room with a girl you don't exactly . . . get. She probably won't get you either. You can still stay up for hours and talk about nothing. You can still find things in common.

You may eat so much chips and queso, so much cereal, so much pasta, that when you come home for Thanksgiving you make yourself pitifully ill, because your body doesn't know how to digest meat anymore. (But really, it may be safer that way. It may be worth the pain.)

You may spend too much money on coffee. If that is, indeed, a thing that's actually possible.

You will curse the expensive textbooks. You will not understand something. You will understand others and wonder why you're bothering to pay for the class. You will stay up too late, possibly drink too much illegal substances, or at least, have to hold back the hair of someone who have definitely had too much.

If you're lucky, you will fight. You will fight about politics, feminism, friendship, travel, music, technology, love, lust, and caffeine addiction. Every fight -- thought not always necessary -- will teach you something. You will get involved in things that fuel your passions and teach you about passions you never knew you had.

Change your major. Change it again. Do it early, and do it until you think it's right, and try and do it before you reach your junior year.

You may get your heart broken. I hope you do, actually. It's good for you, in the end. It's a real and horrible feeling, but it can also make you better and stronger.

You may get your heart broken by your best friends. You may look back at those moments months later, and you may see them coming weeks in advance, and every time you look for them, you feel like you're breaking again. I can't tell you if that makes you better and stronger, but I can tell you that it will make your stories stronger.

You will find someone worth risking breaking your heart again. I can't tell you if they will or not, because -- well, I'm single. I'm not particularly romantic, and some have even called me jaded. (Ahem.) But when you look at your college dorm rooms, and you panic because they are small and dark and full of strange belongings that are not yours and may actually offend you, you are looking at a chance. An experience.

Boys will drunkenly chase rabbits through the streets. Girls will try and climb the buildings in their high heels. The lounge will fill up with a bunch of entitled, pretentious students that are either there to watch the presidential debate or Beauty and the Beast.

Talk to them.

Be their friends. Or don't, if you're more of a Cinderella person. (In which case, you're a freak.)

This is about you, and your chances, and your life.

Pack your bags. Relish your bed. Hug your parents and pet your animals, because you'll wish in a few months that you would have done more of that. For the love of god, eat whatever good food you can.

And get ready for your adventure.

Remembering

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 23:31:00 +0000

A girl in my community died on Saturday.
She was 17.
She used to ride my school bus. I tutored her in debate sometimes, during high school, but somehow, I don't remember her as the beautiful cheerleader. I remember her as the awkward, gangly kid that had a crush on one of my best friends. I remember when she first started wearing makeup. I remember when she first joined debate. When I won a tournament in my senior year of high school, I heard her telling one of her friends that we grew up together, but that's not true. Neither one of us is grown up, not entirely. And one of us never will have the chance to.
The girl was not perfect, but she was often very sweet and she was very, very young and she was beautiful. She was obstinate and she was goofy and she should have lived for many more years.
I don't remember her as someone old enough to drive a car, let alone someone to crash her car.

Side Note: Wear your seat belts. Please -- just wear the damn thing. I don't care how old you are. I don't care if you're just driving into town. I don't care if it messes up your dress.
Second Side Note: If an animal runs in front of your car and it will hurt you to swerve, then hit the animal. You have no idea how much it hurts me to say that, but it's not something to forget.

They don't know how her car crashed, but I know that road. I've almost spun my car out avoiding deer on the way home from late night movies. I've swerved to avoid squirrels. I took my Nissan off the road one winter because the curves were covered in ice. I've checked my phone to see if my mom has texted me back and I've spent too many moments changing the music on my Ipod.
I drive that road fast and I drive it stupid, and so do all the other kids that live out where I do.
Why wouldn't we? We drive it every day.
Please, for the love of god, and for the love of all the people that care about you, don't drive stupid.
Even if it's funny. Even if you know the road. Even if you could drive the road with your eyes closed. Even if you're trying to impress a friend. It isn't worth it.
I drove past Monica's memorial on the way into town today. She lived out by me -- about ten minutes out of town, down a winding country road that seems to go on forever. There were a bunch of girls at her memorial, just sitting in the flowers and not saying anything.
Maybe that's because there isn't much to say.
Rest in peace, sweetheart.

Finished!

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Thu, 30 May 2013 06:55:00 +0000

I am done!
I am done, and I am alive. It took much, much studying, a lot of caffeine, ~~a lot of tears as well as the blood of my enemies~~ and a few early morning/late night ranting sessions as my dorm friends, but freshman year of college is done. I am slowly regaining a healthy sleeping pattern and the ability to eat red meat. (I didn't trust the dorm food, and so lived on mostly chicken, pasta, and apples. I then made myself painfully sick by coming home and gobbling steak. College freshmen, beware.) I am also becoming reacquainted with a hairbrush.

This is scarily accurate of my life.

I do not have much to say right now. Soon, I will post book reviews and rejoin the world. I'll talk about meeting some of my favorite authors, but Maggie already did that so I'm not overly planning on that. Oh! But soon, Alpha! And I will meet Scott Westerfeld and Tamora Pierce and all sorts of other amazing people and die of awesomeness. (Also, I'll eat dorm food for two weeks again. It'll never be done.)

My first year of college consisted of a lot of drunkenness (not by me -- I lived in a very lush dorm, apparently) and a lot of mutant squirrels (my campus must be feeding them steroids) and a lot of climbing on furniture and moaning about how much work had to be done and then waiting until two minutes before it was due to do it. I will regale this blog with stories of individual moments, I think, throughout the summer. First off, I want to remember those moments. Second, as a high school student, I know that I creeped through college kid blogs to try and figure out what college was like. Finally, ~~I don't have anything else to say~~ why not?

Okay. Fare thee well, my bloglings!

The Importance of Lectures

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Thu, 16 May 2013 05:41:00 +0000

Hey, you. You're looking nice today. I really like your jaw. Also, your knees. You've got great knees. You should wear tutus more often, you know, to better emphasize them.
Speaking of sparkly clothing, I recently encountered a professor that taught our class about Angels in America while dressed in drag. It was a beautiful sequined red dress that I could never pull off, and one of the strangest classroom experiences I've had while in college. However, while it was a great lecture, and while I later got to see Tony Kushner talk about Angels in person, I have to say, this was not my best lecture in college. Don't get me wrong; both Kushner and my sequined professor gain major props. I mean, for one, sparkles. For another, a hauntingly beautiful Pulitzer prize winning play about death, destruction, and abandonment full of dark humor. I'm a fan of all of these things. Basically, it is . . .

I don't know who let me on the internet.

I go to a lot of lectures. Why not? For one, a lot of my classes require them. I took a Humanities course that has nothing to do with my major but everything to do with my attraction to literature, music, and art, and there were weekly lectures about everything from Descartes to Billie Holiday to things such as this:

I met a lot of wonderful professors and also learned that I really hate Descartes. (No, seriously, I really do.)
Back to lectures. They're great. We get a lot of extra talks for free -- and they're free, so why not go? I've dragged my friends to ones about the role of porn in modern society, what it means to be a country constantly at war, and what running a Fortune 500 company is really like. I like all of these things. It's fascinating, and it's great material for a someday story.

I'm also a fan of journalists. I go to a school that brings in a lot of journalists, and I find that the lectures they give are some of the most inspiring. They are literally putting their lives on the line to chase a story, and I find that all kinds of cool. I've heard from multiple women held captive in various war zones and men that traveled through the South American jungle to follow a lead. Again, these are wonderful lectures. However, my favorite lecture of my freshman year did not come from a journalist, a writer, a CEO, or an entrepreneur. Instead, it came from a crook.

