love, read, write

https://docs.google.com/document/d/105I8KWwvFPEfBR5nQfyGc9-UgYhFQ_roAOY2Go8KEjw/edit?hl=en_US

This is what I got so far—not fully edited, and I know—I shouldn’t publish it if I didn’t finish it, but I’ll edit it later on.

Here it is.

 

 

 

I was always the best.

In my family, I was the smartest, considering my short-attention-spanned, hyperactive brother could not stay still for at least a minute. In my community—I was the one who won the reading prizes, writing prizes, all that academic glory. In my school—I was in the school newspaper because I had won a competition and performed in a winner’s recital at Carnegie Hall (Carnegie Hall! Wow, that’s good! they’d say). I was the best at drawing, because everyone else just didn’t care.

In the middle of fourth grade, all of that changed.

I had moved into a whole new place. A new county, a new town, a new house, a new school, and new peers to make friends with. It was all a blur.

It was a Friday. October twenty seventh, six days after my birthday, there I was, standing in this strange… big house. It wasn’t a small cramped apartment anymore. We wouldn’t spend those Christmases huddled in the corner next to the veranda, next to the Christmas tree, everything close to us—the TV, the kitchen, the couch, the rooms, the bathroom, the door. It wasn’t that small safe box that we lived in.

It was big.

That was my first impression.

And.

It had stairs.

Stairs! For the first time in my life, I could brag to my friends about how I could run up and down stairs—stairs! Our own stairs!—and never get tired of it—that our rooms were so big, and we had three bathrooms! And two sinks in one bathroom—that was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. I could tell this to all of my friends—how amazing would that be—such a great house!

And I could finally say, “I live in a big house”, rather than “I live in an apartment”. No climbing flights of stairs to get to our house and then set down our things, dig for the key, and open the lock, and burst in. It was just park, walk, unlock, and walk in.

It was like a dream come true(—the only thing was, I had a life, so I didn’t exactly dream all day about living in a house—just trying to express how amazed I was).

But of course, that wasn’t the only thing in mind—what was I, stupid? I knew what would come next.

School.

I’d have to make new friends, even when these kids had already started school, already decided who their friends were and who their friends weren’t, and already diving headlong into the depths of learning.

But I’d do well. As I always was. The person who was smart, and good at drawing, and piano, and nothing would change.

I learned, however, soon enough, that living in this new place was like an American expecting everyone else in Korea to speak English and understand English and follow American culture. No. It was different. Very.

I noticed this the minute I saw the school. It was an eerie feeling—these kids were already used to this school by now, already adjusting to their classes, their teachers, schedules, learning. But the first impression was—man, is it big.

And so fancy! The architecture wasn’t just a big box. It had a curvy hallway that had big windows, so you could see the little paintings on the inside walls, see teachers walking by. But we were early, my mom and I. We came here before school started, to keep things organized and ready when school did start.

We walked in, and the office—it was big. Everything was big here!

My teacher, Mrs. Unanski was introduced to me—it was so weird, because my fourth grade teacher before I moved here—her name was Mrs. Kaminsky—sounded oddly familiar.

She was nice. And old. And small. But very nice. I remember that. Really nice. Mom followed along, as we walked through endlessly long hallways, with drawings on the walls already, projects and drawings and paintings and writing all on the walls. And the classrooms had the lights on, and I would peer into them, imagining each seat occupied by someone—a friend, maybe.

Mom asked how many classes there were (oh, there were so many classrooms!), and she told us there were eleven fourth grade classrooms, ten fifth grade, and eleven sixth grade. Said it without much of excitement, or whatever. Just said it, like it was just the usual—oh, it’s a bit sunny today, with a bit of clouds, not raining, definitely.

My mouth dropped. I remember that. Real clear. I couldn’t believe it. In my private school, there were two classes for each grade. Then in the public school, maybe four or five. And I was amazed. This was the world-record, I bet. Eleven!?

My mom spoke just what I thought. Oh, not the private school and public school thing—but that there were so many.

“Oh, this is the only public elementary school in Holmdel,” she nodded.

I was, again, amazed. When would this town stop surprising me?

