ishyface: (reading is neat)


Remember that noise the blender makes right before you go to sleep tonight. It will be a fun and groovy time.

Today I was thinking about the stories I told myself when I was a kid.

I used to get bored all the time. This is a constant hazard when you are a child with an overactive imagination, I think- the world as it is inside your head is so full of ADVENTURES and WHAT-IFS and EXCITING THINGS that the world outside your head can never quite measure up. My brain was populated with dragons, orphaned princesses, space aliens, sentient rocks, telekinetic harpies, and murderous duchesses with multicoloured tentacles instead of hair, and frankly, venturing outside of it to live in real time was boring. So I used to have these storylines running in my head whenever I did boring stuff, like a movie you put on in the background while you clean your room. One particularly dull day spent with my least favourite aunt and cousins saw me staging an elaborate dungeon breakout, negotiating with a mob of angry ghosts, and crowning myself leader of an itinerant wolf pack, all without leaving my seat in the back of my aunt's minivan. I think maybe they wondered why my eyes periodically unfocused, but they never asked any questions.

The first character I ever remember making up was a girl named Aurora, who I started telling stories to myself about in second grade. She was a princess who lived above the clouds in a ~magical sky kingdom and had a pet unicorn and was betrothed to a super handsome dude who looked kind of like Tuxedo Mask in breeches. Seriously. It was pretty much the girliest thing ever, except for the part where she and her parents were locked in an eternal war with a bunch of giant sky-rats who occasionally kidnapped Super Handsome Dude and tortured him hideously until Aurora rode in on her magical unicorn and kicked their asses. I remember being really interested in the torture parts, because seven-year-old Ish loved ponies and ruffles and sparkles and GORE. I never wrote any of these stories down- pity, I bet they were awesome- and they have mostly disappeared from my head, but I remember the basic outlines of the world. Rainbows! Sunshine! EVERYBODY DIES.

Oh, and also I gave this Aurora chick blue hair because I read a book which featured a girl with blue hair and I thought that was just about the neatest thing in the world, further proving that I haven't really changed much since elementary school.

I was thinking about this before, and began to wonder if the book actually existed or if I'd just imagined it. So I Googled "books about blue-haired princesses" and got... surprisingly few relevant hits. Clearly this is a niche market just begging to be exploited. Eventually I found the book in question, which was written by Carol Beach York and called Good Charlotte. I took a look at some of the reviews.

Okay,I never ever read the book but I am OBSESSED with the band Good Charlotte.I only love this book because Good Charlotte named themselves after it.I will buy the book in the near future and read it.Well anyways if your a true fan of GOOD CHARLOTTE(the band) you have to buy this book.I know it has nothing to do with Good Charlotte but still buy it!!

I now know how to boost my eventual book sales with little to no effort. The next novel I write will be called Simple Plan. Y'all better buy it if your true fans!!!

Weezer is coming to St. John's on July 22nd. Hot Hot Heat are opening for them. This is pretty exciting for me, since I like HHH okay and Weezer was the soundtrack to my life in eighth grade. However, there are no floor seats left at all. And, well, I don't go to concerts to sit down in a chair and clap politely, I go to jump up and down and sing and dance badly and (if all goes well) fall down at least twice.

Oh, Rivers Cuomo. I love you a lot. But I don't know if I love you enough to sit still.

In conclusion, here is a video in which Aldous Snow teaches us all very valuable things about the letter U.



Because I saw Get Him To The Greek last week and even though it wasn't that good, and even though it suffered from all the same problems that all Apatow Etc. films suffer from, and even though it featured an unexpected rape scene that was played for laughs because the victim was a dude*, I can't get the fucking songs out of my head.

(P.S.: Happy Canada Day! I don't really celebrate Canada Day at all because while I think this country is an okay place and I'm mostly glad I live here, patriotism in general makes me uncomfortable. I hope anyone who does celebrate tonight does so in an appropriately Canadian fashion- that is, drunkenly.)