Or, I guess, a reformed crook.
I was cleaning out my desk in the slow attempt to dig out of my dorm room and I found a ticket stub from Frank Abagnale's speech at my college. If you don't know the story, look it up. Or, heck, you could just watch the movie. He said that it's largely accurate.

Abagnale's speech was eloquent, engaging, heart-breaking, thought provoking, and a lot of other adjectives. You may know that I used to do debate; by which I mean, I obsessively talked about my debate involvement for the past four years. I like speeches. On one level, this was my favorite because -- not surprisingly -- the man was just really, really eloquent.

For another reason, though, I liked the story. It's a real life tale about a heist; he not only stole and lied, but he did it fantastically well. He was severely flawed, escaping from a divorce that his parents dropped from out of the sky. He fell in love; he got caught. He was internationally infamous and he spent a long time in a cold jail cell, eventually remaining there while his father passed away. It is a story that has you hooked. It's a story with a plot, an almost unbelievably brilliant MC, and ultimately, change.

These are the reasons why lectures are beautiful. Sometimes, you sit and wonder why you aren't watching Merlin or doing your PoliSci homework. Others, though, you sit on the edge of your seat and take notes on your dying cell phone because you desperately want to remember the story. You keep the ticket stub between the pass that let you into the Presidential Inauguration and your program for the Vagina Monologues.

Life is full of stories. We're living them every day. Sometimes, hearing other people's is the most exciting and invaluable thing you could be doing with your time -- and if you're in college, I know, there are tons and tons of really cool, glittery parties you can go to instead. Sometimes, though, put down the red solo cup and go grab one of those free tickets.

That's my spiel, and I'm sticking to it.

Goodbye, reader that probably does not exist! I must continue digging out of my dorm. Until then:

Finals

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 14 May 2013 06:05:00 +0000

Hello, ducklings.
I'm drowning in the waves of finals, currently, and so I am making this brief. I am updating to remind myself of my revived determination to actually write fun things, and to do it well, and because I really, really am sick of studying and this still feels productive.
My life consists currently of ~~a lot of Merlin and even more crying~~ stoic undertakings to understand The Veil of Ignorance (people should make judgement without class or politics or other stupid things being in consideration? Maybe?) and trying to memorize the 117 terms my European History professor thought were necessary for my final. Also, no hablo español y mi examen es pronto.
I have been accepted to Alpha again this year (I went in 2011) which means I will be learning from Scott Westerfeld, Tamora Pierce, Theodora Goss, and Justine Larbalasteir this summer. I'm even going as a Beta student, which means that my story will be given to all of the attendees of Alpha and I will ~~do my best not to cry as they rip it to shreds~~ learn the magic of critiques in a very intense and awesome setting.
My goals for the summer include:
Stalking my librarian.
Finishing a rough draft of something. (I am intensely aware of non-writer people that can find this blog and also know me in real life, and I am too awkward to go into more detail about this sort of thing with friends. Obviously, strangers would be totally acceptable.)
Take Macroeconomics at a local university.
Make my mother take me on road trips. (Her job makes her travel. It'll be like Bring Your Kid To Work except College Edition!)
Rewatch episodes of Glee back from before it got terrible.
Annoy my friends, primarily this one.
Read. Read. Read more.
And finally, spend as much time as possible watching this:

Bradley James, you are the light in the darkness of Finals.

Prince Arthur has never looked so good.

Good luck to those of you with finals, and to the rest of you, I direct my unmitigated and jealous hate.

Until then:

Another BIrthday

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Fri, 03 May 2013 02:56:00 +0000

I don't post on this much anymore. It feels kind of strange too, honestly, especially since this is hooked to my Twitter account. People that I like, actually, know follow that. (Back when I started this blog, Twitter wasn't really a thing. Yeah, that's right, I was basically a hipster.) It's especially odd here in college because most people don't know that I write. Honestly, a lot of my friends here probably don't even know that I read much, because it's not really something I can get away with anymore to read in class, and besides, the classes are (usually) interesting enough that I actually pay attention. (Also, it's amazing how much more you feel obligated to pay attention when you're paying for them.) Regardless, the fact that I write is still fundamental to me personally, but definitely not something that most people would associate me with. It's actually rather odd, now that I think about it.
Anyway.
I'm turning 19 tomorrow. It's odd for a multitude of reasons. For one, I've officially been an American adult now for a year. Like -- what? I mean, sure, I'm picking out my own food now, but it usually consists of this:

And no, I'm not kidding. Plus ~~a lot of Sonic~~ because I am a frugal person that understands the value of the Moneyz, I occasionally spend a dollar or two at Sonic in order to consume a little bit of strawberry tea. But only a little bit.

(I've started going to the gym, Internet. Yes, I know. The horror. I refuse to touch the Freshmen Fifteen, though. It will not happen.)

Moving on.

The second reason that it's weird is that this is my last year as a teenager, which means absolutely nothing except for this strange concept that I'm not the same age as my favorite characters anymore. It's very weird. Amid the debates about New Adult as a genre, I can tell you at least one (Actually two, if you add Maggie) teenager is quietly wishing for people to shut up and just let it happen. Seriously, I want more of it. That's a rant for another time, though, when I don't have two hours of Spanish homework looming over my head and finals creeping ever closer. Fundamentally, I am used to talking about YA as 'my people' and 'my genre' and it's very weird to know that I'm 'out-growing' that. I put that all in quotations because I believe in remembering childhood and such, and I will always love YA, but again, that's better saved for another time.

The third reason is realizing how long I've had this blog. I posted about my 16th birthday here. My 17th, my 18th, too. I don't keep a diary, but this blog definitely is a form of one, even if I'm kind of just writing for myself now. But it felt wrong not to talk about turning 19.

In the last year, I:

-Ended high school.

-Placed nationally in debate with a great partner.

-Started college with many of my best friends at my side.

-Am ending my first year of college having fulfilled the cliche of losing many of my best friends as I grow up.

-Gained acceptance to Alpha yet again, where I will meet Scott Westerfeld, among others.

-Was awarded the Honors College Scholarship for a freshman student at my university.

-Ended up on several executive boards of various organizations.

-Attend Obama's second presidential inauguration and saw Washington DC for the first time.

-Met several people that will someday be very, very good bad guys in a novel.

-Remembered that I love to write.

Anyway. I have homework and I'm feeling sappy, which is dangerous on this website, so I'm going to say farewell. Tomorrow is my birthday and on Saturday, I'm going to the RT Book Convention in KC. Farewell, internet. I shall be back.

In Which I Show You My Life

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 03:25:00 +0000

Hello! Remember me? Oh. Well. That's okay, I wouldn't either. It's been a long time, after all.
So, because I so very rarely update this anymore, I am going to do just that -- update this blog! With my life! Yay! Exclamation points!
...
Anyway.
I am thick in the second semester of college, attending a lovely university in the Midwest and double majoring in business and political science. (Yep. That's right. Business and political science and still writing fiction. Defying stereotypes over here. You're welcome.) Last semester, I may have sucked at blogging, but I ended up on the Dean's List, stopped sleeping, and started writing a story about demons, so that's all quite good. Also, my coffee maker broke and the girls that live next to me in the dorm never stop talking. No, not even at 3 in the morning. In fact, that's the perfect time to start squealing and laughing and shrieking. I think that might have had something to do with the last bullet presented. (If you aren't in college yet, look forward to dorm life. No, really. Shared showers, in which half eaten apples mysteriously appear? Drunk people wandering the halls and asking if you'll be their mother? It's all very exciting.)

Also, that's my school. Ten points to Gryffindor if you can guess where I am. (Because college has taught me through late night Pottermore games that this is my house.)

So, instead of talking about my books and classes and tests and lack of coffee, I am going to show you something I was fortunate enough to partake in last January.

