Friday, September 11, 2015
9-11: Fourteen Years Later
Some things never leave you. Some nightmares are never forgotten.
Fourteen years can pass, and with the whisper of two numbers, you’re transported right back to that moment in time, that instant when you heard the news and your entire life changed.
I consider myself lucky. I live on the West Coast. The events that transpired on 9-11 were a continent away. Many news blurbs of East Coast issues are things I can tune out. It doesn’t affect me or anyone I know.
This time was different. It affected us all. It didn’t matter where in America you lived. We all felt anger, fear, shock, disbelief. Many of us knew at least one person in New York City. Some of us have family there, or friends who work in the Big Apple. My sister happened to be on the phone for an insurance claim with a man in one of the Twin Towers. Their connection was instantly cut off as the first plane slammed into his floor. She’s still haunted by the fact that hers was the last voice that man heard.
9/11/2001 is a surreal day to me. I don’t even remember most of it anymore. Even as it was happening, it was like a dream. Now, the details have faded with time. What will never fade, what I can never forget, is the moment I heard the news.
I was at college for some extra math lessons (my worst subject) and it seemed like far too many people were crowding around the computers. Something about President Bush, New York … like I cared about that stuff. Politics wasn’t my thing. So I studied, I did the supplemental assignments, and I left the math building. I paused at the top of the swooping staircase leading to the campus commons and pulled out my bulky cellphone to call my boyfriend, who lived near campus. I was hoping we could meet for lunch before the rest of our classes. In general, it was a normal Tuesday.
I was halfway down the stairs when his voice came on, high and panicked. “They’ve flown planes into the World Trade Center! The Pentagon’s been hit, too. They think there are planes going to crash into other places. It’s World War Three!”
I came to a dead halt, right there on the stairs. I honestly thought he was telling me the worst joke in the world, and I told him so.
This was something out of Hollywood: Wrong is Right: two suitcase bombs; Born in Flames: a bomb is set off at the top of the north tower; Shakedown: an almost prophetic plane heading straight for the Twin Towers; Independence Day blew up most American iconic buildings including these; Armageddon shows both towers damaged and in flames; the Iron Man 90s cartoon had the World Trade Center hit with missiles and then enemy plans to fly a fighter into the Pentagon (creepy); The Lone Gunmen had probably the most creepiest prediction where the heroes thwart a plan by the U.S. to fly a jet into the World Trade Center so they can blame a dictator and start a war. What ups the creep factor? It was released merely six months before the attacks occurred!
So seriously, Americans had seen Hollywood blow up the Wold Trade Center—or try to—so many times, it was practically cliché!
The Pentagon was another matter. That place is a fortress. Who the hell would dream of flying a plane into it? I kept thinking that. The World Trade Center, cliché, but … the Pentagon! That was a loud and clear declaration of war.
Still panicking in a voice I had never heard before in him, my boyfriend insisted on picked me up from campus, since the news was warning about potential suicide bombers on buses and trains. Classes were probably canceled, or if not, not a single one of my professors gave us a mark for missing that day, or the next.
The rest of the day and weeks to follow are a blur of wild speculation, frantic warnings of more to come, talks of war, retaliation against a bogeyman we had not yet identified, candlelight memorials, patriotic hymns, and the news filled with images that have now become iconic. Every car was suddenly adorned with window flags. They passed these out at the college, a way to unite us as a country and lift our bleak spirits through patriotism. There were also black arm bands with the American flag on them to honor and mourn the dead. I still have mine. We wanted to unite behind a cause of justice, but at the same time, we had no clue yet who did this.
Realize, we did not know many things then that we do now. Most Americans were blissfully unaware that a handful of radical Muslims had any problems at all with us. Words like jihad were unknown to the general public. Most Americans would not have been able to point out Pakistan on a map. Al-Qaeda? Bin Laden? No one had heard of him or his group. For that matter, it took a long time, what felt like an eternity, to even know who did this.
We were a nation filled with fury and no one to blame.
When at last we heard who planned this tragedy, there was outrage. In the months to follow, things got dark. Racism abound. My brother had problems because his Native American skin-tone combined with a nose he broke at a kid gave him what many thought was an “Arabic” appearance. He worked in a jail, where he received death threats out of the assumption that he was Middle Eastern. Muslim students at college were harassed. One professor in my college pointed at a female Muslim student and shrieked at her, “YOU did this!” (That professor was later fired.)
Then came the flipside. The media stopped lumping all Muslims, Arabs, Pakistanis, and Middle Easterners in general into one big umbrella of TERRORISM. We learned about different factions in Islam. People became intrigued with this religion that was like something out of a fairy tale to the average American. Islamic groups handed out free Qurans. (I took one because I was curious.) Muslim groups prayed in the central commons on my campus to show, “Hey, we’re here, we’re Americans, we’re no different from you, just a different religion.” Wearing a headscarf was briefly trendy as people tried to make up for all the ugliness we had displayed.
Needless to say, it was not an easy aftermath. To this day, even though we know more about Islam and the Middle East in general, America hasn’t fully let go of the pain, hatred and distrust. You’ll still hear from time to time a snide remark of “She looks like a terrorist” directed at a woman in a burka. If you even appear to be Middle Eastern and you’re going to the airport, you assuredly will be pulled aside and searched.
9/11 left a deep scar, more than just buildings. It shook America up. It came as a shock to many to discover that there were people out there who hated us for no other reason than we were American. We realized we could be vulnerable on our own soil, something we rarely experienced in the history of our country. In a way, we lost out innocence that day. We were blissfully unaware of so much.
Life for many of us became polarized: Before 9/11, After 9/11.
Time is slow to heal the soul of an entire country. Those two numbers still cause my heart to burn and my eyes to unfocus as I remember the dread and uncertainty of back then, never knowing if those burning towers and smoldering Pentagon and downed plane were merely a prelude to something much, much worse.
It is not easy to unlearn hatred and anger if you watched those events happen live and were old enough to understand the implications.
Americans intone solemnly on this day, “Never forget!”
We haven’t forgotten…
… Even if perhaps there are some things we should forget.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Lost in the Woods
So, I had a fun adventure yesterday. I left for a simple trip to the store and ended up a damsel in distress.
Let me set up the scene first. I live on a small mountain. Our apartments are built into the hillside surrounded by woods, and my cluster happens to be on the bottom. Literally, the forest is my backyard. I have two ways to get out of this place: 1) walk up five flights of stairs to the main entrance at the top of the hill and follow the twisty main road down, or 2) cut through the woods to the main road, which eliminates a lot of climbing. Since I don’t drive, I walk this hill a lot, and I’m used to it. However, we live on the west face, I usually go down the north face, and yesterday I needed the store that is down the south side of the mountain.
There are four paths out of our apartments and into the woods, and of course I took the wrong one. The really wrong one. In less than five minutes, I was lost, and when I tried to turn around, the meandering foot trails had forked so many times, I had no clue which way to go.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, it suddenly began to rain. So there I was, lost in the woods, not prepared at all since I was just supposed to go to the store, not even wearing proper hiking boots, it’s raining, and it’s cold with snow still on the ground in some places.
I’ve gotten lost in the woods once before, but that was at my grandfather’s cabin on the East Coast. At that time, I just kept walking downhill, no trails, just empty leaf-strewn ground, until I came to the river and followed that into town. Not possible in Oregon! Blackberries grow everywhere, like a weed with sharp thorns that continuously blocks your path. Plus, like I said, it was snowy, wet, and I had only normal walking shoes on, not boots. So I was forced to stick to the trails, and they were leading me everywhere but where I needed to go.
And that was when I heard footsteps behind me.
I stopped and looked all around, examining every tree. My ears picked up birdsong and raindrops as they strained to hear the talking of carefree hikers, or even the growling of an animal. Nothing. I was all alone. I shook my head, decided it was the imagination of a frightened girl lost in the woods, and kept going, trying to find the right path or at least a familiar tree.
Then I heard a noise again. I stopped, and the crunching noise of wet leaves stopped, too. By instinct, I crouched low, all muscles tensed, fight-or-flight adrenaline burning my veins and making my hands feel cold. However, there was no sign of another soul in those woods with me.
Up until then, I had been taking pictures of the woods and posting them on Facebook, as well as joking about being lost. This time I wrote something ominous: “I hope this is just paranoia from being lost, but I swear I keep hearing footsteps behind me that stop when do.”
I initially thought I’d leave a message like that to tease my readers a bit. As I kept walking, feeling uneasy, a morbid part of me also thought that with a message like that, at least when the police found my body, they would know I had been followed.
It stopped being a joke when, once again, I heard a twig crack behind me. I jumped around, reached swiftly into my purse, and whipped out my pepper spray. I stood perfectly still for two minutes, but I heard nothing else.
