First of all, those of you who guessed that the above letter-symbol word starting with L was lizards…you were missing a letter. Those of you who thought it was Liberals, you get points for amusing me and placating the conservative within. (Though according to the test I took, I’m a moderate. But I kind of hate Obama…so I’m going to be one of those obnoxious people who generally hates on liberals for a while because you guessed liberals and it amused me greatly.) Other guesses you may have tried:
Ladybug, Lagoons, Laptops, Lasagna, Learner, Leprosy, Legwear, Lapdogs, or if you for some reason hate it there, Liberia.
But I’m getting off-topic.
(The word was letters by the way.)
One of the things that doesn’t bother me too badly as long as it’s not too bad and is occasional, is swearing. And here at my new school, I have the either blessing or curse (my mother would tell me to offer it up) of having room/suitemates who swear. And if the F-bomb was an atomic bomb, I’d be dead at least thrice a day. Sometimes over thrice an hour.
In the spirit of cooperation and not being a complete jerk about this, I rarely mention it. However, it’s really starting to get to me. So I decided to do somehthing about it. Today, I asked my room/suitemates to make an effort not to swear (or at least to curb it) around me.
My suitemate J. agreed to try, and my other suitemate E. agreed a little dubiously, informing me that it was a really bad habit of hers. (I told her it was okay as long as she tried.) And she asked what I had against swearing anyway? (I avoided my mother’s ‘stupid people swear because they can’t think of a better word to use’ schpeel because E, though nice, would take that as an attack, I think. And it would sound like one, however well intentioned.) I rambled a little awkwardly about how my mom hated it and I didn’t like it and not using words like that and respecting people. After she started about ‘I don’t think it’s disrespecting people’, I just went with ‘it’s how I was raised.’ Both she and J.said that they were raised that way too but had started. I thought (but didn’t say) that I thought swearing was offensive and degrading and that using it is kind of like alcohol. A drink now and again is all right, but having a flask of whiskey and taking a swig every few sentances makes you a drunk.
My roommate K. promised nothing and said that she felt ‘she had a right to say what she wanted’. (Not in a snotty, self-righteous way.) I think that she just didn’t want to be denied the ability to do anything. It’s admirable though, that she was honest and able to say that she didn’t think she could. (My suitemates also seem to think drinking and partying are rights at college. They aren’t drunks or crackheads or anything, I just think that after having parents on their backs, they’re ready to go out and have a good time.)
Two out of three isn’t bad, but I really don’t like swearing in excess. Especially the F-word. So let’s all hope together that it gets better for me here.
On a seperate note, I haven’t practiced Irish dance at all this week. Tomorrow after class (or between classes) I think I’ll look up a video on youtube to help me out with that.
Okay, last thing for now, because as much as I want to ramble on and on about everything that’s happened this week, I’d like to make a final point and then skiddadle off to whatever it is that I’m going to do next.
So, here’s a piece of big news:
The other night (well technically early morning) aroung 1 AM I started working on my novel. I was writing a part where one character was telling a couple others a story and BLAM! Inspiration rush. I knew exactly what to write and words flew from my brain through the keyboard onto the paper (Microsoft Word document). In my writer’s high (those of you who are concerned that I may be doing drugs/have a tendancy to call the cops at the drop of a hat (when did hat-dropping become illegal anyway?) please let me explain. A writer’s high is this great feeling you get when you’re writing something and it’s all coming out at once and fitting together and the words sound great and you think you’re writing the best thing ever.) I sent two copies of the bit I had written to my best friend and my beta (short for beta reader. A sort of editor, except mine is a friend). Both replied with enthusiasm and compliments of my brilliance. These helped later when I re-read the inspiration-fueled piece I had written and realized that though a part of it was very good, it needed editing in language and phrasing and a bunch of other stuff. So I sent it to another friend, the best writer amongst the people I know personally, requesting editing and constructive criticism. I have yet to hear back from her, but it’s been less than a day.
So, since you all have heard my tale of the piece I wrote, the little story within my novel, would you like a special sneak peek?
WELL TOO BAD!
Sorry guys, it needs all sorts of work, and besides, if I give you a sneak peek of the best bit of my novel, the rest will look awful in comparison. And the problem is, I’m on my first draft, so anything I’ve written and given to you as a sneak peek may be editied/revised/rewritten/cut out entirely. BUT because you’re such good little followers, I’ll give you a bit. Nothing too big or important, but something.
I’m on my first draft, so anything I’ve written and given to you as a sneak peek may be editied/revised/rewritten/cut out entirely!
Here you are guys! Hope you like it!