It started like this:

Actually, it started a lot more like this, because we had to wake up at 3 am.

But soon, the excitement overtook the weariness! Kind of. It helped that we ~~weren't plagued by a broken coffeemaker~~ were full of patriotic excitement. Have you guessed where I was yet? No? Does this help?

Notice the rising sun. Now, I'll have you know that the last time I was awake to see the sunrise, it was because I never went to sleep because I was busy watching trashy television with my friends and forgot to sleep. So, if you haven't gotten it yet, realize that this was a VERY IMPORTANT MOMENT. Finally, the sun crept up into the sky, and by crept, I mean it took its sweet time. Now my view looked like this.

Patriotism! Also, I do mean this is my view. A very excited woman in a very large hat got her hands on little American flags and waved them for roughly five hours straight. No, really. Five hours. It was impressive dedication to ~~annoyingness~~ love of country. Minus the flag, this is what I was looking at.

We had good 'seats.' We were the second section back, behind a bunch of celebrities and public figures. (The cast of Modern Family, for instance, waved at us as they went to their seats. How kind, right?) As a measure of why the second section back was so nice, here's a shot of a part -- only a part -- of the crowd.

Have you guessed where I was yet? Yes? Probably. You're smart. If not, don't worry. We were all waiting for this man.

That's right. I was at the 2013 Presidential Inauguration. I drove with some people from my school, crammed in a twelve person van, from Missouri to DC. I had never met any of these kids; we were pulled from various programs and years for the trip. We spent hours in the Smithsonian Museum; I spent hours drooling over the Library of Congress. We went to the monuments. We played word games with strangers in the crowd. And we saw this man:

Take the Presidential Oath of Office.

After, the streets were packed with people. 800,000 people flooded the surrounding area; to walk two blocks, it took almost an hour. If you ever want to know what the apocalypse might look like, put 800k people in a five block radius. Trash lined the streets and, when an ambulance had to come through, it took almost ten minutes for the crowd to get out of the way. The lines for food were hours long. and people kept screaming about various things -- what they were trying to sell, or that we'd just elected a dictator, or the words to Bootylicious. Hours and hours later, we got back to our hotel in Virginia, and within the next thirty hours, we were back in the Midwest.

So yeah. That's my life thus far. I mean, I'm doing other stuff too, but nothing that I really feel like posting pictures about.

Cheers, all! Stay warm!

Hey, I'm alive

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 03:00:00 +0000

It's been said, on the college campus that I currently call my home, that Thanksgiving is the time in which couples break up. Where old habits are broken. Where things change. I would like to tell you that means I will remember to blog and break the habit in which I suck at life, but that's probably too optimistic. So, um, here, have a cat.

You're welcome.

Anyway. Hi. It's been literally months since I've posted on this, and I expect that the readers of this blog are far away. Someday they come back, though, so hi. Yeah. Anyway. Um. Updates?

College has begun for me, and that explains my blogging hiatus. I am attending a large, large university and I am caught up in the world of text books, papers, and until recently, politics. I have read Don Quixote, Faust, Frankenstein, The Book Thief, part of Casual Vacancy (more on that at another time), a book about gay men in suburban bars, a novel on the importance of yoga, a couple horrible philosophers, a lot about politics, a lot about North Korea, and spent way too little time sleeping. There have been countless amazing lectures, several very cool concerts, and, oh, right, no sleep. None. It's quite rude of college, and quite needy, and I'm ready to flick it on the nose and give it a talking to.

I guess it makes for a lot of stories, though, and the best part of college? It's fun and it's crazy and it's reminding me that I like to write, that writing keeps me calm and that it's able to fit in even in the most random moments. (Like, um, when I should be paying attention in Sociology.) (But really, there's not much need for that, right?)
Anyway.
I essentially just posted this to remind myself that I have a blog and should remember to write. I have a job set up next year as a writing tutor. I plan on applying for Alpha again this year, and I have a five week Christmas break that might as well be Nano-Wri-Mo for the bored college student.
Happy Giving of Thanks, dears!

The Wonderful World of Made Up Worlds

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 23 Jul 2012 21:31:00 +0000

I have such a talent for post titles. Truly. You should all bow down to my awesome skillz. Or not. Hi. You're pretty. I really like your nose. And your teeth.

Anyway.

I went out to lunch the other day with my wonderful librarian (Also known as Green Bean Teen Queen) and Maggie. We talked about a bunch of things, many of them deliciously centered in the book world, and one of those things happened to be trends. Trends fascinate me. There is no new story; that's an old adage. Trends, however, take whatever new aspects we might see in a genre and push them into the market. Recently, we've seen the Twilight craze of Paranormal:

And even more recently, we've seen the Dystopian trend explode due to this wonderful book:

Most recently, though, a new trend has started. A new book is coming out that looks absolutely fantastic called A Throne of Glass, and it's not alone in the market. All of a sudden, fantasy novels are back in style. My guess? Game of Thrones has changed the game again. The book is now a hit show, and America -- and for that matter, a lot of the world -- is enthralled.

I'm amused. Fantasy has always been one of my favorite genres. I grew up on Robin McKinley, Diana Wynne Jones, and most of all, Tamora Pierce. Harry Potter was set in a fantasy world, and those aspects were always some of my favorites; Lord of the Rings is your classic fantasy novel, yet we haven't seen the trend too recently in YA. Still, there are some fantastic fantasy novels in the past five years, and if you're looking for something while waiting for the next George RR Martin, I suggest these:

General Winston's Daughter is fantastic. It is one of the most realistic worlds that I've ever encountered, with breathing characters and a beautifully crafted social structure.

Enchanted and Entwined are both smart, well done fairy tale mashups set in fantasy worlds. They're both clever and bright reads, without being difficult worlds or random story lines to sift through.

There are these as well:

All of these are relatively recent fantasy novels, all intricately built and easy to read. If you're waiting for fantasy novels after finishing Game of Thrones, there are plenty of books out there to look to now. And if you haven't already, seriously, dude. Read Tamora Pierce. (But of course you have. Why wouldn't you have? You're much too smart to have never read Tamora Pierce.)

Anyway. More later!

Winning

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 02:33:00 +0000

I talk a lot about debate on this blog. It's funny, and kind of random, because this blog was born out of my love for books. That love hasn't changed in the past four years, but something else did -- me. It isn't from writing, though, that I've become different. The part of me that loves books and words will always be there. The part that got good at using those words, though, came from debate.

That actually has very little to do with anything, but it makes me laugh.
So.

I graduated high school in May. It wasn't a particularly stunning event, honestly. Nothing felt any different. I was sad to leave my friends, and it's odd to think about going to college and waking up on my own, working on my own, but none of those things are the most troubling aspects of leaving school. No -- for me, it was leaving the debate room.
Yep. I'm a nerd. It's not disputed. (But come on, dudes, this is a literary blog. Do you expect much different?)

That's me. Yep.

Here's the thing, though.
I started high school shy. No, seriously. I was relatively quiet. I was political, but didn't like voicing it. I was very, very insecure. I was, however, still incredibly competitive. I planned on only two years of debate, taken with the purpose of securing a good college. Funny thing was, by my junior year, my grades were often slipping, because I was too busy with this:

I filled binders with literally hundreds of pages of research each month. I learned how to speak. I choked on nerves. My sophomore year, I barely did anything in terms of debate at all -- I couldn't get past those stupid, idiotic nerves. And then, toward the end of the year, my coach did something totally and utterly horrendous. He made me get up in front of my class, in front of kids that honestly, kind of scared me, and I started a speech. I say started because seriously, that's what it is. I never finished that dang speech. Instead, I started it 22 times.