I kept telling myself, it’s the rain, it’s paranoia, or maybe it’s animals (I did see lot of squirrels and some raccoons). I wanted to keep calm. If horror flicks have taught me anything, it’s that panicking only leads to mistakes. The chick who freaks out dies first.
That calmness vanished when I saw discarded men’s boxers on the side of the trail. The last thing I need to see as I’m imagining worst-case scenarios of a stalker-murderer-rapist… is men’s underwear caught in a holly bush.
I wrote one last message into Facebook: “I’m outta here!” Then I put the phone away and ran.
About twenty minutes later, I made it out, and never did I see any person following me. Hopefully, it was just the over-active imagination of a scared woman reliving those terrifying stories from her youth, like Little Red Riding Hood, tales whose theme was usually “don’t go into the woods alone.”
I don’t think I’ll go out into the forest by myself for the rest of the winter.
Let me set up the scene first. I live on a small mountain. Our apartments are built into the hillside surrounded by woods, and my cluster happens to be on the bottom. Literally, the forest is my backyard. I have two ways to get out of this place: 1) walk up five flights of stairs to the main entrance at the top of the hill and follow the twisty main road down, or 2) cut through the woods to the main road, which eliminates a lot of climbing. Since I don’t drive, I walk this hill a lot, and I’m used to it. However, we live on the west face, I usually go down the north face, and yesterday I needed the store that is down the south side of the mountain.
There are four paths out of our apartments and into the woods, and of course I took the wrong one. The really wrong one. In less than five minutes, I was lost, and when I tried to turn around, the meandering foot trails had forked so many times, I had no clue which way to go.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, it suddenly began to rain. So there I was, lost in the woods, not prepared at all since I was just supposed to go to the store, not even wearing proper hiking boots, it’s raining, and it’s cold with snow still on the ground in some places.
I’ve gotten lost in the woods once before, but that was at my grandfather’s cabin on the East Coast. At that time, I just kept walking downhill, no trails, just empty leaf-strewn ground, until I came to the river and followed that into town. Not possible in Oregon! Blackberries grow everywhere, like a weed with sharp thorns that continuously blocks your path. Plus, like I said, it was snowy, wet, and I had only normal walking shoes on, not boots. So I was forced to stick to the trails, and they were leading me everywhere but where I needed to go.
And that was when I heard footsteps behind me.
I stopped and looked all around, examining every tree. My ears picked up birdsong and raindrops as they strained to hear the talking of carefree hikers, or even the growling of an animal. Nothing. I was all alone. I shook my head, decided it was the imagination of a frightened girl lost in the woods, and kept going, trying to find the right path or at least a familiar tree.
Then I heard a noise again. I stopped, and the crunching noise of wet leaves stopped, too. By instinct, I crouched low, all muscles tensed, fight-or-flight adrenaline burning my veins and making my hands feel cold. However, there was no sign of another soul in those woods with me.
Up until then, I had been taking pictures of the woods and posting them on Facebook, as well as joking about being lost. This time I wrote something ominous: “I hope this is just paranoia from being lost, but I swear I keep hearing footsteps behind me that stop when do.”
I initially thought I’d leave a message like that to tease my readers a bit. As I kept walking, feeling uneasy, a morbid part of me also thought that with a message like that, at least when the police found my body, they would know I had been followed.
It stopped being a joke when, once again, I heard a twig crack behind me. I jumped around, reached swiftly into my purse, and whipped out my pepper spray. I stood perfectly still for two minutes, but I heard nothing else.
I kept telling myself, it’s the rain, it’s paranoia, or maybe it’s animals (I did see lot of squirrels and some raccoons). I wanted to keep calm. If horror flicks have taught me anything, it’s that panicking only leads to mistakes. The chick who freaks out dies first.
That calmness vanished when I saw discarded men’s boxers on the side of the trail. The last thing I need to see as I’m imagining worst-case scenarios of a stalker-murderer-rapist… is men’s underwear caught in a holly bush.
I wrote one last message into Facebook: “I’m outta here!” Then I put the phone away and ran.
About twenty minutes later, I made it out, and never did I see any person following me. Hopefully, it was just the over-active imagination of a scared woman reliving those terrifying stories from her youth, like Little Red Riding Hood, tales whose theme was usually “don’t go into the woods alone.”
I don’t think I’ll go out into the forest by myself for the rest of the winter.
- one of the pictures I took yesterday -
Monday, January 27, 2014
Todd Haberkorn, Man of My Dreams
I had an awesome
dream. I went to a comic con and got to meet Todd Haberkorn (English
dubbed voice of Natsu). I specifically wanted a picture with him showing
off his Fairy Tail tattoo. After the picture, I also had something for
him to sign, and I asked him to address it to “Rhov.”
He suddenly looked up wide-eyed. “THE Rhov?”
My heart just sort of froze. “Oh shit. Have you heard of me?” Instantly, I was thinking he had heard terrible rumors about some wannabe writer ruining the fandom by taking the characters he loves (and the Natsu he voices) and turning them into rambling romances and petty porn. I was starting to shake that he would be repulsed, maybe sneer, or at least scold me for corrupting the characters he loves so much. (My insecurities know no bounds.)
Instead, Todd suddenly leaped up and gave me a killer hug, and I was flailing like Lucy. “Wh-wh-what are you doing?" People were staring and whispering. My husband was giving death glares from the sidelines.
He shouted, “Oh my God, you’re Rhov the writer! I love your fanfics. I read them between recording sessions.”
Now my heart really did stop. “You… YOU read my fanfics?”
"Totally. I love that gory horror story you’re writing." Suddenly, Todd-frigging-Haberkorn began an impromptu dialog between Natsu and Feral Natsu, speaking the inner beast in the same Gollum-like voice I imagine in my head.
I suddenly started going into an asthma attack out of shock. “Oh…my God… You… you like Beastly Possession?”
He just laughed and waved for my husband to come and hold me while I was wheezing and grabbing my chest. “Yeah, I’ve got some of the other guys reading them, too. Once after work, we went out drinking, and me and Newton (voice of Gray) began reading parts from one of your slash works. I thought Colleen Clinkenbeard was gonna piss herself.” (That’s Erza, FYI.)
I was in tears at that point, and I really did think he was some sort of superman, swooping in to rescue me from my insecurities. In quavering whispers, I told him: “I write because I love to entertain, that’s all. It’s been my dream to write something people will remember, to be a name that people will say ‘Oh yeah, I loved her story, it really moved me.’ Todd… I may not have published a bestselling novel yet, but I think today, my dream just came true.”
He gave me a warm hug, whispered something (in that amazing voice of his) about “Keep chasing after your dreams,” and then… I woke up, tears of happiness still in my eyes, a fire in my heart, ready for another day of writing. I doubt anyone involved in the making of Fairy Tail actually reads my fanfiction, but… maybe… just maybe…
He suddenly looked up wide-eyed. “THE Rhov?”
My heart just sort of froze. “Oh shit. Have you heard of me?” Instantly, I was thinking he had heard terrible rumors about some wannabe writer ruining the fandom by taking the characters he loves (and the Natsu he voices) and turning them into rambling romances and petty porn. I was starting to shake that he would be repulsed, maybe sneer, or at least scold me for corrupting the characters he loves so much. (My insecurities know no bounds.)
Instead, Todd suddenly leaped up and gave me a killer hug, and I was flailing like Lucy. “Wh-wh-what are you doing?" People were staring and whispering. My husband was giving death glares from the sidelines.
He shouted, “Oh my God, you’re Rhov the writer! I love your fanfics. I read them between recording sessions.”
Now my heart really did stop. “You… YOU read my fanfics?”
"Totally. I love that gory horror story you’re writing." Suddenly, Todd-frigging-Haberkorn began an impromptu dialog between Natsu and Feral Natsu, speaking the inner beast in the same Gollum-like voice I imagine in my head.
I suddenly started going into an asthma attack out of shock. “Oh…my God… You… you like Beastly Possession?”
He just laughed and waved for my husband to come and hold me while I was wheezing and grabbing my chest. “Yeah, I’ve got some of the other guys reading them, too. Once after work, we went out drinking, and me and Newton (voice of Gray) began reading parts from one of your slash works. I thought Colleen Clinkenbeard was gonna piss herself.” (That’s Erza, FYI.)
I was in tears at that point, and I really did think he was some sort of superman, swooping in to rescue me from my insecurities. In quavering whispers, I told him: “I write because I love to entertain, that’s all. It’s been my dream to write something people will remember, to be a name that people will say ‘Oh yeah, I loved her story, it really moved me.’ Todd… I may not have published a bestselling novel yet, but I think today, my dream just came true.”
He gave me a warm hug, whispered something (in that amazing voice of his) about “Keep chasing after your dreams,” and then… I woke up, tears of happiness still in my eyes, a fire in my heart, ready for another day of writing. I doubt anyone involved in the making of Fairy Tail actually reads my fanfiction, but… maybe… just maybe…
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Feral Natsu Has Fans
So, apparently a fan (that is a weird word to use) created a blog on Tumblr just for my fanfic Beastly Possession. She has been posting some outrageously amazing artwork there, and for Christmas she wrote a "special" featuring the alternate personality I created for Natsu Dragneel, known to the fans as Feral Natsu.