The only public school? That would mean—my imagination of just a few classes of fourth graders stretched to a massive crowd.

We turned a corner, and went up a ‘hill’, and there we were, at a classroom, strange, new, but still, my future.

After my mom left, I was alone, in a room, awkwardly readjusting my glasses and setting down my books, as the teacher told me what they had been learning so far, and that today was the day of a test—a grammar test. She said I could take it, but it wouldn’t count—that I could try it—would I like to?

Well, I didn’t think that I wouldn’t know. So of course, I said yes.

When the kids piled in, one by one, they set their bags down, I felt something new in the air.

It was different. Much different. So different from Woodbridge, I just felt a bit nervous. They were dressed differently—I mean, not like they were wearing dresses or an exotic brand from the southern coast of Africa (is there even one?), but it just felt different, the way they looked, the way they acted, just the way they walked into the door.

I began to note the differences.

Personality.

“Hey, look! It’s the new girl!”

And on my desk was a little puppy, or was it a turtle?—but anyhow, it was a cute little doll, and there was a card next to it that said “Happy Birthday! October 21! Celine Choo!” On it. It was one of those things you buy at staples, and you fill in the “Name” blank, the “Date” blank, and then you’d give it to the person, with a sticker to go along.

“Hey, why does she get to have Puppy?” (I forget the name of it, so I’ll just call it puppy.)

“Well, probably because she’s new.”

And of course, I wanted to say, “it was my birthday, actually,” but I didn’t. It felt weird, though, seeing them so… confident. And knowing. And sure. So sure.

It scared me. It was different. Nobody sat back and was shy, nobody stared at me quietly—they crowded around me. It was weird. Very. (Did I say that already? Emphasis.)

“Hey, welcome to Holmdel! Here’s a pen!” This girl gave me a pen—a purple one. Quite randomly, actually. No, maybe it was because it was my birthday—I’m not sure. Whatever.

Anyhow.

The groups. I figured out the groups very quickly.

In Woodbridge, nobody cared about how they looked, whether they wore these pants or those pants or wore these shoes or those, whether their hair was this color or that, whether they had an accent or not. But here, apparently, they did. When they walked in, most of the people were wearing at least one item of clothing that had a brand name. And they were all wearing the ‘in-style’ or whateveryoucall it sort of clothing. Pretty sweaters from Abercrombie, boots that were fuzzy, all sorts of stuff that I did. Not. Recognize.

It was strange, yes. Very.

The groups. I could tell who was in what group, very quickly. It just came to me.

First, it was the Asians. Don’t blame me—I noticed them because I’m Asian too! But never, ever, in my life, had I ever seen so many Asians in the same classroom. It was lucky, in Woodbridge (sorry to compare so much), to have any Asian in your classroom. But here—there was her, her, him, her, and her (no names given). It was… different.

But what else was, the Asians were different. Am I sounding like I’m naming a new species? That’s what it should sound like. Because they were Asian, alright, but they were wearing clothes that I would see in magazines, the brand name clothing. What I had never thought of wearing—at all.

The next group. They were the kids who were strangers to me, almost like a new species. I found, later on, that people tended to call them ‘popular.’ But at first sight, they were just plain strange. They would burst into a song during recess, crowd into a group and talk about whatever they would, talk loud and confident and burst into sarcasm seventy eight percent of the time, and they wouldn’t talk to certain people. Certain people.

They would act all nice and friendly in front of the teacher, and when the teacher was gone, they would suddenly start talking and walking over to their friends—so audacious—and they would order our class to do this, that, whatever, and then glare and do whatever they wanted. It was strange, yes. Very.

Then it was the people I was the most familiar with—people who didn’t care what they looked like, people who didn’t care who you were or who I was, but just accepted certain things. Some Asians, some Caucasians, you couldn’t really have a way of telling. But I was in that group.

(Oh, and, if you forgot about the grammar test—I bombed it. So, don’t ask.)

As I lived in Holmdel longer and longer, I realized certain things, and began to follow that saying—“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

I made friends with the Asians in my class (what, was it my fault—I was so amazed by how many Asians there were in my class), and even found one of them was Korean! KOREAN! It was rare for there to be two Koreans in our school, but for them to be in the same class—that was pure luck. Pure luck, I tell you.