No. Seriously. 22 times. I was cut off with 'Speak slower' and 'Sound calmer' and 'Sam, chill out' 22 times. I left school ~~basically in tears like the pathetic and emotional kid that I was and then I ranted a lot about my coach to my friends~~ with calm vigor and newfound respect for my coach.

Or...I might have acted like this for several weeks toward him.

Then came Junior year. I've talked about that a lot on this blog. I don't really know why, except for this: for me, Junior year was my turning point. It was when I attended Alpha. It was when I first experienced the hell of high school drama first hand, first went through that ~~stupid melodramatic thing~~ sad first heart break that everyone has to experience, and when I first won a varsity tournament. It was the first time I qualified to Nationals. It was when I became a National semi-finalist in a supplemental debate.

And then my senior year.

There's not as much on this blog about my last year of high school. In large part, that's because it passed so quickly. I've been wanting to write this post for some time, but it needed to wait until now. I want to talk about winning.

I am incredibly competitive. I said that earlier. It's a problem. I don't have the grace to apply that to sports, but it does apply to academics, and with debate, I found something that I was good at. Beyond that, though, I found something that if I truly worked at, I could make myself better. And I did: I brought home a lot of first place trophies this year. It got to the point where I was incredibly cocky. Like, beyond words kind of cocky. The kind I was ashamed to admit to and yet didn't really understand just how bad it was.

And then I lost.

But I didn't lose something small. I lost Districts. I lost the bid to Nationals, and the bid to State. I was someone who was slated to very possibly win State in my event ... and then I didn't qualify.

It was -- quite bad. I made Maggie pick me up and deal with my ~~emotional breakdown~~ calm confusion. It wasn't just that I had lost -- it was that I had lost something that I had poured my heart into, that I had built my world around, that I had assumed was mine already.

Sound familiar?

A lot of writers, I think, feel that way. To finish a novel, you have to break off a piece of your soul and press it into the pages. When that still isn't enough, when you still can't get published, when people still don't take notice, it is heart breaking.

But that isn't the point of this never ending post.

I still qualified to Nationals. I qualified in something called Public Forum debate. Puf, as we call it. Puf has always been the event I liked more, but it was not the one I won as often. At semester, I switched debate partners and ended up debating with one of my close friends. We made it together to Nationals. Even so, it hurt so horribly to give up the event that had been my baby. The thing I had loved, that I had poured so much of myself into.

Debate Nationals for high school, 2012, this year came in the form of Indianapolis. I attended, along with about 250 other teams. The best teams in the country. Many of them were private school. Many of them had much, much more money and resources than us, and they were quite happy to tell us about that.

Right. Here's the thing, and finally, the elusive point.

Two weeks ago, I ended up coming home with one of these.

I ended my high school career walking off the National stage with a very large trophy and a significant scholarship. I ended up placing very, very high, higher than I ever could have imagined and higher than anyone from my school ever has. My coach ends his career with that behind him, and my new coach, the assistant that I loved all year, saw his first Nationals end with my partner and I walking off that stage. Someone on my team had also done exponentially well, and as such, our little public school did better than anyone could have imagined.

I spent my last four years enveloped in debate. I learned to speak. I learned to research. I learned to be part of a team. I learned to dress, walk, and talk as if I have confidence, even when I don't. And even though I lost -- I lost so badly, even as recently as this year -- I ended up winning more than I ever, ever could have hoped for. I walked off stage with someone that I love and trust, I left a team that I honestly think I might have helped make better, and I left better. I left different.

So. Back to writing.

Sometimes you lose.

Not even that. Often, you will lose. Ask anyone that writes. Hell, ask me: I entered my last year of high school pleased and confident after leaving Alpha, and ending up often hating writing for reasons that have nothing to do with recreational habits and everything to do with some poor choices in a class room.

But.

You can win. You will win. Sometimes, when it seems as if everything is done, it really hasn't even started yet. Just keep working. Yeah, I know. None of this is shocking or new. But it is something I have always believed in, and I am so, so glad to have seen it proven to myself not just once or twice in the past years, but time and time again. My life has bled high lighter ink and statistics and quotes, and it's hard as anything I've ever done to leave it all behind. But moving on is moving forward. Debate is over, but I still have writing, and I still have everything I learned. That is priceless.

More later. Someday, maybe I'll even go back to putting up legit book stuff, like reviews! (Or more likely, a spiel about Game of Thrones.)

The Zombies Are Coming

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 22 May 2012 18:30:00 +0000

Look, guys! Two posts in one week! I'm so awesome. Obviously. (Don't leave! No, come back!)
All right, fine. I'm not. Two posts in one month. I'm beating my record. Remember when I used to post like, ten times a month? Yeah. Me either.
Originally, this post was written last month, but I never published it, because I was writing it at school and the computer hated me. However, I like Zombies. So. I am posting this now. Ignore the time discrepancies and enjoy the ~~creepy dead things~~ loveliness that is my Zombie-tastic musings.
And if that isn't enough...
Here. Have a Zac Efron. No charge.

Anyway. TIME FOR A TIME WARP IN WHICH SAM TAKES YOU BACK TO A POST I WROTE A MONTH AGO. WHEEE.

...

Anyway again.

I'm in the final days of senior year, now, which means that school consists of basically nothing. No, seriously. I read a 500 page book between yesterday and today without ever opening it outside of the school building. We watched a movie in one class. Oh, and my debate partner cracked his head open on the ceiling trying to jump off a chair.

...No. I'm not kidding. Ten staples and two stitches in his head. Lots of blood. There also may or may not be ten or twelve posts on Facebook about how I threw a tomahawk at him and that's how he ended up in the hospital.

Yeah, baby, we're going to Nationals.

Anyway. We're currently living in a world of boredom, and that does very bad things when combined with a bunch of hyperactive teenagers. For me, I ~~play on tumblr a lot~~ spend the time contemplating the known universe and everything within it. My friends, though, have found something even more interesting.

They've found the zombie apocalypse.

No, I'm not kidding. The entire debate team has, in the past week, discussed the coming zombie doom more than we've discussed anything that actually has to do with, you know, debate. Maggie starts quite a bit of it, and is assisting in writing a screen play.

...No, again, I'm not kidding. Why do you keep laughing at me? It's quite rude of you.

The Zombies are coming, apparently, and none of us are getting out alive. Normally, I would be pertrubed. In the team of Zombies versus Unicorns, I am totally on the sides of the sparkles. But, that said, I'm fascinated. A fantastical element of society, implemented into common conversation? Me gusta. It's like we nerds are taking over the world.

One thing that the writing world is quite interesting in comes in the form of nerd power. Being intelligent -- being showy about being geeky -- isn't really something that's embraced in high school. Shocking, right? But in the writing world? At Alpha? Random knowledge is something to be proud of. It's something that is hard won, and eventually, something that makes life interesting. For years, I've collected random bits of information. We all do. For me, I know about 17th century navies and pirates, and Norse mythology, and the history of redheads, and a lot of random political theory. For Maggie, there is a multitude of things -- music, philosophy of dreams -- but specifically, a lot of random strangeness about zombies. And it's cool to me to watch a group of friends reveal their secret geekiness in something as ~~strange as creepy dead things~~ unique as zombies. It's like the writing world come to life.

Random knowledge, yo. Do you have any that you'd like to share? Feel free to speak. Or type. I mean, you can speak too, but that might be weird. And I probably won't hear you. By all means, though, go right ahead. I'll be off avoiding my friends, their tomahawks, and their elaborate plans for my zombie-tastic death.

More later.

Unless I'm undead.

Then probably not, because my fingers shall not be able to type.

All Grown Up, and Nowhere To Go?

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 21 May 2012 05:48:00 +0000

Hello, darlings!