I'm stunned that something I wrote as an experiment (can I write horror and do I enjoy writing that genre) has inspired others so deeply.
http://feralnatsu.tumblr.com/post/71056285983/the-night-before-christmas
I'm stunned that something I wrote as an experiment (can I write horror and do I enjoy writing that genre) has inspired others so deeply.
http://feralnatsu.tumblr.com/post/71056285983/the-night-before-christmas
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Tutorial for Updating Fanfics
Alternate title:
Fanfic Efficiency by Website
Scenario: You're reading your fanfic story and notice a misspelled word, so you fix the error.
This is not only a tutorial for updating stories in the three major fanfiction websites, but it also shows the number of mouse clicks needed to fix the error, demonstrating user-friendly efficiency.
Tallies are based on a user who is already logged in, the chapter is not already exported for Fanfiction.net, and the story is on the first page of the fandom for AFF (no digging through 50 pages of old stories to find yours).
Starting point - being on the posted chapter visible to the public.
Ending point - returning to the same chapter without using Back button.
Fanfiction.net
- Click on User's name at the top right corner
- Click Publish
- Click Manage Stories
- Click on story title
- Click Content/Chapters
- Click icon for Export
- Click link for Exported document
- Fix the error
- Click Save
- Click Manage Stories
- Click on story title
- Click Content/Chapters
- Click Replace/Update Chapter
- Click Select Chapter
- Click desired chapter
- Click Select Document
- Click desired document
- Click Replace Chapter Content with Document
- Click Properties
- Click link
- Click drop arrow for chapter navigation
- Click desired chapter
AdultFanFiction
- Hover over Member Tools and click Author Panel
- Scroll to desired genre and click Edit
- Click Select Story
- Click story title
- Click Select Action
- Click Edit Chapter
- Click Edit
- Click Choose Chapter
- Click desired chapter
- Fix the error
- Click Edit Chapter
- Hover over Archives or Anime/Games Archives and click which genre
- Assuming genre has multiple fandoms, click letter grouping
- Click desired fandom
- Click on story
- Click chapter selector
- Click desired chapter
Archive of Our Own
- Click Edit Chapter (for one-shots, click Edit at the top of the story)
- Fix error
- Click Update Without Preview, story will update and return to the fixed chapter.
As you can see, AO3 has far superior user-friendly controls for the author, allowing editing to be done directly within a chapter and returning to the same chapter when editing is finished, rather than navigating to an editing panel like AFF, or Fanfiction.net's need to return to your main login page just to leap back and forth between editing and managing.
Writers I have spoke to have said that Fanfiction.net's convoluted editorial process is so confusing, they don't even bother fixing known errors. This translates into far inferior quality on the site as error-riddled stories are left alone because the author doesn't want to spend 10 minutes managing, exporting, and importing.
When it comes to editing, Fanfiction.net is way behind its competitors. Rather than focusing on their forums and filters, their next major upgrade should be to the user-friendliness on the side of the writer. 22 clicks to edit a chapter, versus AFF's 17 clicks, and sadly AdultFanFiction is infamous for its outdated layout and extremely non-user-friendly design. Even worse, comparing it to AO3's 3-click easy updating is a painful example of how far Fanfiction.net needs to evolve.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Surprise, You're a Soloist
At my gig today, a soloist did not show up.
The trombones turned to our fearless section leader. “Since he’s
missing, who’ll play the solo?”
Fearless Leader turned and waved dramatically to me. “Rhov will play the solo.”
I snapped out of my coffee-deprived daze. “I…uh…WHUUH?”
"Have you ever played the solo?" he asked.
"NO! I’ve only played this song maybe twice."
"Perfect. There’s nothing quite like sight-reading a solo the day of a performance."
I gave him my patented ‘you die later’ glare. “Leader…I may have to hate you.”
30 minutes later… totally rocked the solo! Oooh yeah! Who’s the swingingest trombone chick in the band, eh? (Who’s the ONLY trombone chick!)
Fearless Leader turned and waved dramatically to me. “Rhov will play the solo.”
I snapped out of my coffee-deprived daze. “I…uh…WHUUH?”
"Have you ever played the solo?" he asked.
"NO! I’ve only played this song maybe twice."
"Perfect. There’s nothing quite like sight-reading a solo the day of a performance."
I gave him my patented ‘you die later’ glare. “Leader…I may have to hate you.”
30 minutes later… totally rocked the solo! Oooh yeah! Who’s the swingingest trombone chick in the band, eh? (Who’s the ONLY trombone chick!)
Thursday, September 26, 2013
The Most Influencial Person in my Life
The director of my youth band, Mr. Ward (he
will always be "mister" to me). We weren't "just a band," we were a
family, and he was our parent. He took a personal interest in every
musician. Many of us came from struggling families. He would
treat us to dinner if he knew we didn't get enough food at home. He
sheltered some who had abusive parents. He managed to get one musician
out of a gang and protected him from retaliation. When my dad had a
massive heart attack, he sat with me after rehearsal, knowing I was
bottling my emotions (he could "hear it in my music") and he hugged me
as I finally broke down in sobs, unable to cry at home, since I was
supposed to be the strong one. He knew I love to write, so he
pedantically corrected my bad grammar. He bought me my first martini,
and he taught me to drink it with refinement. He saw the way I bashfully
gazed at another musician, and slyly he would make us sit next to one
another on the band bus, or take the same car on long trips. He nudged,
we moved, and years later I married that boy. We invited Mr. Ward and
other musicians from our youth band days to the wedding. Actually, when I
told him I was engaged, he tried his damnedest to talk me out of it.
Then at the wedding, he said he did that to test me. He really wanted me
to be sure of this big step, because he wanted my greatest happiness.
He taught me, not just about music, but about life, how to "step out on
the right foot" and "keep playing no matter what." I lost my
grandparents at a young age, so he became my grandpa. Yet sadly...I lost
him too a few years ago. I hope he's somewhere, watching, happy to see
that I'm still playing music, still married, and I still toast a martini
to him on his birthday.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
42
"The answer to the ultimate question…of life, the universe, and everything is…42."
In Japanese, 4 is shi, 2 is ni. Shini means death. (shinigami=death god)
Japanese also say 4 as yon. While Yonni means nothing (I know) in Japanese, it does mean vagina in Sanskrit.
So the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything, is both death...and the source of life, the vagina. Life comes from the vagina only to be later greeted by death.
Let your mind be blown by the awesomeness of Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.
In Japanese, 4 is shi, 2 is ni. Shini means death. (shinigami=death god)
Japanese also say 4 as yon. While Yonni means nothing (I know) in Japanese, it does mean vagina in Sanskrit.
So the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything, is both death...and the source of life, the vagina. Life comes from the vagina only to be later greeted by death.
Let your mind be blown by the awesomeness of Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.
Monday, August 05, 2013
I Will Write What I Want
I will write what I want.
I will not write what you tell me to write.
I will not stop writing what you dislike.
I will not write what I dislike just because you like it.
I write a lot.
I update constantly.
If I'm not updating your favorite story, just wait.
I write variety, depending on how I feel that day.
I will not focus on a story unless my mind is prepared for it.
If I haven't updated in a month, my mind is obviously not prepared for it.
I do not use other people's Original Characters.
I will not cross-over into your ongoing story simply to promote you.
I will only promote a story that inspired that particular chapter/scene.
If you are pestering me to promote you, chances are you probably don't inspire me.
I will not randomly "squeeze in" your favorite shipping just because you want to see it.
I will not "just update something."
I will update when the chapter is done and proofread.
I go through phases.
You may not like my current phase.
Don't hate me if I'm having fun in one of my random phases.
Killing my "groove" will not get you what you want.
Writing in every single review, "The story was good but it'd be great if XX and YY got together" when XX and YY are not anywhere in the story, will not get you what you want.
I like hearing suggestions, they can inspire me, but don't get enraged if I don't take your suggestion. It was nice of you to write it, but that doesn't always mean I can work the idea into what I have planned.
Yes, my stories are usually planned out, in detail.
If I'm writing about something, obviously I like it, and telling me "that couple sucks," or "I hate stories like this" will not inspire me to write in new directions. It will make me frustrated, and all creativity, including what you hate and what you potentially like, will die. It will not give birth to what you like. Creativity is not a frigging phoenix.
I like to see requests, but one at a time, please! Sending me 10 story ideas every day will not make me write more of what you want. I hate to think you spent all that time writing your ideas down when I could have told you up front "I don't have time."
If I say "I don't have time," don't send me more story ideas "but they're one-shots!" I...don't...have...time.
I am not looking for another collaborator. I only use one, because she's that good.