But as I made friends with some people, I realized that even Asians thought the way the strange—‘popular’—people did.

“Well, she’s wearing fake Uggs.”

And to myself, I’d think of that as ridiculous, stupid, just empty minded.

When I talked to them, not only did their personality did I notice, but their values in things, their expectations, and their achievements. So much… higher—than Woodbridge.

Some people would need at least an A. They would get angry if they got a B, or a C.

And their values—wow, would they talk about their houses—pools, tennis courts, how many rooms, study room, a laptop, computer, iPod, iPad, this car, that car, this phone, that phone, what! It was like they were living in the houses and lives I would have never dreamt of having.

And the school was so big—two gyms! and a huge cafeteria, a field and two playgrounds and a blacktop to play on. The bathrooms were in the best conditions could be (I know, an awkward subject—sort of not really whatever), and the classrooms had all sorts of cool things, like TVs in every classroom, and a touch screen thing—SmartBoard, was it? And the field day—AT A SWIMMING POOL!? That was the best thing in the WORLD. I couldn’t believe it.

But they were complaining.

It amazed me—couldn’t they see how much they had, what they had?

And their achievements—Holmdel, the school of smart people, I would say. I was no longer ‘the smart person.’ I was now the ‘person,’ no wait—the ‘new person.’

I played at Carnegie Hall? Oh, shut up, ten other people did, too.

I was in Gifted and Talented program for Art? Oh, shut up, there’s tons of other kids who take art lessons and ace the shading techniques and coloring techniques and painting techniques and win prize after prize.

What was I, now?

Piano?

Don’t tell me—my level was the average.

Swimming?

No. I wasn’t even at the level to compare. No.

And guess what—everyone at LEAST took one sort of lessons—and they were already talking about colleges, SATs, and who knows—jobs. While there I was, stupidly standing around, thinking I was smart, how ignorant I must have seemed. Tennis lessons, swimming lessons, piano lessons, writing tutors, math tutors, art lessons. Everything.

Of course, when I moved to Holmdel, my whole perspective changed, my whole house changed, my whole SCHOOL CHANGED. And so did the people in it, thus affecting me.

Yes, me.

It gave pressure on me. It felt like I was the only one doing nothing, the one who wasn’t prepared, the one who wasn’t competent. Not able.

So I worked hard. I didn’t have any tutors, no extra lessons, workbooks, after school study whatevers. But I did my homework, studied, tried to maintain the usual A range, whatnot.

And being such a slow person, it resulted in the usual bed-time of around ten to twelve. (Which is one of the terrible reasons to why I’m so short—but that’s beside the point.)

All I knew was that I would NOT be someone my mom or dad would just take for granted and give up with the amazing-smart-daughter dream. I wanted them to be happy. And the more I tried, the more they expected. And the more they expected, the more I tried. And it went on and on and on.

So sometimes, I hear kids complain how “this sucks” and “that sucks” because the speakers aren’t working for the projectors, or that we don’t get to use the language lab, or because our school looks ugly, or whatever. And sometimes, I agree—then I catch myself, and I try to remind myself that I am lucky. That I am in a place that I should be thankful about, that if I did not live here, to this day, that I probably wouldn’t have made high goals, high expectations, and high achievements. And that through Holmdel, I have made the good types of friends, and that I would, ultimately, make the right choice.

What choice? Oh shut up, I don’t know about choices that are in the future—what am I, clairvoyant? Fortuneteller? Go consult the nearest tea-leaf reader at Target in the pharmacy section—not me.

And after a while, it became difficult to take piano lessons from a teacher who was thirty minutes away. We no longer had time for that. So my mom searched for a new teacher. And there, she lived three minutes away. What a convenience!

A short month or two after I started taking piano lessons, we had a class recital—of all of her students—my piano teacher’s.

Everyone. Was. Godly. At. Piano.

Besides the first and second graders, of course—they had just started.

But suddenly, my pride shrunk to the size of a pea.

This person won this award, this diploma, got into this high school, this major.