Guess what? In the past two weeks, a lot of things have happened. Yes? Yes. I'm a horrible blogger this year, so let me update some. Now:

I am a high school graduate.

And I'm eighteen (and watching a ton of Disney.)

I've attended Senior Prom (and, um, left early to go camping with my friends.)

And I wore a (totally hideous) cap and gown.

I have a diploma (even though I wasn't technically supposed to get it until after I'm back from debate Nationals.)

And somehow...

I feel totally the same.

YA is interesting. Books are made out of moments. The sad ones, the happy ones, the ones that have you laughing until you can't breathe, or crying until your eyes ache. What we put into pages -- what we take out of pages -- comes from life. In the last two weeks, a lot of life, at least by societal standards, has been shoved into my lap. It's rather odd, actually.

I mean -- I never really doubted that, if possible by health and wealth, I would graduate high school. It's a luxury I've been allowed in my life to know that was a signpost I would obtain. It's something that I shouldn't take for granted, but definitely have. Through the stress and drama of high school, this was basically the mantra:

It was a basic one. An easy one. But when I look at books, and movies, and just stories in general, it feels like it should have been a bigger moment. It's the same with turning 18. I mean -- whoa. I'm an adult. (Haha. That's a joke. Right?) It doesn't feel any different. This is still one of my favorite movies.

I still like sparkles on my nails. Nothing has changed.But now people automatically take you a little bit more seriously when you say your age. You get jobs easier. In some countries, you can drink. But that moment wasn't any different from any other birthday. Senior prom was just another dance. Wearing my graduation robe was kind of just like wearing a superman cape, and my diploma just seems like a sheet of paper.

I guess the moments we put into books really aren't moments at all. It's odd, and much too musing of me, but I think the interesting part comes from the culmination of time. Maybe graduation was meh, but high school? I was lucky; I enjoyed every year. I joined debate. I made friends. I did decently well in figuring out my goals in writing and making strides to someday achieving those goals. I became me: I talk too much, care too much about politics, take too many pictures, and wear too much sparkly nail polish, but that is, indeed, me. Someday, those parts of me will make my writing better. The paper that means a diploma doesn't represent a ceremony of graduation; it represents four years of laughing and changing and crying and becoming who I am.

I don't know. I don't feel different; I'm not. Those moments didn't change anything about who I am, but they do represent the changes that have happened. It's growing up, I suppose.

How marvelously strange, and how scarily interesting.

More later, with more substance. I just wanted to update. Also, post pictures of Disney. Because why not?

Characters: Those people things

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 23:50:00 +0000

I have a confession.
I'm weird.
Yeah, yeah. I know. Most of us are. Actually, we all are. We -- especially we book types -- come in odd forms. We like locking ourselves in rooms alone with dead trees and pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist. We sit at our computers and lose ourselves in worlds that only we can see. We collect intangible words and hold them close. It's a characteristic of people who love books. And why?
Because:

Every group of people has that. Has that set of things that makes them different. Some of us like words. Some of us enjoy cooking. Some ~~freaks~~ lovely individuals like spending their time ~~getting sweaty and disgusting~~ working out. That's what makes life -- and books -- interesting. High lighting the differences.

Even better, though, is the weird stuff.

Some of it doesn't translate well to books because it's just too odd. I, for instance, live in the debate group. The mix consists of about fifty people -- seriously, our prom group numbers 30 -- but you can narrow it down to ten or fifteen of my particular 'people'. We go camping in back yards because we're too lazy to go further, but we like the out doors. We make a lot of mix cds and we go to a lot of movies and the boys play a lot of Frisbee. We're known in the school as the debate kids, and known by the characteristic of being snarky, cynical, and competitive.We spend too much time at the local Sonic, drinking way too much soda. (Except we gave soda up for prom. You don't know how much that hurt.) (I miss cranberry coke desperately.)

All of those things are part of our group. Those translate as our characters. But there are little things that probably wouldn't make much sense in a book. Time at tournaments has made us lose our personal space. It isn't uncommon for people to randomly bite someone else on the shoulder or wrist -- and by bite, I really do mean bite (I know, it really is weird). We joke to the point of meanness and get in trouble for talking a lot. (I am a senior, dangit, and still having my seat moved by my teachers. It's incredibly obnoxious.) (But then, I guess I am too.) Those things don't really translate as well. If I were writing a book and using us as characters, those little things wouldn't make sense to put in.

It's interesting to me. I've been reading a lot lately -- I took a class called Appreciation of Literature this semester and all it consists of is reading and reviewing books -- and the difference between strong and weak characters comes in the details. I have the bad habit of looking at my friends and thinking of them in terms of a character. One of my best friends has bright hair and a bright laugh; another will either end up an incredibly successful engineer or a freaking crazy mob boss. It's fascinating to wonder about authors and their characters. Even if we don't mean to, I think we pull from our friends. Things that are said, jokes that are made. Nervous habits. I was reading something I wrote for Alpha last year and noticed just how many of my characters ran hands through their hair, or twisting their hair, or pulling at it, when they were upset or thinking or nervous. When I watch my friends, I see the same movement. It's a stress thing, I think, and in debate, that's one of the few nervous ticks you'll see demonstrated time and time again in hallways.

The other most recent notice of good characters comes by Hunger Games. Even in the movie, the characters has things about them that make them breathe. When watching the movie, you can ~~ignore everything else and realize just how freaking adorable Josh Hutcherson is~~ see Peeta or Cinna or Rue or Haymitch and realize just how good Suzanne Collins' characters are.

I don't know. It's interesting to think about.

Anyway. More later. And for now, go watch Hunger Games.

(Seriously, now. Why haven't you already?)

And So the Games Go

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 22:57:00 +0000

Hello, darlings!
Debate is officially done for the season, and my senior year is now winding down. I am a two time national qualifier, I am accepted into college, and I have now gone a month without drinking soda. And now that I have informed you of my recent (and obviously very impressive) accomplishments, I can move on to the more fascinating parts of life!
Namely:

Have you seen it? (Why haven't you? Seriously. Go, now.) (Seriously. Look at this.)

I love the Hunger Games with a vaguely unhealthy passion. They are some of my favorite books, and Catching Fire is probably one of my top three. In an abnormal fashion, the movie ended up exceeding my expectations.

(Granted, that might be in large part due to the fact that Josh Hutcherson is incredibly cute.)

Seriously, though. The special effects were really good. The script kept close to the book, and I found the filming style interesting. I really like Jennifer Lawrence and the soundtrack has a great song from Maroon Five. Plus, there's this:

For now, that's basically it. In the meanwhile, listen to this!

More later!

Alpha, guys. Get out your applications.

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 18:23:00 +0000

My love for Tamora Pierce is well documented. She's one of my idols; without her books, I never would have dove so vicariously into writing. Without her characters, I don't think I ever would have understood so much about feminism, friendship, or love. My freshman year of high school, I was able to exchange several messages with her via YA for Obama; it was a time when writing had gone to the wayside, and that correspondence brought me back to the world I loved. A year passed. Inkpop happened. I got into debate. I figured out my hair and learned how to give myself a really good manicure. Basically, life happened.

Then, late March of my sophomore year of high school, my mother came up to me and told me about a camp in which Tamora Pierce took part as a mentor. That camp was -- and is -- called Alpha. She'd seen mention of it on John Scalzi's blog. Immediately, I went to the site --

and they had already closed admissions.

It looked like heaven. It was a writing camp, a selective and international writing camp, that's held in Pittsburgh. It's based primarily on short stories, but the camp goes over everything. World building. Characters. Feminism, racism, religion. It's like heaven, except with much less sleep and way more junk food, and the wings we talked about were just as often made of metal or scales as they were of feathers. Ahem.