I will answer questions on how to write. I will not give you the whole story. Unless it's a gift. Don't demand gifts.
If I tell you I'm busy, I'm busy. Sending me your full manuscript with the note "read it when you have time," and then crying because 3 days have passed and I haven't read it, will not make me read it. I'm busy.
If I haven't PM'ed you back, you are in the queue. I chat a lot...I mean A LOT! I have 10-50 PMs at any given time. There are days when I'll write to 20 people, and there are days when I don't feel social. I am also out of town frequently with music bands. I don't hate you. I'm too busy writing stories to write PMs all the time. Sometimes you catch me and I write directly back, sometimes I get bogged down and you might wait 2 weeks. That's just the way it is. Keep getting angry and whining "you're ignoring me again" like a clingy girlfriend (even if in jest) and I might purposely put off your PMs, because I simply don't have the patience to talk to you.
I get writer's block.
I burn out.
I am SERIOUSLY burning out on fanfiction in general.
If I have written "This story is on hiatus" then it's on frigging HIATUS.
If I'm not updating the story you particularly like... tough luck. At least it's not on hiatus.
Writing to me weekly "when will you update" will not speed me up.
Telling me to stop working on my current obsession because you want this other story, will not speed me up.
Leaving reviews under different names but saying the same "Y U No Update" message every time, will not speed me up.
I do not take vague requests of "Can you write about this couple," especially if I have 10 stories on that couple.
I do not accept all story requests. They need to interest me personally, and that's pretty random. Even if I accept a request, realize that I'm working on about 12 stories at any given time, with 50 in the queue. Some people have waited a year or more.
Don't ask me every day "What about that request I sent you?" It's in the queue, with 50 other stories.
Especially don't ask when I said I don't have time to write requests until autumn.
Don't keep asking "Are you free now? Aren't you on summer break?" No. I'm an adult. We don't get summer break.
Nagging me does not make me faster.
Calling me names does not spur me on.
Threats never work.
If any of these fit you, I don't hate you. You are not the only one. These are issues that have come up multiple times, so it's not like I'm singling you out.
I will write what I want, when I want, at the pace I can mentally handle.
I love to write. I love to chat. I love to help young writers. But please...I'm just one person!
Thanks.
I will not write what you tell me to write.
I will not stop writing what you dislike.
I will not write what I dislike just because you like it.
I write a lot.
I update constantly.
If I'm not updating your favorite story, just wait.
I write variety, depending on how I feel that day.
I will not focus on a story unless my mind is prepared for it.
If I haven't updated in a month, my mind is obviously not prepared for it.
I do not use other people's Original Characters.
I will not cross-over into your ongoing story simply to promote you.
I will only promote a story that inspired that particular chapter/scene.
If you are pestering me to promote you, chances are you probably don't inspire me.
I will not randomly "squeeze in" your favorite shipping just because you want to see it.
I will not "just update something."
I will update when the chapter is done and proofread.
I go through phases.
You may not like my current phase.
Don't hate me if I'm having fun in one of my random phases.
Killing my "groove" will not get you what you want.
Writing in every single review, "The story was good but it'd be great if XX and YY got together" when XX and YY are not anywhere in the story, will not get you what you want.
I like hearing suggestions, they can inspire me, but don't get enraged if I don't take your suggestion. It was nice of you to write it, but that doesn't always mean I can work the idea into what I have planned.
Yes, my stories are usually planned out, in detail.
If I'm writing about something, obviously I like it, and telling me "that couple sucks," or "I hate stories like this" will not inspire me to write in new directions. It will make me frustrated, and all creativity, including what you hate and what you potentially like, will die. It will not give birth to what you like. Creativity is not a frigging phoenix.
I like to see requests, but one at a time, please! Sending me 10 story ideas every day will not make me write more of what you want. I hate to think you spent all that time writing your ideas down when I could have told you up front "I don't have time."
If I say "I don't have time," don't send me more story ideas "but they're one-shots!" I...don't...have...time.
I am not looking for another collaborator. I only use one, because she's that good.
I will answer questions on how to write. I will not give you the whole story. Unless it's a gift. Don't demand gifts.
If I tell you I'm busy, I'm busy. Sending me your full manuscript with the note "read it when you have time," and then crying because 3 days have passed and I haven't read it, will not make me read it. I'm busy.
If I haven't PM'ed you back, you are in the queue. I chat a lot...I mean A LOT! I have 10-50 PMs at any given time. There are days when I'll write to 20 people, and there are days when I don't feel social. I am also out of town frequently with music bands. I don't hate you. I'm too busy writing stories to write PMs all the time. Sometimes you catch me and I write directly back, sometimes I get bogged down and you might wait 2 weeks. That's just the way it is. Keep getting angry and whining "you're ignoring me again" like a clingy girlfriend (even if in jest) and I might purposely put off your PMs, because I simply don't have the patience to talk to you.
I get writer's block.
I burn out.
I am SERIOUSLY burning out on fanfiction in general.
If I have written "This story is on hiatus" then it's on frigging HIATUS.
If I'm not updating the story you particularly like... tough luck. At least it's not on hiatus.
Writing to me weekly "when will you update" will not speed me up.
Telling me to stop working on my current obsession because you want this other story, will not speed me up.
Leaving reviews under different names but saying the same "Y U No Update" message every time, will not speed me up.
I do not take vague requests of "Can you write about this couple," especially if I have 10 stories on that couple.
I do not accept all story requests. They need to interest me personally, and that's pretty random. Even if I accept a request, realize that I'm working on about 12 stories at any given time, with 50 in the queue. Some people have waited a year or more.
Don't ask me every day "What about that request I sent you?" It's in the queue, with 50 other stories.
Especially don't ask when I said I don't have time to write requests until autumn.
Don't keep asking "Are you free now? Aren't you on summer break?" No. I'm an adult. We don't get summer break.
Nagging me does not make me faster.
Calling me names does not spur me on.
Threats never work.
If any of these fit you, I don't hate you. You are not the only one. These are issues that have come up multiple times, so it's not like I'm singling you out.
I will write what I want, when I want, at the pace I can mentally handle.
I love to write. I love to chat. I love to help young writers. But please...I'm just one person!
Thanks.
Monday, January 21, 2013
30 is the new 15
I've heard people reassure my eldest sister, "Being 40 isn't too bad. 40 is the new 30, after all." It made me wonder. I'm in that state of being a "thirtysomething" so...what am I? I was hanging out with some friends over Christmas, and it was noted that we were being loud, drinking a lot, not really acting like adults (crude conversations as only people who are married can even discuss), and basically we were being a rowdy group of perverts. Someone jokingly said, "Meh, don't worry about it, 30 is the new 20 so we can act like idiot college students."
Being 30... I suppose there were a lot of things I thought would happen by now that haven't come to pass: a lucrative career, a few novels published, a house of my own, a family. Some of my friends have all that, and I'm a bit jealous. Maybe it won't happen until I'm 40, since "40 is the new 30."
However, I'm finding myself in an awkward phase. I feel trapped between one stage in life and another.
I began to notice this metamorphical transition when I began to write fanfiction. Such a hobby is seen as the budding writing attempts of teenagers, focusing on love affairs that never happened in the actual story, or feeling out their own strengths and weaknesses. In other words, 90% of all fanfiction is poorly written verbage-garbage written by hormonal adult-children. They're trying, though, and it's a medium for editorial help that didn't exist when I was a teenager. Then there's me. I usually keep my age a secret, although I did finally state on my profile that I'm "over 25." That alone makes me old. My readers are the same age as some of my friend's children. Still, I try to teach through writing, I "beta read" (AKA, edit manuscripts) for a select few who I deem as having true potential. I could not tell you how many people have written fan letters to me saying that my style of writing has inspired them to write also. I am called "sensei" and "taicho," Japanese for teacher and captain. I'm a mentor on that site. One reader who discovered my age called me "the old lady of fanfiction."
Then, on Tuesday nights, I pick up my trombone and play with the local symphonic band. Amongst my peers in the trombone section, I'm the only female and the only one without gray hair...besides a half dozen rogue strands. So since all the other trombonists are between the ages of 55-70, I'm "the little girl" of the trombone section. They respect me, but I felt like I had to earn that respect. I'm a child in their eyes, a youngster. One of the trombonists in the group avoided me with a sense of awkwardness until he found out I majored in music, studied music theory in college, and was a section leader (and later instructor) for my youth band. That apparently impressed him, showed him I'm mature and know what the hell I'm doing, and now he's talking to me like an equal. But again, I'm "the little girl" who has to struggle to gain the respect of the "older adults." I've always had the pressure of being female in a male-dominated instrumental section, but now I have pressure for being so young.