* Think Wedding Crashers, but with strippers and an enormous dildo. Yep.
ishyface: (Default)
Today I got my first rejection letter from a literary journal.

I am kind of bummed about it, honestly, because rejection: never a fun and fuzzy experience! However, I am keeping a few things in mind:

- The work that I sent in was not my best by any stretch of the imagination. The piece I was going to submit turned out to be a thousand words too long, so I substituted another story that basically fit the guidelines but was written when I was, um, seventeen. (A++ life choice, self!) If I'd submitted something I thought was fantastic I would feel a whole lot worse about this.
- Nobody gets accepted the first time they send something out. Nobody.
- At least I actually tried. <--- this bit always feels like it should be said in my mother's voice
- Dude, it's my first rejection letter! The first in a LONG, GLORIOUS LINE OF REJECTION LETTERS! My career as a writer, with all the crippling disappointment that entails, has finally begun. \o/
ishyface: (hmm)
Have any of you ever attended any kind of Christian summer camp/retreat/youth group/etc? What was it like? Did you enjoy it? Were/are you religious? I've been thinking about my experiences at Jesus camp recently and wondering what other people's experiences were like in comparison. (I may write a long, rambling story about that at some later date. Or I may just write a book about it. Who knows, really.)

Comments are screened, so be as honest as you like.
ishyface: (oh my god!)
I have made a Very Important Decision.

Since I'll likely never be able to support myself by writing fiction- who reads fiction these days anyway? it's not even real- I have decided to write a self-help book instead! Not just any self-help book, though. Oh, no. My self-help book will be all about the dudes and the ladies, and how they are CRAZY DIFFERENT and need to read books (LIKE MINE) in order to live in the same world and breathe up the same oxygen without trying to stab each other. It will feature handy tips to smooth the rocky road of gender relations, such as "REMEMBER, GIRLS, IT IS NEVER TOO EARLY TO REPRODUCE" and "DUDES: BELCH IN PUBLIC, THE LADIES TOTALLY DIG THAT." And I will call it... something snappy, I'm leaning towards Men Are From Mars, Women Suck My Penis but I think there might be copyright issues, and I will go on one thousand talk shows to promote it and tell the world all about the dudes and the ladies, and the crazy differences between them. (For example, the dudes are all about the sex and the cars, while the ladies are all about the shopping and the tiny dogs!) IT WILL BE SO ENLIGHTENING, LJ, LET ME TELL YOU. And I will stir up a MEDIA FRENZY wrt: my amazing (NON-FICTION)(THAT MEANS FULL OF FACTS INSTEAD OF LIES LIKE ALL THE OTHER THINGS I WRITE) dude-and-lady book.

And then it will be published at a whopping 500 pages, and the very first page will read:

What the fuck is wrong with you?

No, seriously. Why are you even holding this book? What sad fucking sequence of events led you to conclude that the opposite sex is a cunningly disguised race of space aliens sent to this planet solely to confuse the shit out of you? Why the fuck do you think you have to read a goddamn book in order to carry on a conversation with someone who may or may not look different in the bathing suit area? Like that is such a goddamn astro-fucking-nomical deal, like the genitals are the seat of the personality. "Men are genetically programmed to fuck everything that moves while solving algebraic equations and eating steak. With their dicks." "Did you know evolution means women are naturally inclined to weep over Lifetime movies and covet expensive shoes?" "Oh, but, you know, chromosomes and-" FUCK. OFF. THAT IS NOT THE WAY HUMANITY WORKS. Women are people! Men are people! (Those of us who are neither men nor women: also people!) We're all just goddamn motherfucking people, and none of us really get each other, and maybe if we all put down the fucking wanky "help me understand the opposite sex without actually having to talk to them because ew cooties" books and tried to relate to each other as INDIVIDUALS instead of Mysterious Ambassadors of Testosteronia and Estrogenia everyone would breathe a little easier. We've got to stop putting so much effort into the battle of the sexes, maintaining these stupid boundaries that define who does what, to who, where, why, and how. It's a sham and it's a drain and it takes away precious time and energy that could be spent laughing or singing or falling in love or making something beautiful or, Christ, taking a nap. Go do one of those. Any of them. All of them. Trust me, you'll feel better about everything.