Life happened again. I bookmarked the page. Months passed. January of last year rolled around, and I realized that soon, I could apply to Alpha. I wrote a short story. I promptly deleted that short story. I wrote it again. I ~~pulled out my hair, cried and ate ice cream~~ maturely realized that it was horrible, that this was a normal growing experience, and so tarted anew. I was closing in on the deadline. I wrote yet another short story, frantically forced Maggie to edit and read it, and rewrote again. I'd never written short stories. It was jarring, weird, and unpleasant to force myself to do something new, but at the end, I had a decent twelve pages of -- ahem -- a story in which a genetically altered teenager ended up on an alien planet and then sided with the aliens. (Shut up. I like genetically altered rebels, okay?) (For those of you who don't get it, this was the story that won Inkpop:

...Yeah, yeah.)

But. I applied. I waited. And then I got in. In July of 2011, I attended Alpha.
I don't have words for how glad I am that I did.
The people are amazing. The help is divine. The mentors -- Tamora Pierce! -- are so, so helpful. It's funny and really, really worth it. I can't express in enough words what a great time it was. A published horror author -- Scott Johnson -- told us stories in a grave yard. We played Oregon Trail and discussed philosophy. We read really bad stories out loud, gossiped about authors, and made towers out of waffles and brownies. We sang Disney songs and waged paper airplane wars. There's writing advice and signed books and publication discussions. It's the most real writing has ever felt for me. I've always loved it, but being around people that loved it just as much was eye opening and truly wonderful.

The video before was made by the lovely Lale and shows just a little bit of Alpha as it was last year. (The man in the starting clip is Robert Sawyer,) (The chick with the messy and heavily chlorinated hair in the corner of the screen would be yours truly.)

Anyway. If you can, I suggest you apply. I plan on it. Check out the page. It's worth your time. If you have any questions, I'll gladly answer them.

It's worth it, guys. I have pictures with the person that made me want to write. I have friends from all over the country, and even from across the world. I learned about writing and so much more, and I suggest heavily that you check it out.

In Which Sam Gets Deep

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 20:35:00 +0000

I started this blog when I was in sophomore year of high school. At that point in time, writing was my life -- and don't worry, it still is. I live, breathe, and sometimes dream of words. (When I'm not dreaming of Prince Charming, from Once Upon A Time.)

Seriously. How hot.

Anyway. Words. (That aren't -yummmm-)
I collect them, not just on my sagging bookshelf, but in a binder on my desk that drips my favorite quotes, and pasted on my bed room door, and even one that's framed in my bathroom. No matter what happens to me in the next year, or in the next five years, as long as I'm breathing, I'll be hunting for words, strung together in sentences, or sometimes just alone -- the cynical kind, the beautiful kind, the kind that make you think, or just the kind that make my twisted sense of humor happy.

For instance, this word. One of my favorites.

But since sophomore year, a lot about my life has changed.
In March of 2010, I won inkpop.com with a story called Altered. I got an interview from editors that changed my life. Now, at 17, I can honestly say that. (Yeah, guys, I'm old and wise and junk. Yeppppp.) I wrote the essay for the Common App about Inkpop, and the validation that it gave me. Altered was and is my baby. I queried too fast after finishing it; by the time I figured out the patterns of plot and such, I'd already done too much. And so, I closed Altered off, and went about life -- still collecting words, still writing, still anxiously eyeing my sagging bookshelf and wondering how long it would be before it totally collapsed.
Then last year came, and something shifted. I ended up dating my best guy friend, and it ended in a catastrophic way that will someday be immortalized in a novel. I went through the typical signs of teenage drama, but somehow a little bit escalated; for instance, for reasons that I'd rather not go into, the entire grade-- or at least my entire English class, plus the entire debate team, and for that matter, the choir -- felt the need to get involved, or at least have a very, very vocal opinion. Suddenly, words were more than just pretty things I collected. They were my refuge.

This actually has very little to do with the post. I typed in refuge, and this came up, and I find it incredibly cool.

Writing took a hit, though, last year, for two reasons. The first was The Messy Mess of Boydom; all my writing was cathartic, therapeutic collections of memories that I refused to forget, or even let fade. (I'm weird that way.) The second was debate. November of my Junior year, something happened. I started winning. I started winning a lot, and as cocky I feel saying that (Like, OH LOOK AT MEEEEE, I GET THE SHINIES) it is actually true. I've always loved debate, but when I switched to varsity sophomore year, I got my butt kicked; winning, however, took more time and more work to keep up, and so writing went away as my collected words came from political philosophy and the New York Times. But, by the end of March, I had this:

and by the end of June, I was ranked as a National Semi-Finalist in Parliamentary debate. For that, I can blame my addictions to words. Reading and writing so much has taught me to speak well, even on the spot, and Parliament is fast -- you need to be able to think quickly and then be able to convey those thoughts in the span of two minutes.

By July, writing came back, though. In July, I went to Alpha. It's a selective speculative writing camp held in Pittsburgh; I wanted to go because Tamora Pierce taught there, and Tamora Pierce is one of my idols. Alpha didn't just introduce to me to incredibly cool people -- such as Lale or Gretchen -- but it reminded me of why I loved writing, and how much fun it can be to just sit and play around with stories.

(I mentioned this to my mother the other day: my preferred way of spending time, when not with friends or working on debate, is to sit in the dark and mess with make-believe characters. This puts into a strange, strange perspective.) (But generally I'm burning nice smelling candles ... So it's okay, right?)

They're still the happy smells!

But anyway. Coming to the end of this heinously long post:

It's now my senior year of high school. Since Altered, I've started half a dozen stories, gotten about 30k in, and switched to something else. I'm finally playing with something new that I think will last longer, but at the same time, I'm learning to balance. I've applied to colleges -- several very selective, and one that already has offered scholarship and sent a Christmas card hand signed by the Dean of Admissions.(He has a pretty signature.) I've won five first place trophies this semester, and a couple of slightly less impressive ones -- but ones that would have thrilled me two years ago. I'll probably apply for Alpha again this year; I hold the title of Debate Mom on my team, even though the team is huge, as well as 'The scary redhead' from other schools that I compete against. (It's an oddly flattering nickname. Granted, others are not so nice.) (They're jealous of the Gingers.) (It started a long, long time ago.) (See?)

An original scary redhead. Mwahaha.

Life is balanced and happy, and I'm looking forward to 2012. I've read three books so far within this year -- if rereading Scorpio Races counts -- and still am managing everything else. Two years ago, when I started this blog, I don't know that I could have expected my life right now. It's a lot more full than it used to be -- but it's also a lot more fun. And someday, maybe even someday soon? The words I've collected will change into words that I've made.

I mean, that is assuming that the world doesn't end and everything next December.

But until then, high school is speeding up as it comes to an end. It isn't as scary as it used to be, either.

More later, guys. Promise, it won't be so much pontificating!

Until then:

Go watch Once Upon A Time. Seriously. Get past the first episode of cheesiness. It's worth it.

And here comes the New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 03:54:00 +0000

So, today is the first day of the New Year. In 2012, I graduate high school, and the world is supposed to end. I'm not sure which one scares me more. Currently, probably high school, because I've yet to settle on a college. BUT.
Let's evaluate 2011 first.
It was a year of books, man, and good books at that. For me, the tie for the favorite comes down to these three:

Divergent was fast, and beautifully written, and had a really, really cute guy -- minus a love triangle. I push this book on my friends at all cost; after I got an advanced copy from my lovely librarian and returned it, I asked for it as an early birthday present from my mother so that I could have my own copy to ~~pet and whisper sweet things to~~ tote around. It's that good.