So I'm "the old lady" but also "the little girl." I'm trapped between two phases in my life, that of being a vibrant adult in my prime, yet not quite considered elderly and experienced. My in-laws still refer to me and my husband as "the kids." I had a neighbor's son see me coming up the street and shout "Run, it's a grownup!" (That was awkward.) People call me "ma'am." People call me "young miss." Because my hair refuses to turn gray, my former school friends see me and exclaim "You haven't aged a day," yet I'm no longer carded when I buy alcohol because I look old enough (21 in this country). I'm fully entrenched as an adult, but I'm still seen as a young person. That's...good, I guess. But it's becoming awkward.
30 isn't the new 20.
30 is the new 15.
Fifteen years old: that awkward stage of not being a child but not being an adult, when your body is changing, puberty sneaks up on you, zits plague your skin, hormones are raring, independence becomes a struggle as you battle parents and teachers, stupid choices are made (drugs, drinking, weird hair colors), and we desire with all our heart to "belong," no matter which clique we pick to hang out with.
Thirty years old: that awkward stage of not being recklessly young but not being satisfied with the settled adult life, when your body is changing, gray sneaks into your hair, wrinkles threaten to crease your skin, hormones are beginning to wane, freedom becomes a struggle as you battle bosses and the tether of having children to lug around, stupid choices are made (sleeping pills, drinking, mid-life crisis), and we desire with all our heart to "return" to youth, no matter if that means we sound like old fogies talking about "the good old days."
Yes, 40 may be the new 30, but 30 is the new 15.
Being 30... I suppose there were a lot of things I thought would happen by now that haven't come to pass: a lucrative career, a few novels published, a house of my own, a family. Some of my friends have all that, and I'm a bit jealous. Maybe it won't happen until I'm 40, since "40 is the new 30."
However, I'm finding myself in an awkward phase. I feel trapped between one stage in life and another.
I began to notice this metamorphical transition when I began to write fanfiction. Such a hobby is seen as the budding writing attempts of teenagers, focusing on love affairs that never happened in the actual story, or feeling out their own strengths and weaknesses. In other words, 90% of all fanfiction is poorly written verbage-garbage written by hormonal adult-children. They're trying, though, and it's a medium for editorial help that didn't exist when I was a teenager. Then there's me. I usually keep my age a secret, although I did finally state on my profile that I'm "over 25." That alone makes me old. My readers are the same age as some of my friend's children. Still, I try to teach through writing, I "beta read" (AKA, edit manuscripts) for a select few who I deem as having true potential. I could not tell you how many people have written fan letters to me saying that my style of writing has inspired them to write also. I am called "sensei" and "taicho," Japanese for teacher and captain. I'm a mentor on that site. One reader who discovered my age called me "the old lady of fanfiction."
Then, on Tuesday nights, I pick up my trombone and play with the local symphonic band. Amongst my peers in the trombone section, I'm the only female and the only one without gray hair...besides a half dozen rogue strands. So since all the other trombonists are between the ages of 55-70, I'm "the little girl" of the trombone section. They respect me, but I felt like I had to earn that respect. I'm a child in their eyes, a youngster. One of the trombonists in the group avoided me with a sense of awkwardness until he found out I majored in music, studied music theory in college, and was a section leader (and later instructor) for my youth band. That apparently impressed him, showed him I'm mature and know what the hell I'm doing, and now he's talking to me like an equal. But again, I'm "the little girl" who has to struggle to gain the respect of the "older adults." I've always had the pressure of being female in a male-dominated instrumental section, but now I have pressure for being so young.
So I'm "the old lady" but also "the little girl." I'm trapped between two phases in my life, that of being a vibrant adult in my prime, yet not quite considered elderly and experienced. My in-laws still refer to me and my husband as "the kids." I had a neighbor's son see me coming up the street and shout "Run, it's a grownup!" (That was awkward.) People call me "ma'am." People call me "young miss." Because my hair refuses to turn gray, my former school friends see me and exclaim "You haven't aged a day," yet I'm no longer carded when I buy alcohol because I look old enough (21 in this country). I'm fully entrenched as an adult, but I'm still seen as a young person. That's...good, I guess. But it's becoming awkward.
30 isn't the new 20.
30 is the new 15.
Fifteen years old: that awkward stage of not being a child but not being an adult, when your body is changing, puberty sneaks up on you, zits plague your skin, hormones are raring, independence becomes a struggle as you battle parents and teachers, stupid choices are made (drugs, drinking, weird hair colors), and we desire with all our heart to "belong," no matter which clique we pick to hang out with.
Thirty years old: that awkward stage of not being recklessly young but not being satisfied with the settled adult life, when your body is changing, gray sneaks into your hair, wrinkles threaten to crease your skin, hormones are beginning to wane, freedom becomes a struggle as you battle bosses and the tether of having children to lug around, stupid choices are made (sleeping pills, drinking, mid-life crisis), and we desire with all our heart to "return" to youth, no matter if that means we sound like old fogies talking about "the good old days."
Yes, 40 may be the new 30, but 30 is the new 15.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Christmas Writing
People on my fanfiction sites have asked why I'm not updating as frequently. I'd love to have
some tragic reason that makes all of you pity me, but that's not the
case. My husband has me utterly addicted to Star Wars: The Old Republic,
on The Harbinger server, in case you play too. Between my Consular
"Rhov" and my Smuggler "Nikolai'Hel" I'm having way too much fun. (Note:
I play a male smuggler, my hubby plays a female Jedi...gender-bender
RP'ing FTW!)
I've also been busy with Christmas stuff, including my hubby's birthday, relatives visiting from out-of-state, Hanukkah (in-laws are Jewish), many small ensemble performances, Christmas caroling, potluck parties (I always cook green bean casserole and people eagerly look forward to it, which I think is bizarre), and tomorrow I perform on trombone in a concert with my local symphonic band. Also, in one week I'll be flying back home to Los Angeles, enjoying the Hollywood sites, the sunny Southern California beaches, going to Disneyland since my brother works there and can get me in for free, and spending 8 of those 12 days of Christmas with friends and family. I'll be on vacation until after the New Year. I might get some writing done, but I doubt it.
So that's my lame excuse for laziness: gaming, partying, performing, cooking, and vacationing.
I've also been busy with Christmas stuff, including my hubby's birthday, relatives visiting from out-of-state, Hanukkah (in-laws are Jewish), many small ensemble performances, Christmas caroling, potluck parties (I always cook green bean casserole and people eagerly look forward to it, which I think is bizarre), and tomorrow I perform on trombone in a concert with my local symphonic band. Also, in one week I'll be flying back home to Los Angeles, enjoying the Hollywood sites, the sunny Southern California beaches, going to Disneyland since my brother works there and can get me in for free, and spending 8 of those 12 days of Christmas with friends and family. I'll be on vacation until after the New Year. I might get some writing done, but I doubt it.
So that's my lame excuse for laziness: gaming, partying, performing, cooking, and vacationing.
Monday, November 05, 2012
Nanowrimo 2012
It's that time of year again. I'm participating in National Novel
Writing Month, otherwise known as Nanowrimo. During the month of
November, I will be attempting to write a 50,000-word novel in 30 days.
It's my 7th year participating. Lucky seven, I hope!
If any of you want to be writing buddies, I would love to join you in the insanity. My username is Rhov.
If you have a novel you want to work on and think a competition like this is a good excuse to focus on it, it's not too late to join in. It's lots of fun, especially if you get really involved, meet up with local writers at write-ins, and make acquaintance with the people in your region through the forums. Sometimes I write so much in the forums that I get too distracted from my novel.
So please excuse me as I take a break from writing fanfiction during this month. Random one-shots might spring out from my over-worked Muse, but otherwise my life is focused around my novel. It's called Trombones Are Blue, about a girl with synesthesia, a condition I have where I hear colors and see sounds. In my story, her way of experiencing the world causes her to be bullied and outcast. Still, she struggles on and in defiance of the kaleidoscopic chaos, she joins the school band. Although petite, she wants to play the trombone (which I play) because "trombones are blue."
Rough concept of a book cover.
If any of you want to be writing buddies, I would love to join you in the insanity. My username is Rhov.
If you have a novel you want to work on and think a competition like this is a good excuse to focus on it, it's not too late to join in. It's lots of fun, especially if you get really involved, meet up with local writers at write-ins, and make acquaintance with the people in your region through the forums. Sometimes I write so much in the forums that I get too distracted from my novel.
So please excuse me as I take a break from writing fanfiction during this month. Random one-shots might spring out from my over-worked Muse, but otherwise my life is focused around my novel. It's called Trombones Are Blue, about a girl with synesthesia, a condition I have where I hear colors and see sounds. In my story, her way of experiencing the world causes her to be bullied and outcast. Still, she struggles on and in defiance of the kaleidoscopic chaos, she joins the school band. Although petite, she wants to play the trombone (which I play) because "trombones are blue."
Rough concept of a book cover.
Tuesday, October 02, 2012
Wedding Bells Still Ringing
Today is my wedding anniversary.