And for fuck's sake, stop reading self-help books.


The remaining 499 pages will be blank.

I am going to make a frillion bazillion dollars.
ishyface: (Default)
(Please note that if you think this is a personal attack: it ain't. I promise.)

Re: warnings:

I don't have a hell of a lot of experience with fic that actually requires warnings- I never write it, and I rarely read it. I have very few triggers, and I don't expect to see many of those I do have in fic. And things like character death and violence don't bother me particularly. Rape, however, is a whole other ball game. [livejournal.com profile] impertinence wrote a post on the subject that explains why better than I ever could. Warning: Very explicit discussion of sexual assault and the nature, anatomy, cause & effect of triggers. Is itself triggery. If a story features one scene in which a person is hacked to death with a chainsaw and eaten and another is raped, I wouldn't expect a warning for the former, but it'd be great to have one for the latter.

Because the thing about getting hacked to death with a chainsaw and eaten is that it doesn't happen to one in four people.

Asking a writer to post warnings with their fic does not detract from their ~artistic integrity. It's not like anyone's asking you to go back and cut that scene entirely, or even say "this happens to so-and-so on page twenty when he goes to such-and-such." Nobody's asking you to be a babysitter. Nobody's asking you to be specific. Nobody's asking you to change the way you write. All you have to say is "warning for non-con." That's it. It takes ten seconds and helps people not get triggered by an unexpected rape scene and spend the next few hours freaking out and feeling like shit. Why the fuck wouldn't you do that? Why the fuck are we even still talking about this?

It's just... it's not fucking hard, and it helps. That's all.
ishyface: (*beam*)
Fairies Come In Brown, by [livejournal.com profile] kittikattie. An original fic about a fairy who leaves her glamour behind.

Read it. It's awesome.
ishyface: (Default)
Have any of you ever started writing a piece of fiction and slowly realized that it's a lot more autobiographical than you'd like?

*looks at NaNo, which is about a kid with blue hair falling in love over the summer and dealing with hir crazy family, plus the Apocalypse, and sighs*
ishyface: (Default)
I got a new hat! )

Today we had a Family Adventure downtown, in which Mum dragged us into every gift shop in the greater St. John's area and I learned how to use chopsticks. Kind of. We also saw an extraordinary number of tiiiiiiiiny emo kids (something like thirty or forty) just kind of... hanging around. In the same spot. Doing nothing but refusing to make eye contact and scuffing their shoes. They were the PRECIOUSEST and I wanted to smish all their faces. Except they maybe would not have appreciated that.

And my brother got a thumb piano. He's been playing that five-note song from Close Encounters of the Third Kind all afternoon. DOO DOO DOO... DOO... DOOOOOOO.

I heard "Check Yes, Juliet" on the radio for the first time this morning.

I've been planning out this year's NaNoWriMo over the past couple of days. It involves, as I've informed [livejournal.com profile] uncommon_crow, inter-dimensional travel, a gender-nonspecific seer from Pluto, heroes, a book with everything in it, cats, crows, adoption, adventure, thieves, a ten-thousand-year-old trapped in a six-year-old's body, a monster chained up in the stars, and the head of Orpheus, and I'm really looking forward to it. (Especially the parts that involve rhyming couplets.) Another thing I'm looking forward to: the Pagan Society meeting on Wednesday! We're going to make personal Tarot cards. Woo.

Found in last week's Moral Philosophy notes: Knowing what it means to being human is bound up in knowing the difference between good and evil.

ETA: Jesse, have you seen this?

Never has :D: been so appropriate an emoticon.
ishyface: (huh?)
I was avoiding working on my final American Lit paper when I found a story I started to write last year, ripped off of based on a popular children's book.