It was the bright sunlight in her eyes that woke Faye more than anything else. The fan had failed again, for one, and her mother was singing somewhat off-key from outside, but it was mostly the sun. If it had been dark in the trailer, she would have managed the heat and the pseudo-music and gone back to sleep. With the sun in her eyes, she made the decision to give up on sleep. Rolling out of bed, she padded into the kitchen, pulled an apple off the counter, and munched on it. The silver trailer that she and her mom lived in half of the year or so was currently nestled off a back-road in North Carolina somewhere, situated neatly beneath a train bridge. Out the front window she could see the rusty criss-cross support beams, and Faye wondered whether they were headed for the road again today. There was no power here, so the battery-operated fan was no longer an option and her mother was bathing in the creek. Faye didn’t bother to see if she was dressed or not; the back road they were parked maybe a hundred feet from had seen one other traveler since they had parked under the trustle bridge two days ago. The food was dwindling, so chances were it was time to migrate somewhere else.
This was how Faye spent her summers, wandering the country with her mother in their silver bullet-shaped trailer from the sixties. It was a fun sort of life; her mother called them gypsies. They migrated between trailer parks, campgrounds, and abandoned fields or spaces they could camp out in for a few days. Once the apple was finished with, Faye debated whether or not she wanted to rummage through the cupboards and find an alternate food source. After a minute, she decided not to and trotted over to the door, tossing it open. Peering around, Faye determined the area was as deserted as expected except for her mother, who was sitting on the bank of the creek, now fully clothed and drying her hair with a towel.
“Mom! How’s the water?” Faye called over.
“It’s great! You should take a quick dip before we hit the road!” Her mother called back, pausing for a moment to reply before resuming drying her hair.
“I’m good thanks,” Faye strolled down the stairs and shut the door behind her. Flopping down on the bank of the creek next to her mother, she looked over at her.
“So where are we going next?”
“I don’t know, I thought we’d use the map this time.”
When they travelled, Faye and her mom used three different methods to find somewhere to stay: Choosing two numbers and then checking their longitude and latitude on the map, closing their eyes and pointing, or just driving until they found somewhere they liked. Occasionally, Faye or her mother would decide they wanted to go somewhere specific, like New York City, Lake Michigan, the Rocky Mountains, or the Painted Hills. On the map pinned up on the wall of the trailer, there was a little red pin for everywhere they’d been and a blue thumbtack for wherever they were currently. The blue thumbtack was moved as soon as they hit the road, and it was then moved to the place they were headed. In the Atlantic Ocean portion of the map, they wrote places they’d like to go.
The Eiffel Tower.
The North Pole.
Great Wall of China.
One of those giant holes in the ocean.
Fernando de Noronha.
Enchanted Well, Brazil.
Enchanted Forest, Germany.
The list went on down the ocean, scrawled in different colors of pencil, pen, marker, crayon—whatever was available at the time. It was half in her mother’s writing, half in her own, and as the list went farther down, the progression of her age based on her handwriting was obvious. ‘The North Pole’ was barely legible, while the most recent addition, a lake in China, was written in clear cursive.
“Well if we wait for you to dry your hair, we could be here all morning,” Faye teased gently and her mother threw the towel at her. Faye dunked, but the towel hit her in the chest anyway. Clutching it to her shirt, Faye dashed back to the Airstream, as her mother ran behind her, laughing.
Once inside the trailer, they consulted the map. Up one side of it were tic marks, numbered. The same thing was done across the bottom.
“What’ll it be?” her mother asked, “Numbers or fingers?”
They closed their eyes together.
Faye, eyes shut, swung her finger until it brushed the map.
“Got a spot?”
Both women opened their eyes. Her mother’s finger was in the middle of nowhere in Kansas. Faye’s was in the middle of New Mexico.
“They say New Mexico is the land of enchantment,” her mother remarked.
“They being the New Mexico license plate.”
“Somebody has to decide on the slogan.”
“So…New Mexico it is?” Faye asked hopefully.
“It better be enchanting,”
“Pretty much anything’s more enchanting than Kansas.”
“Okay, other than Oklahoma.”
“Other than Oklahoma and Arkansas.”
“You know what? Why don’t you just drive.” Faye said, indignant but grinning despite herself.
“Oh sure, now you’re giving the orders.” Her mother snatched the keys from the kitchen counter and went outside. Faye followed, used to life on the road. As her mother started the pickup truck and climbed in, Faye stood by the trailer, shouting directions. The Airstream was hooked up in about a minute.
That may or may not end up being the first few pages, but at this point I really don’t know. (See disclaimer.)
Well, please recall that all of this is copyright me and all of my rights are reserved. This is my story and if you want it, you’d better send me a message and ask. Plagerizers WILL be in some deep trouble so let’s save us all some time and leave my story alone. Got it? Good.
Well, hope you’re all doing wonderfully!