Seven years of bliss, rarely an argument, never a fight, and we have never spent more than 24 hours apart in those seven years. Instead of that being annoying, we both get a small sense of dread when it seems like one of us might be sent away for training, conferences, or family business. We still sleep in the same bed, we grab each others' butts when we pass one another in the kitchen, we cutely hold hands while walking together, and I still blush if he kisses me in public.
"Seven year itch?" We have our own cure. LOVE!
(And the honeymoon ain't over, folks!)
Seven years of bliss, rarely an argument, never a fight, and we have never spent more than 24 hours apart in those seven years. Instead of that being annoying, we both get a small sense of dread when it seems like one of us might be sent away for training, conferences, or family business. We still sleep in the same bed, we grab each others' butts when we pass one another in the kitchen, we cutely hold hands while walking together, and I still blush if he kisses me in public.
"Seven year itch?" We have our own cure. LOVE!
(And the honeymoon ain't over, folks!)
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
We Can't Forget
I clearly remember this day, 2001. I was in college, and I had just left tutoring in the math department (I suck at math). I went outside, called my boyfriend (now husband) up on the cellphone, told him I was done, I was free until afternoon, and maybe we could get lunch. That was when he told me. I remember I had been merrily walking down the broad staircase from that math building, feeling cheery, when his voice came over the phone pitched higher than usual. "They've flown planes into the World Trade Center," he cried out in a panic. "The Pentagon's been hit too. They think there are other planes going to crash into places. It's World War Three!" he screamed, perhaps exaggerating, but I could hear he was terrified.
I stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of that broad stairway. I almost stumbled and fell as my head plummeted and the world seemed to tilt off its axis. "...That's not funny."
"Babe...this is no joke. Have you really not heard the news?"
I had noticed crowds around the computers in the math lab, but I thought it was some new program a geek wrote. Standing on those stairs, and I had a good view of the area. Only then did I notice groups huddled and crying, people wandering aimlessly with empty eyes, and pale faces looking stunned beyond the ability to think.>
"...The Pentagon?" I asked in a quavering voice.
Face it, before 9/11 the idea of flying planes into the Twin Towers was not unknown. It was a plot device used in movies and TV shows. I assure you, you will NEVER see those episodes on the air again!
So for those of us at the time, it seemed...stereotypical! Too "Hollywood" to really be happening.
But the Pentagon! At hearing about the WTC, I truly thought he was joking, but that...that's serious shit. You don't mess with the goddamn Pentagon!
"Honey, I'm picking you up. Classes will likely be cancelled anyway. They're talking about suicide bombers on buses and trains. I don't want you on that city bus. Stay on campus. I'm on my way. NOW!"
Suddenly, I joined the ranks of blank-eyed students. I wandered toward the parking lot and tried to process this information. Most of you seeing this were too young. You heard about 9/11 in school history class. Maybe...maaaybe you sort of remember your parents speaking in hushed voices. It's "history" to you.
But on that day, it felt like there would be no future. Time stopped. Our lives stopped. Airplanes grounded, trains stopped, schools closed, no one left their homes. For the next few days, people feared all-out war.
I went to my boyfriend's place just in time to see the Towers collapse. I'm a writer, and I honestly can't describe the chill and numbed disbelief that hit us all when we saw that. The scene has been replayed so much, younger people are immune to it, but when we saw it the first time.....
I would say we all prayed. All of us. Either to God, Allah, Buddha, a goddess, a higher power, or to that which we didn't believe in before that day... we all cried out in anguish for this to not be true, to wake up, to let this horrific nightmare stop...just STOP... please God, don't let any more people die!
And then the other Tower fell. Our prayers were not answered. There was no Superman or Captain America to save us that day. We were abandoned, left to fight this tragedy on our own. We realized how childish our country can be, sitting by our TVs as we watch the chaos in "other countries" and shrugging that it wasn't affecting us, so why worry. That day, the eyes of the world were on us, and we felt like the child-country we really are. Hell visited America that day, and we were watching the flames burn away our innocence.
I truly don't remember the rest of that day. It was a Tuesday, like today. My boyfriend drove me home. The freeways were empty for once. At home, my sister was in hysterics. She had been on a business call with someone in the Towers when the first plane struck, and she realized that the man likely died on impact. A friend lived in NYC across the river; he witnessed the whole thing and was helping to shelter survivors who fled over the bridge on foot. A cousin lived mere blocks away from the WTC, and we were terrified for her (she was safe, thankfully). I didn't go to school the next day. I got a call from the dean's office that the college would be closed all week. Like I said, time stopped, and all of America was waiting, left hanging, frightened at what more would strike us.
I think NOT having anything else happen was stressful too. We were waiting, expecting it. We were loading our guns, those same guns the government had been trying to take from us. If terrorists were coming to American shores, by God we would meet them head on and send them to Hell!
Nothing happened. We mourned. We heard stories of heroes. We wondered "who did this to us" and not knowing who to blame, who to punish, who to direct our collective RAGE toward was frustrating too. There was an enemy out there, and we didn't know WHO! Despite the uncertainties that hung in the air over the following days and weeks, America united unlike it had ever done in decades, probably since World War II. Flags waved from every car. People wore black bands around their arms (I still have mine). Bands played "America the Beautiful" to start every concert. For the first time in my life, I saw what it meant to be the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
"United" indeed!
If you live in America, you'll see lots of "Never Forget" signs today, but for those of us old enough to have truly lived through it, forgetting is impossible. Even when we sometimes want to...we can't! That bloody, fiery day of death and destruction, when terrorists thought they could rip out the very heart of America, indeed left a scar on our hearts.
But you know what? Scars make us stronger. Scars remind us.
We CAN'T forget!
I stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of that broad stairway. I almost stumbled and fell as my head plummeted and the world seemed to tilt off its axis. "...That's not funny."
"Babe...this is no joke. Have you really not heard the news?"
I had noticed crowds around the computers in the math lab, but I thought it was some new program a geek wrote. Standing on those stairs, and I had a good view of the area. Only then did I notice groups huddled and crying, people wandering aimlessly with empty eyes, and pale faces looking stunned beyond the ability to think.>
"...The Pentagon?" I asked in a quavering voice.
Face it, before 9/11 the idea of flying planes into the Twin Towers was not unknown. It was a plot device used in movies and TV shows. I assure you, you will NEVER see those episodes on the air again!
So for those of us at the time, it seemed...stereotypical! Too "Hollywood" to really be happening.
But the Pentagon! At hearing about the WTC, I truly thought he was joking, but that...that's serious shit. You don't mess with the goddamn Pentagon!
"Honey, I'm picking you up. Classes will likely be cancelled anyway. They're talking about suicide bombers on buses and trains. I don't want you on that city bus. Stay on campus. I'm on my way. NOW!"
Suddenly, I joined the ranks of blank-eyed students. I wandered toward the parking lot and tried to process this information. Most of you seeing this were too young. You heard about 9/11 in school history class. Maybe...maaaybe you sort of remember your parents speaking in hushed voices. It's "history" to you.
But on that day, it felt like there would be no future. Time stopped. Our lives stopped. Airplanes grounded, trains stopped, schools closed, no one left their homes. For the next few days, people feared all-out war.
I went to my boyfriend's place just in time to see the Towers collapse. I'm a writer, and I honestly can't describe the chill and numbed disbelief that hit us all when we saw that. The scene has been replayed so much, younger people are immune to it, but when we saw it the first time.....
I would say we all prayed. All of us. Either to God, Allah, Buddha, a goddess, a higher power, or to that which we didn't believe in before that day... we all cried out in anguish for this to not be true, to wake up, to let this horrific nightmare stop...just STOP... please God, don't let any more people die!
And then the other Tower fell. Our prayers were not answered. There was no Superman or Captain America to save us that day. We were abandoned, left to fight this tragedy on our own. We realized how childish our country can be, sitting by our TVs as we watch the chaos in "other countries" and shrugging that it wasn't affecting us, so why worry. That day, the eyes of the world were on us, and we felt like the child-country we really are. Hell visited America that day, and we were watching the flames burn away our innocence.
I truly don't remember the rest of that day. It was a Tuesday, like today. My boyfriend drove me home. The freeways were empty for once. At home, my sister was in hysterics. She had been on a business call with someone in the Towers when the first plane struck, and she realized that the man likely died on impact. A friend lived in NYC across the river; he witnessed the whole thing and was helping to shelter survivors who fled over the bridge on foot. A cousin lived mere blocks away from the WTC, and we were terrified for her (she was safe, thankfully). I didn't go to school the next day. I got a call from the dean's office that the college would be closed all week. Like I said, time stopped, and all of America was waiting, left hanging, frightened at what more would strike us.
I think NOT having anything else happen was stressful too. We were waiting, expecting it. We were loading our guns, those same guns the government had been trying to take from us. If terrorists were coming to American shores, by God we would meet them head on and send them to Hell!