I call it 'The Extremely Voracious College Student.' )

Also, found in a file called "youwinuniverse":

Every now and again I sigh wistfully to myself and think of how nice it would be to take some time- a week, a month, ten years, no biggie- to just sit down and write something I could really be proud of. No excuses, no interruptions, no problem.

Then I realize that in the middle of just thinking that, I took a twenty-minute break to play Solitaire.

Not that this is indicative of the progress I'm making on this essay. Or anything. Besides, I'm playing Minesweeper.

ETA: Overheard in the living room a few minutes ago.

"I saw him today, and all I could think about was his sperm."

... UM.
ishyface: (Default)
"Hey. Could we do that again? I know we haven't met, but I don't want to be an ant. You know? I mean, it's like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continuously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. 'Here's your change.' 'Paper or plastic?' 'Credit or debit?' 'You want ketchup with that?' I don't want a straw, I want real moments! I want to see you. I want you to see me. I don't want to give that up. I don't want to be ant, you know?"

- Waking Life

I didn't post anything yesterday because it's been a year since this and I didn't wanna think about it. But I miss him.

That picture my sister took on the last day. )

Courtesy of [livejournal.com profile] kirieflowergirl: A fat rant! (As in, a rant by a fat person, not a rant about fat people.)

A fun song by the Gossip.

And JD takes a bubble bath. Only posted because Ten and I have a gigantic bottle of bubblegum-scented bubble bath by our tub, and guess who's used most of it?

My brain is telling me that the time has come to write a story about the Greek gods, alcoholism, and the rising dead. I think it may have something there, but first I need visual representations of the Twelve Olympians. (I've already decided that Hades looks like John C. McGinley.)
ishyface: (Default)
There are few things more uncomfortable than having your little sister and her friend ask you interested questions about the mechanics of queer sex.

However, there are few things more satisfying than discussing the environment and politics with said little sister and friend, so I guess things balance out.

(Also, I now own this and this. And a pin that says "God is too big for one religion." It makes me sad that I always want to buy anti-capitalist buttons, though. Even if I pretended it was due to being fashionably ironic*, I'd die inside of shame.)

This week has been a little dramatic. I think the drama reached its high point tonight, when Mum discovered that my little sister's ex-best friend** posted pictures of her (the friend, not Little Sister) touching herself on the Internet. This is also the first year anniversary of Paula Gallant's murder at the local elementary.

Sometimes I wonder if this is why the suburbs are such a good place to raise your kids.

I've noticed since coming home that I feel less afraid about things. My family's noticed it, too- I'm talking more, being more social, not staring at my feet as I walk. Kerrin's theory is that since I've been amongst real strangers, socializing with people I don't know very well doesn't scare me as much anymore. My theory is that that last bout of exam panic sucked the fear clean out of me.

Aaaaaand it's another end-of-the-year meme. )

I seem to be allergic to my house. *violent sneeze*

Sometimes I want to be a warm yellow light that shines over everyone. Sometimes I want to do nothing other than twirl around in a field full of buttercups and fluffy wee kittens. Sometimes I like to listen to songs about the moon.

But mostly I just want a cup of tea.

* Subject of future journal rant: how much I hate fashionable irony. Especially if it's a person's excuse for telling racist jokes.

** They're not friends anymore because Friend- who has been consistently racist, homophobic, and destructive, so I'm not too torn up about the friend breakup- set Little Sister up with a boy from Dartmouth, who then dumped Sister and started going out with Friend.

You know, when I was thirteen the only real drama in my life was the constant "will they/won't they" situation with Best Friend and the time I nearly ruined the library's only copy of A Wrinkle In Time. I feel slightly miffed. And old.

w00t

Nov. 30th, 2006 11:36 pm
ishyface: (feeling groovy)
Zokutou word meter
50,141 / 50,000
(100.3%)


SURVIVAL OF THE ROCKINGEST!