Okay, so Myra McEntire is, without question, one of my favorite authors -- and she's only written one book. Why do I love her, then? She is funny. She is sweet, and she is nice, even to the ~~creepy teenage kid~~ aspiring author with a blog who accosted her for an interview. When Hourglass came out, I was wary -- I didn't want to dislike it, but I wanted to like it on the terms of the writing and not the person who wrote it.

It didn't disappoint. It mixes A Wrinkle In Time with the best of modern paranormal, and it does it in a way that embraces the culture of the south and the mentality of modern teenagers -- which, ultimately, turned a good book into a great one.

and finally:

Holy monkeys, guys. This book is so different than anything else. It's eerie and creepy, and I love it so much. The characters are so real that they could step out of the pages. (Then they would stare in horror at Missouri and our lack of ocean, and promptly turn back around.) Parts of the book are so well written than I'm overwhelmed with an odd and overemotional desire to cry at the prettiness of it all. I love this book for so many reasons, and if I continue to gush anymore, you will run away and never come back, so I'm cutting it short there.

Anyway.

It also occurs to me that this was the last year of Harry Potter.

I'm not quite sure how to respond to that, except for lots and lots of movie marathons, and possibly sleeping with the final book next to my pillow.
For now, this is it, however. Happy New Year!

It's totally awesome -- or, um, not

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 06:50:00 +0000

Hello and good morning, my lovelies! How are you? Good? That's good. Applying to college? (I'm so sorry. It's almost over; the last applications are almost all gone.) To my fellow Americans, I hope you enjoyed a healthy coma of carbs and tryptophan. To those across the world, I offer you this. Because why not.

(I wish I could cook.) (No, seriously. My friends and I tried to fry chicken the other day, and it ended with me sitting on a counter at a safe distance.) (I am obviously a bad American.)
Anyway. As the holidays set in, college searches start to solidify, and debate picks up, my life is in a pattern of complicated comfort. Obviously, this a problem. At all times, something should be stressful. So, last night, I decided to Black Friday Shop.

That's what I thought it was like. She looks happy. Happy, but stressed, which, sure, I'm cool with. But I didn't understand what it truly means to Black Friday Shop.
If you've done this, you understand why I capitalized that.
So, we've all had that moment. The one where you get pumped up. You drink coffee, you tap your feet, you wait and you bounce in anticipation for the moment. (Or, in my case, you get together with friends, you go to dinner, and you goof around a lot while waiting.)
And then the moment totally sucks.
For some of us, it came with the first onscreen appearance of unfortunate sparkling vampires. For others, it was at the release of the final Hunger Games, or the final Harry Potter. Personally, I got through Twilight with a fair bit of amusement, and I cried a satisfying amount through both of the aforementioned books. So it was time to be disappointed and horrified. It was coming. I should have known.
Shopping was crazy. People are crazy. I understand mobs now. Granted, we watched from afar (casually sitting on a bench while people ran by) but it was still very different than expected, and ultimately, rather horrible to watch. (Victoria's Secret, man. People in there are on missions, and they shall not be distracted.)

So, what's up with you guys? Black Friday stories? Stories of disappointment? Holiday happiness? Open reign.

Nano, here we go

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 19:13:00 +0000

So, it's the end of the month, and as you can tell from how many posts I managed to make, I'm kind of sort of really, really busy. Debate is alive and well (3 first place trophies? Why, yes, I shall take them, and please, why don't you take a look at my massive ego as well?) and I'm trying to get out a new rough draft on a story.
Which brings NANO into play.

I'm going to actually try and finish the novel this month. I'm not particularly worried about getting the 50k for Nano -- I just wanna get this rough draft done. For me, that's the hardest part of writing. I love editing; it's just a matter of getting something to edit. I started playing with something at Alpha last summer. I think it might actually be decent if I can just get it done.
For now, I'm going to finish my applications for college and then go get ice cream. And then, writing!
More blog posts soon, I promise. I just wanted to make an appearance, and an official acknowledgement of the fact that I'm signing up to get myself killed through November.
Ciao, darlings!

College application, why you so mean?

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 16:53:00 +0000

Hello, friends. How's life? Do you still have hair? Yes? That's lovely. I, in the midst of applying to college, am going to lose all of mine. That's basically just decided. It's quite sad, too, because I'm ginger and we're a dying breed -- my hair loss, thus, will have horrific ramifications to world diversity.
...Er. Right. (I promise, I'm smart! Just don't look at my math grades...)
But seriously. I shall mourn my hair.

-admires the Ginger-

Anyway.

Amid the ~~endless panic attack~~ marvelous adventures of making perhaps the most important decision of my teenage life, I've spent a lot of time on the Common App. Essays are fine; I don't mind those. I try not to look too long at my GPA, and I'm okay with my test scores. But then I get to the hardest supplemental question a college can ask.

What is your favorite book?

-__-

Asking that question to a bibliophile is perhaps the cruelest injustice you can force upon them. (Except, you know, burning books and banning books and all of that really, truly horrible stuff.)

It's evil for multiple reasons.

First.

College is a smart place, and so I am tempted to list smart books. Honestly? I've yet complete Old Man and the Sea, but it seems like the type of book that should be my favorite. But it isn't. Not at all. The thing is, I've got dozens of favorites, and they're completely totally random.

I do really, really love this one:

But somehow I doubt any college would believe that. A Little Princess is my go to comfort book, but that doesn't seem particularly intelligent. I love it for the story and the writing and the nostalgia.

But Harry Potter was the book of my childhood. I pull Ender's Game out when I'm having bad days. Howl's Moving Castle feels like an old friend, and Divergent is that new, sparkling buddy -- and those are just a few.

Asking me to pick one is like asking me to pick a favorite friend (except not, because Maggie wins that) (even though she, now having joined debate, has sided with the boys in incessant and yet amusing mockery)

and ends up being much too difficult.

So, obviously, my response is to just give up on college.

...

Oh, wait, maybe not.

Anyway. What about you? What's your favorite? Can you pick just one? Do you think that I should drop all hopes of college and wrangler Jaguars.

More later.

Books and friends and bookish friendships

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 16:48:00 +0000

Hello darlings! Have you missed me? (Pretend, please?)

I've missed you all. I've pined. No, really. I mourn the death of my home's Internet pretty much hourly, especially since all the stupid college classes I'm taking aren't stupid at all and in fact need internet to do a large amount of the work.

(No, come back! Come back, I'll stop whining, I promise!)

Anyway.

I'd forgotten that my phone could work blogger, so I'm gonna try and use this to post occasionally (until freaking AT&T gets here with Internet) (Seriously. Doing debate without internet is awful) (Okay, I'm done) because I miss you all.

But anyway. (Again.)

Do you talk about books? I'm guessing yes, if you're reading this. I always feel weird describing the books I'm reading to random people, because too often I'm just like ...well, there's a boy...and he's a vampire/zombie/werewolf/elf....and he's really cute...

But to real book people? Talking to them is fun. I forget, sometimes, that book people are everywhere, though.

I had a conversation with a guy today about books. (Dude, I know. I talked to a guy, about books. A new guy. How weird, right? Don't you love my stereotypes? No? What about my parenthesis?) But that isn't the interesting part. I haven't discussed books with someone new in a long time. I'd forgotten the friendships that done from yammering about them. Stories and characters and plot make the best bonds. At Alpha this past summer, people were able to immediately start conversations because of books, because of love shared over stories.

(But still. Don't necessarily be that person in the book store that is like OMG THIS BOOK I LOVE IT ALSO HI YOU ARE PRETTY. Because books do not need to equate pick up lines.) (Unless he's British. Then do what is necessary.)