Nothing happened. We mourned. We heard stories of heroes. We wondered "who did this to us" and not knowing who to blame, who to punish, who to direct our collective RAGE toward was frustrating too. There was an enemy out there, and we didn't know WHO! Despite the uncertainties that hung in the air over the following days and weeks, America united unlike it had ever done in decades, probably since World War II. Flags waved from every car. People wore black bands around their arms (I still have mine). Bands played "America the Beautiful" to start every concert. For the first time in my life, I saw what it meant to be the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
"United" indeed!
If you live in America, you'll see lots of "Never Forget" signs today, but for those of us old enough to have truly lived through it, forgetting is impossible. Even when we sometimes want to...we can't! That bloody, fiery day of death and destruction, when terrorists thought they could rip out the very heart of America, indeed left a scar on our hearts.
But you know what? Scars make us stronger. Scars remind us.
We CAN'T forget!
Saturday, May 05, 2012
America Needs An Enemy
I wrote this to a friend in China, so I thought I'd repost it here.
I think America feels it needs an enemy, doesn't matter who or what. This is just my opinion, but when you look through American history, that's how we always are.
The British were the enemies, and we broke away from English rule. Then Native Americans were all enemies, so White people massacred them and stole their lands. Then the Mexicans were enemies and we stole half of Mexico from them (most Americans don't realize this).
Then when we couldn't find anyone to hate, we hated ourselves, and the Civil War between North and South broke out. It wasn't originally over slavery like schools teach, but they were fighting because the South didn't want to be part of America anymore due to economic reasons.
Then it was any immigrant, like when famine drove the Irish to flee to America in droves, people despised all Irish and wouldn't give them jobs, then it was Jewish people fleeing Russia and coming in boatloads to America.
Then we had the two World Wars and we had a real enemy. Hate Germans! Hate Nazis! Hate Japanese!
Then the Cold War and it was Russia who was the enemy, and any Communist sympathizer was certainly a spy! Then Korea, then Vietnam for no other reason than they supported Russia. Really stupid wars!
Then Russia was our friend and people wanted something else to be the enemy, so we went back to hating immigrants, mostly Mexicans. Now it's Islamic extremists, and America's raring to go to war with anyone, even countries that have little to do with the attack on 9-11. Now it seems that's all cleared up, and people are looking at warlords in Africa, or threats from North Korea, anything!
We're willing to turn anyone, even ourselves, into enemies. Blacks versus Whites! Republicans versus Democrats! North versus South! Perhaps it's because we're a competitive society. We love ball games because we can cheer on our team. You can't like both the Yankees and the Dodgers in baseball, and if you cheer for both teams, you're a traitor to each. We're driven by seeing things in black and white, enemies and allies, right and wrong, good and evil. Those who appease to both sides, toe the line, sit on the fence, are seen as weak.
America needs an enemy! We love having a superhero who saves the day. We thrive when we can pretend we're the good guy, the hero, Captain America fighting evil around the world! And it doesn't matter what we deem to be "evil."
I think America feels it needs an enemy, doesn't matter who or what. This is just my opinion, but when you look through American history, that's how we always are.
The British were the enemies, and we broke away from English rule. Then Native Americans were all enemies, so White people massacred them and stole their lands. Then the Mexicans were enemies and we stole half of Mexico from them (most Americans don't realize this).
Then when we couldn't find anyone to hate, we hated ourselves, and the Civil War between North and South broke out. It wasn't originally over slavery like schools teach, but they were fighting because the South didn't want to be part of America anymore due to economic reasons.
Then it was any immigrant, like when famine drove the Irish to flee to America in droves, people despised all Irish and wouldn't give them jobs, then it was Jewish people fleeing Russia and coming in boatloads to America.
Then we had the two World Wars and we had a real enemy. Hate Germans! Hate Nazis! Hate Japanese!
Then the Cold War and it was Russia who was the enemy, and any Communist sympathizer was certainly a spy! Then Korea, then Vietnam for no other reason than they supported Russia. Really stupid wars!
Then Russia was our friend and people wanted something else to be the enemy, so we went back to hating immigrants, mostly Mexicans. Now it's Islamic extremists, and America's raring to go to war with anyone, even countries that have little to do with the attack on 9-11. Now it seems that's all cleared up, and people are looking at warlords in Africa, or threats from North Korea, anything!
We're willing to turn anyone, even ourselves, into enemies. Blacks versus Whites! Republicans versus Democrats! North versus South! Perhaps it's because we're a competitive society. We love ball games because we can cheer on our team. You can't like both the Yankees and the Dodgers in baseball, and if you cheer for both teams, you're a traitor to each. We're driven by seeing things in black and white, enemies and allies, right and wrong, good and evil. Those who appease to both sides, toe the line, sit on the fence, are seen as weak.
America needs an enemy! We love having a superhero who saves the day. We thrive when we can pretend we're the good guy, the hero, Captain America fighting evil around the world! And it doesn't matter what we deem to be "evil."
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Trombones Are Blue: A Loud Look Into Synesthesia
An A is red.
It'll always be red.
That's what they said.
But at least for me
It's just an A I see.
That's what's in my head.
"It's not that form of synesthesia," I said.
Yet play on a horn or a violin
And suddenly the fireworks begin.
The A is orange, B-flat always yellow
Unless it is played by a tuba fellow.
Then it turns into purplish-green.
At least that's what I've seen.
My trombone is blue,
My favorite hue,
That's why I love to play an F.
For F is blue too
And when blue meets blue,
All is at peace in the bass clef.
In band, it's a kaleidoscope,
A tripping-out rainbow of hope
Smothering me in crayon-chaos cacophony.
At each rehearsal, I drown in the anomaly.
Each instrument is a hue that colors each note,
Like Skittles bubbling out of a singer's throat.
Birdsong is yellow, forests are blue.
(Don't let the green leaves fool you!)
So when birds fill the woody scene,
It all turns into brilliant green
Like the leaves in the trees,
And I hear a clarinet in the breeze.
They say my world is unique,
But it seems all so bleak
To imagine autumn not being brassy
Or red not sounding classy.
I see and hear the world differently than you,
And in my world, trombones are blue.
It'll always be red.
That's what they said.
But at least for me
It's just an A I see.
That's what's in my head.
"It's not that form of synesthesia," I said.
Yet play on a horn or a violin
And suddenly the fireworks begin.
The A is orange, B-flat always yellow
Unless it is played by a tuba fellow.
Then it turns into purplish-green.
At least that's what I've seen.
My trombone is blue,
My favorite hue,
That's why I love to play an F.
For F is blue too
And when blue meets blue,
All is at peace in the bass clef.
In band, it's a kaleidoscope,
A tripping-out rainbow of hope
Smothering me in crayon-chaos cacophony.
At each rehearsal, I drown in the anomaly.
Each instrument is a hue that colors each note,
Like Skittles bubbling out of a singer's throat.
Birdsong is yellow, forests are blue.
(Don't let the green leaves fool you!)
So when birds fill the woody scene,
It all turns into brilliant green
Like the leaves in the trees,
And I hear a clarinet in the breeze.
They say my world is unique,
But it seems all so bleak
To imagine autumn not being brassy
Or red not sounding classy.
I see and hear the world differently than you,
And in my world, trombones are blue.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Losing is Sometimes Good
I've been on a bit of a forced diet: i.e. had my teeth yanked and still on mostly soft foods. I'm back to my normal eating more or less. I wouldn't say I can chew a thick steak, but chicken and pastas are about what I eat normally anyway.
I had to be weighed before the surgery. 162. I know, never ask a girl her weight, and I'm not happy with that weight. I was up to 170 just after the winter holidays, so it's slowly going down...slowly...too damn slowly! So now, 162... it's within normal range for my height and body-frame, but of course I don't want to be hugging that upper number. I want to be normal, maybe even a tad thin.
When wearing clothes, I don't look fat. My height covers up the chubbiness. I'm the tallest girl of all my friends, big-boned too (no, really, my bones are big and my shoulders are broad). My friends all tell me how I haven't gained weight since high school. How wrong they are! I was 120 and considered "severely underweight" for my body size. The lack of fat around my vital organs was causing medical problems. An emergency high-fat diet was ordered by a nutritionist. I probably didn't need it. College packed the pounds on for me quite nicely. Between having a doctor order my mother to put butter on everything she gave me, and then ending up with a diet made mostly of vending machine food and high-octane sodas, those pounds never came off. I needn't worry about low-fat-ratios anymore. Put me in a bathing suit and the cellulite is like some monster in a horror movie ready to jiggle its way into leveling Tokyo.
What they removed in my operation was far under a pound, although I felt like I bled a gallon. Ugh! The diet was a good idea, I figured. Maybe eating less would balance out the fact that I was stuck in bed and couldn't go out on my usual walks due to severe anemia.
It was a little better than that.