This person got into Julliard for this instrument with this much practice and this much—

And as I learned that this teacher, this teacher who was teaching me—she was teaching those amazing key-touching people—I realized that I would probably reach that level. And after a year or two, I began to find confidence once more, not only in piano, but also in academics and such. I realized that I couldn’t compare myself to my peers—people in Holmdel—no, I was not godly at piano, nor was I a genius in math or whatever.

But I realized that I could compare myself to my friends back in Woodbridge!

How stupid.

Yeah, I know.

Stupid.

Dumb.

Arrogant.

You can throw rocks and stones (they’re the same thing, I know) at me.

But I realized.

I went to my friend’s house after Korean school, which was back in Woodbridge—or somewhere near—those towns are pretty similar, and that friend was learning from the teacher I had been learning from before I moved to Holmdel and found a new teacher, blah blah, you know the rest. She was my friend, my best friend—except for the fact that we were very very far from each other now.

My mom told her “why don’t you play a piece (piano piece, duh, don’t you know) for me? It’s been a long time!”

Now, all this time, I had thought I was better than her (again, you can kick me later on, when you actually see me, and just don’t kick your computer or something), because of this new, advanced teacher, and you know (—wait maybe you don’t. Whatever. Just pretend to know—nod and smile). Better at sight reading, piano, technique. Because even when we had the same teacher, we were rivals, you can say.

Well, she started playing, and I sat there, on the floor, looking at the keys from under, looking at her playing the piano, and I realized.

Of course, now that I had seen so much more advanced playing, I realized how she and I played weren’t the best, but she was still—good, you can say. But I realized that I should not feel superior, let compliments get into my head, or think of myself better than someone before seeing their skill.

I sit at the piano, and I feel the quiet around me, the silence filled with just that sound of keyboard, mouse clicks, and yes, me adjusting the piano bench. It's really quiet, so quiet, in fact, I can almost imagine myself hearing the crickets outside, the wind blowing, the footsteps from next door.
But when I place my hands on the keys, I feel a warmth rising in my body, and I look at the music, just plain black, white, dots, lines, and curves--to form one whole.
Music.
Of course, I'm not the sort of person to be able to play with music, throw it in the air, give it a little spin, sprinkle it around and take it all back in like one magic trick after another. I'm the sort of person who can't do that, but enjoy trying to.
And as I'm playing, I hear footsteps. It's not the imaginary next-door-neighbor footsteps. It's the real behind-me-watching-me-play footsteps.
So I pause, just for a split second, and continue.
When I finish, I look behind me, and there he is.
My Dad.
Ever since I said that I would Never, ever come home late after work ever in my life when I grow up, he has been coming home at ten o clock, at least. Maybe around 6 or 7 or 8, usually.
When in fact, he had been coming home at maybe around twelve or one in the morning before. It was a wonderful improvement on him being a father--a great one, in fact, proving that he was actually trying. And I appreciated it, I acknowledged it. I'd hear him wake up at four o clock in the morning, hear the front door swing open, creak shut, and imagine hearing the screeching tires and the engine roaring outside.
Before, I would always see him sleeping. That was what my father was--a sleeping figure under a blanket. In the morning, I'd see him as that figure. In the night, he would be in New York, working late, trying to keep our whole house on his back, without toppling, falling, or tripping. It's a hard task, I know. But sometimes, I wonder if every kid lives this life, worrying about their father, and seeing only his sleeping figure (besides the weekends, when it's the watching-TV-figure).
My father. A smart, intelligent, kind, sensitive, (maybe sometimes a bit arrogant) father. Who doesn't know what we think every day of him, of him going to work after we leave for school, coming home after we are long gone into dreamland.
On the weekends, we would watch TV. Why? That's what Dad likes--TV. And he would, furthermore, rant and give a diatribe that yes, we must do some sort of sport, because yes, we are short, and yes, we need to grow until we reach That Age Of Time when we cannot wish to grow any longer (taller, rather).
Unless, of course, he decides to go to the park. Which is very rare, yet exciting. A trip out of our house--all together as a family!
Usually it is just me, my brother, and my mother, as my mom struggles to turn on the GPS (No, Mom, the "G" is over there), type in the location, and follow it to the "Turn Right. In two hundred feet. Recalculating. Turn left. Recalculating. Reaching your destination. On left." Or maybe get lost in the road late at night, and stare wide eyed at the GPS recalculating things every other second.
So it is natural that I worry about my father, even after we realized he was 'diagnosed' with ____. And when I first heard that, I was terrified, worried, absolutely speechless to think that now my father was someone who needed extra care--more than before, at least.
And the older I grew, the more I became aware of family situations, The Bill, money, and most of all, my dad's work. I would see him typing away at his computer, sometimes late at night when I crawl downstairs to get the essay out of the printer, his headphones on, talking to one of his workers as he did some of his complicated, logical, technological work.
So, naturally, I began to understand what my parents were arguing about, and why my father was frowning all the time.
Yes, he frowned (and still is frowning) all the time.
I noticed this not too long ago, when I began to realize why he always looked so worried.