Actually, the bond with my best friend came from books. They tie people together easily and there's something magical about that. The best writing comes with friends. The best friends often share books. (Like in Tamora Pierce's Circle books omg Briar and Tris.)

Anyway. For now, that's all my fingers can type on this aggravating keyboard. And to my best friend, happy birthday. :P

Maggie, I love you. Here's to another lovely year of books. :P (Even if 18 means adult and adults are scary.)

More later, people. Continue loving each other. Also, discussing books.

(And if you have internet? Hug it for me. Love it. Because someday, it might be gone.)

(Okay, seriously, I'm done complaining now.)

(Love me.)

Small Town Sinners by Melissa Walker

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sat, 27 Aug 2011 19:35:00 +0000

Release Date: Eh, it's out.

Amazon Says:
Lacey Anne Byer is a perennial good girl and lifelong member of the House of Enlightenment, the Evangelical church in her small town. With her driver's license in hand and the chance to try out for a lead role in Hell House, her church's annual haunted house of sin, Lacey's junior year is looking promising. But when a cute new stranger comes to town, something begins to stir inside her. Ty Davis doesn't know the sweet, shy Lacey Anne Byer everyone else does. With Ty, Lacey could reinvent herself. As her feelings for Ty make Lacey test her boundaries, events surrounding Hell House make her question her religion.

I Say:

I live in the Bible Belt. I live with religious friends. Throw a stone in my town and you will hit a church. With all of that, I've never much liked reading about religion. It's somewhat awkward to read about characters that remind me so much of people I know.

However.

Melissa Walker does this beautifully. In the back of the book, she discusses how she hadn't heard of Hell Houses before researching the novel, that when she first heard of them, she thought they were a joke.

(For those of you who haven't encountered Hell Houses: they're set up in a church, or a house, and each room represents a different sin or a different situation. They start small and get bigger usually. A 'devil' leads you through the scenes, all of which usually end dramatically.)

They aren't a joke, though. I know of three around my surrounding area, and though I've never been, I have friends that have gone and probably will go again.

Melissa Walker covers the touchy subject well. She neither condemns or endorses the ideas of Christianity; instead, she follows a teenage girl as the girl begins to question the things she's always been taught. Lacey is a character that could very easily attend my high school. Every character in the book could. I did not, however, feel awkward reading about the touchy subjects, or annoyed at any sort of preachiness. The book is a story and not a lesson, which I appreciated immensely.

It's a very internal novel. There is a strong plot, but the crux of the novel seemed to be inside of Lacey's thoughts. It's a novel about religion, but I definitely wouldn't call it a religious novel. All in all, a good read. It wasn't my favorite by Melissa Walker, but it was certainly solid.

More later.

Home, Home on the Range

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 17:38:00 +0000

I think a title like that requires antelope. Right? Antelope?

There we go. You're welcome.
So, I'm home! I'm home, and it's hot and humid, but there is vanilla coke and a queen size bed at my disposal. I am quite fond of this bed. In fact, so fond that I didn't leave it until 2 in the afternoon yesterday, and that was just to go watch Glee project.
(BTW, is anyone else watching that? Is anyone else cheering with all of their heart for Sam? Because I totally am.)

(That's a lie, actually. Part of my heart loves Damian.)

(These are important things, people. I promise. Someday, when the Apocalypse looms, you'll be sitting there wondering, 'Why did I not care more about a random reality tv show in which teenagers sing a lot?')

Anyway. I'm back from Alpha and oozing all sorts of advice. Not sure how to translate it to blog posting, though.

Well. I think this was probably my favorite advice. It came from several authors at Alpha -- Ellen Kushner, Tamora Pierce, several of the staff.

And it's quite simple.

Let your first draft suck.

No, really.

It needs to suck.

It will suck.

There is no doubt that your first draft is going to suck.

That doesn't matter, though. What matters is getting it down. You just have to finish It was something we talked about a lot -- a majority of people will never finish something they work on. Many people at Alpha had never finished anything. Finishing? Yeah. It's half the battle.

Finishing turns you into THIS.

...What? Not bad a$$ enough?

This, then?

No? MY LANTA, PEOPLE.

Fine. Finishing yours novel turns you into this.

Yeah. You're welcome.

Anyway, writing makes you a soldier. Finishing makes you a warrior. Editing turns you into a general, and getting published means that you, My Dear, have won the war.

But first, you must ~~become a cat with a melon on its head~~ as Jane Yolen put it, "Just finish the damn book."

Anyway. More later. I'm going with Maggie to see MAGGIE STIEFVATER OMG this weekend, so yayness. Possibly some on that.

Also, there might be a little Tamora Pierce fangirling.

Anyway. More later.

Help me, don't hammer me

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 18:42:00 +0000

Hello, my lovelies! So, I'm at Alpha and have been getting some really incredible advice. Today, Ellen Kushner is lecturing and gave a great speech on critiquing.

I think you can see where this is going.

I'm going to pass some of it along. It involves a hammer. I could not find a good picture of a hammer, readers. I wanted one that sparkled and was possibly quite pink. Instead, I found this.

Yeah. You're welcome.

(I understand, though. The pink would have been much better.)

Anyway.

We're talking about how critique is not a time to show off. I've seen it -- I bet you have too. People try to show off, show that they are Very Awesome At Fixing Stories. Yet, instead of fixing, they just berate the writer and then the write goes into Emo Corner of Shame -- and, quite possibly, stops writing.

So. The point of critiquing?

That would be to help.

Not to hammer.

(Even if the hammer is purple or pink or sparkly.)

As Ellen Kushner put it, "As a writer, when you critique someone else, you need to think ‘what do they need from me’ not ‘what can I do to them'".

The thing is -- as Ms. Kushner pointed out -- you take a first draft to a friend when you can't take it any further alone. You don't take a first draft to a friend so that they can be all UNICORNS AND SPARKLES AND DRAGONS OMG THIS IS AWESOME. You take it to them so that they can say 'Hey, I love the unicorns, and I thought the sparkles were really innovative, but I am not connecting with the dragons. They just aren't quite ugly enough."

And then you realize that, hey, your dragons look like this--

and you need some more fangs to get them here.

(And then you laugh, because the dragon does not stand a chance. It's totally gonna be purified and made to sparkle.)

She also pointed out that you learn more from critiquing than you do just from writing your own stories. You need to analyze, need to look at what works and what doesn't. First drafts are allowed to suck. They're sometimes supposed to suck. So you don't need someone meanly telling you what sucks, but instead how to improve and turn it from sucking to awesome.

Yeah.

We're going to pretend that my five hours of sleep are not starting to hit.

Just -- go look at the puppy. Or read Ellen Kushner's book. Or, hey -- go check out a friend's story. Pull out the carving tools and start playing with them, and just let the hammer alone.

Also.

TONIGHT I GET TO SEE TAMORA PIERCE.

That is all. More later.

This might be heaven

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 16:56:00 +0000

No, not Alpha, though I am at that and loving that. However, heaven requires a little bit more blankets. BUT. It is incredibly lovely and you all should apply if you are able because omg it's kind of sort of awesome and I'll talk about that more later.
For now.
There is a contest, and you should enter.
It is here on Myra McEntire's blog. If you are a long time follower of this blog, then you've seen my well documented ~~obsession~~ respect and i~~nsane love~~ admiration for Ms. McEntire. If you have not, then here is an interview with her and here is a review of her book.
And she is going on tour.
And I cannot go.
But I am going to talk about it anyway, because you should go.
Beth Revis, Myra McEntire, and Victoria Schwab are going on tour in their home cities. Here is the link to Myra's page, talking about it.
Seriously, guys.
If you can, you should go and worship.
Just, you know, because.
Anyway, more later. Probably about Tamora Pierce and my love for her.
Because, you know, why not?