I recently weighed myself again. 157. That might not seem like much, but that's the first time I've been under 160 since getting married. That's 5 pounds I've lost in 2 weeks. That's FIVE POUNDS I lost while sitting on my ass and doing next to nothing. No exercising, no walks, I wasn't even allowed to bend over lest I start hemorrhaging.
Best of all, I find myself simply not hungry. I may eat two meals a day...maybe. Sometimes coffee and a yogurt are more than enough to get my through until dinner. It's not that I'm starving myself. My stomach simply shrank. I eat less food and less frequently. Chinese takeout, which I used to scarf down in no time, now lasts for two meals. The fact that I have to eat so slowly due to surgery in my mouth and face helps as well.
I can't wait to see how my weight continues to drop as I'm finally able to add in my hikes through the hills into this new eating style.
I had to be weighed before the surgery. 162. I know, never ask a girl her weight, and I'm not happy with that weight. I was up to 170 just after the winter holidays, so it's slowly going down...slowly...too damn slowly! So now, 162... it's within normal range for my height and body-frame, but of course I don't want to be hugging that upper number. I want to be normal, maybe even a tad thin.
When wearing clothes, I don't look fat. My height covers up the chubbiness. I'm the tallest girl of all my friends, big-boned too (no, really, my bones are big and my shoulders are broad). My friends all tell me how I haven't gained weight since high school. How wrong they are! I was 120 and considered "severely underweight" for my body size. The lack of fat around my vital organs was causing medical problems. An emergency high-fat diet was ordered by a nutritionist. I probably didn't need it. College packed the pounds on for me quite nicely. Between having a doctor order my mother to put butter on everything she gave me, and then ending up with a diet made mostly of vending machine food and high-octane sodas, those pounds never came off. I needn't worry about low-fat-ratios anymore. Put me in a bathing suit and the cellulite is like some monster in a horror movie ready to jiggle its way into leveling Tokyo.
What they removed in my operation was far under a pound, although I felt like I bled a gallon. Ugh! The diet was a good idea, I figured. Maybe eating less would balance out the fact that I was stuck in bed and couldn't go out on my usual walks due to severe anemia.
It was a little better than that.
I recently weighed myself again. 157. That might not seem like much, but that's the first time I've been under 160 since getting married. That's 5 pounds I've lost in 2 weeks. That's FIVE POUNDS I lost while sitting on my ass and doing next to nothing. No exercising, no walks, I wasn't even allowed to bend over lest I start hemorrhaging.
Best of all, I find myself simply not hungry. I may eat two meals a day...maybe. Sometimes coffee and a yogurt are more than enough to get my through until dinner. It's not that I'm starving myself. My stomach simply shrank. I eat less food and less frequently. Chinese takeout, which I used to scarf down in no time, now lasts for two meals. The fact that I have to eat so slowly due to surgery in my mouth and face helps as well.
I can't wait to see how my weight continues to drop as I'm finally able to add in my hikes through the hills into this new eating style.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Denture Adventure Part 10
I skipped Sunday, simply because I wanted to end on a round number.
I went to the dentist. She was impressed that my gums have healed up so fast. for only 11 days after having 13 teeth removed, she said she's never seen someone heal so fast. She adjusted the dentures where I said they hurt worst, over the canker sore and where they did the frenulectomy. I think she shaved down the front part too much. If I grin big, you can see the divot. However, it feels so much better now. Just a little adjustment was all I needed. I asked about it stretching my upper lip too much, but that's something her office can't adjust. Basically, I have to put up with feeling like I have "monkey mouth" until the 6 month realignment. By then, my gums should have shrunk enough so that the dentures can be narrowed and the gums thinned down.
She also gave me Poligrip to hold it in place. These dentures fit so tight, I don't think I need it. When I took them out tonight, I discovered that denture adhesive is a really gross thing. Despite vigorous brushing, the goop did not want to leave my mouth. I had to scrape it off with my fingernail, something I don't want to do again until my mouth fully heals. I've also come to realize that the massive bloodclot that I thought was on the underside of my denture the first time I removed it was likely actually denture bonding goop...mixed with blood...really nasty just remembering what that looked like.
I bought some ointment for canker sores. I had to watch out that it did not have the killer benzocaine in it, but I found a good herbal brand. So hopefully that will help. I plan to show up to band tomorrow. I tried to play just a little. Obviously I won't be able to just pick up the trombone and play the blues, but it wasn't as horrendous as I feared. My low range is fine, the upper range is surprisingly good (I think because my upper lip is stretched) but the mid-range is really unstable. The pain in the front of my lip will be the biggest hurdle.
I may write one more "Denture Adventure" after a month or so. For now, eating soft food and just healing is all I need.
I went to the dentist. She was impressed that my gums have healed up so fast. for only 11 days after having 13 teeth removed, she said she's never seen someone heal so fast. She adjusted the dentures where I said they hurt worst, over the canker sore and where they did the frenulectomy. I think she shaved down the front part too much. If I grin big, you can see the divot. However, it feels so much better now. Just a little adjustment was all I needed. I asked about it stretching my upper lip too much, but that's something her office can't adjust. Basically, I have to put up with feeling like I have "monkey mouth" until the 6 month realignment. By then, my gums should have shrunk enough so that the dentures can be narrowed and the gums thinned down.
She also gave me Poligrip to hold it in place. These dentures fit so tight, I don't think I need it. When I took them out tonight, I discovered that denture adhesive is a really gross thing. Despite vigorous brushing, the goop did not want to leave my mouth. I had to scrape it off with my fingernail, something I don't want to do again until my mouth fully heals. I've also come to realize that the massive bloodclot that I thought was on the underside of my denture the first time I removed it was likely actually denture bonding goop...mixed with blood...really nasty just remembering what that looked like.
I bought some ointment for canker sores. I had to watch out that it did not have the killer benzocaine in it, but I found a good herbal brand. So hopefully that will help. I plan to show up to band tomorrow. I tried to play just a little. Obviously I won't be able to just pick up the trombone and play the blues, but it wasn't as horrendous as I feared. My low range is fine, the upper range is surprisingly good (I think because my upper lip is stretched) but the mid-range is really unstable. The pain in the front of my lip will be the biggest hurdle.
I may write one more "Denture Adventure" after a month or so. For now, eating soft food and just healing is all I need.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Denture Adventure Part 9
Things were a little better today. I still only wear my dentures when I must. I ate a lot easier today, nothing that takes too much chewing. I'll ease my way into these damn denture.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Denture Adventure, Part 8
It's Friday, now one solid week since my Dental Armageddon. Luckily, my mouth isn't quite so painful today as it has been the past couple days. It's odd how the pain comes and goes.
Since I was told to wear the dentures as much as possible so my healing mouth retains its shape, I forced myself to put them in this morning. That involved about five minutes of easing them in over aching gums, canker sores, and healing incisions around my lips from the frenulectomy. I had to use our little neck massager to vibrate the sensation out of my face as the denture settled in. Once firmly in place with all the air suctioned out, I don't feel quite so bad. It's convincing the canker sores to accept something hard pressed against them... that is the challenging part, and it takes a few minutes.
The very last stitch came out. It had been bugging me for a while, located right where the gum and upper lip meet. I dared not pull it out earlier since the frenulectomy was the most painful part of this whole ordeal, but it was poking me too much, a broken fragment of the stitch threaded through my lip. I noticed this afternoon that the skin was growing over the knotted end, so it needed to go. I sterilized some tweezers, took hold of the knot, and pulled that last fragment out. That was painful, and once again I have to do all this without Oral Gel since I'm allergic to anything that numbs. That's where whiskey comes in handy. LOL!
I went a lot easier on eating today. My adventure with fixing pasta and trying to chew only proved that I'm not ready for that yet. Back to yogurt and soup.
Since I was told to wear the dentures as much as possible so my healing mouth retains its shape, I forced myself to put them in this morning. That involved about five minutes of easing them in over aching gums, canker sores, and healing incisions around my lips from the frenulectomy. I had to use our little neck massager to vibrate the sensation out of my face as the denture settled in. Once firmly in place with all the air suctioned out, I don't feel quite so bad. It's convincing the canker sores to accept something hard pressed against them... that is the challenging part, and it takes a few minutes.
The very last stitch came out. It had been bugging me for a while, located right where the gum and upper lip meet. I dared not pull it out earlier since the frenulectomy was the most painful part of this whole ordeal, but it was poking me too much, a broken fragment of the stitch threaded through my lip. I noticed this afternoon that the skin was growing over the knotted end, so it needed to go. I sterilized some tweezers, took hold of the knot, and pulled that last fragment out. That was painful, and once again I have to do all this without Oral Gel since I'm allergic to anything that numbs. That's where whiskey comes in handy. LOL!
I went a lot easier on eating today. My adventure with fixing pasta and trying to chew only proved that I'm not ready for that yet. Back to yogurt and soup.
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