*falls down dead*
ishyface: (Default)
I was in the garden when I noticed the kangaroo-person. It was small, about the size of a German Shepard, and grey and twisted as though deformed, and instead of carrying its joey in a pouch it had it slung across its back. Its face was that of an old woman and as it hopped it grumbled nonsense poems to itself in a shrill and wavery soprano. I ran inside and told my parents, and that was how they knew.

This was not the first time strange creatures had shown up in our garden. There were small things, many-legged rodents and gigantic bugs, malformed and vicious, worming their way through the grass and the flowerbeds; the flowers had shriveled up long ago. Everything had started to die or change. It was poison, they said, poison in the water and the air. Our poison. It was all over the world now, and the rainforests were gone.

We couldn't stop it. The kangaroo-people kept coming, and soon we had to stay inside at all times. All the houses on the street were connected by tunnels and we visited each other, sharing food and clothing and complaints. The sky was a strange sort of yellow, and it never rained anymore.

One day strange people appeared on our lawns, suits on their bodies and shovels in their hands, and began to dig away at the earth. We crowded around the bay windows to watch, fascinated. Televisions didn't work anymore and radio stations had long since shut down, so there was nothing else to do. Luminescent dragonflies swarmed about their shovels, dripping toxins on their hands.

They dug and dug and somehow that was moving us forward. Our houses were inching along the face of the globe until suddenly we were at the sea. The waves were grey, and dead, and we were in a panic.

"They mean to take us all under the water," a girl who I had always hated told me. "We can live there forever, and breathe our own air, and not worry about the poison."

She was right, it turned out. But only half-right.

They didn't want all of us.

They crowded us into a great grim tunnel, its concrete sides opening up to the dirty ocean beyond. Every single person on the planet was there, milling around like frightened church mice. A man in a pea-green uniform stood with a megaphone on a podium, reading out long lists of names. "To the right," he said, and "to the left." The right line wound its clumsy way into a submarine, rusting and ancient and very, very small.

It wasn't a long line. The hatch closed soon enough, and the submarine bubbled its way beneath the surface. The last we saw of its passengers was their clueless noses pressed against the glass, staring out at us, leaving millions, billions of us standing there, marooned in our disbelief. The man still barked out names in his amplified monotone, calling out my name, the names of my sisters, my friends, all the people I had ever loved.

And, for a few of us, anger broke through the disbelief. What about us? was the question on all our lips. Were we to sit there, breathe this poison, drink this water, let the twisted people overrun us and keep us in our dank little houses? Were we to become what they were, or just sit in this tunnel forever, hoping that someday they'd come back?

We screamed and broke for it, rushing to the tunnel's edge where the grey water waited for us. We were embraced by the dead waves and dragged under, swallowed hungrily by our oil spills and chemical waste, while above us our neighbours waited for miracles. For God, or something like it.

And so we died.
ishyface: (Default)
"I," she told him, "can believe anything. You have no idea what I can believe."

"Really?"

"I can believe things that are true and I can believe things that aren't true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they're true or not. I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Marilyn Munroe and the Beatles and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen- I believe that people are perfectible, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkledy lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women. I believe that the future sucks and I believe that the future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and kick everyone's ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in America is coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theaters from state to state. I believe that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste. I believe that anti-bacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we'll all be wiped out by the common cold like the Martians in War of the Worlds. I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman. I believe that mankind's destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it is aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there's a cat in a box somewhere who's alive and dead at the same time (although if they don't ever open the box to feed it it'll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself. I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn't even know that I'm alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of causal chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck. I believe that anyone who says sex is overrated just hasn't done it properly. I believe that anyone who claims to know what's going on will lie about the little things too. I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies. I believe in a woman's right to choose, a baby's right to live, that while all human life is sacred there's nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust the legal system. I believe that life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you're alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it." She stopped, out of breath.

Shadow almost took his hands off the wheel to applaud. Instead he said, "Okay. So if I tell you what I've learned you won't think that I'm a nut."

"Maybe," she said. "Try me."

- American Gods, by Neil Gaiman


That's my favourite thing he's ever written. Maybe my favourite thing anyone's ever written.

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