His forehead is always crinkled into that symmetric frown that was so familiar every day I would see him, and his eyes either squinted in a glare, maybe a slight twinkle, or that bored, I-am-doing-work face. But always that frown.
And if I ever ask him why he is frowning, his frown would deepen, and he would mutter, "No, what frown" and then reduce back to his normal frown.
So when he came upstairs from his little den of computers, papers, files, and wires (the basement), it was usually because of piano.

Whenever I play the piano, I would hear that creaking. After a while, I began anticipating that creaking from downstairs, that click of the doorknob, the swing of the door, and the footsteps and the wood creaking under his feet. And if I didn't hear it, I would put all the more effort into the piece, almost telling him to come. Because when he did come at that time, when I play piano, he would, as he does now, and sit behind me, on the couch.
Yes, in our piano corner, we have a couch, mainly because we have nowhere to put it, and it looks nice, and that you can sit and give pressure and stare down the person who is currently practicing piano.
But when my dad comes upstairs, I like it, because he never hears us play. Until recently, when he began coming home late. And I think I have explained that already, so no more need to say.

Today, it is different, because he looks so tired, dragging his feet on the floor almost, and hovering over my shoulder for a minute or two, looking at the dizzying music--white and black dots and lines!?!?--and then collapsing into the chair. Laying down on the long couch, and I would almost feel him behind me, even as we are many feet apart.
So I turn, pivot, actually, to face him, him lying down on the couch, foot at one end, head at the other, in that normal frown, and I would say, What would you like for me to play?
Because I feel nice today. (Hey that rhymes.)
So he laughs. That laugh, like the hah-you-really-just-said-that sort of laugh. So I wonder if I should really play for him, because it lessened my will to play for him. It's rare that I suggest such things, you should know.
But he begins to sing a song that I know, and I flip through the thick binder of for-fun played (self-learned) pieces, and being playing that song, pausing before starting, saying It's an Automatic IPod, where if You Sing the beginning of a Song You want Me to Play, then I Play it Automatically. And he laughs, which cues my start to play.
When I finish, I look back, and his frown is just a tad bit less.
So I play another piece, and it's a piece I didn't learn all yet, so I stop in the middle and shout out THE END, in embarrassment (why do I feel embarrassment in front of my own father, I don't know), and look back.
My dad looks at me and says in a creaky voice that I just Woke Up, haha...
So I turn back and begin playing another piece.
And another piece, and in the middle of that another piece, I hear snoring. So when I finish that another piece, I look back.
There is my father, feet at one end, head at the other, with a face with no symmetrical folds of skin, just him, and his relaxed face.
And for some reason, I feel pity, understanding, and sorrow, and wonder. Is this the face of my father when there is nothing heavy on his mind, just light happiness? Relaxed-ness? Is this the true face of my father? I feel sorrow, realizing that this face is less familiar than the frown that I see so often.
I play another piece, thinking that if I keep playing peaceful pieces, then he will remain peaceful, his mind will be peaceful for at least, these few minutes. No frown, no stress, no The Bill, no work. Just sleep, and music. And my heart fills up as I play one piece after another, pausing at each end just to look at my father snore, yet have that relaxed face.


I turn off the bathroom lights as I tiptoe to my piano (for whatever reason there is), and search for another piece to play, when my dad wakes up. I hear him groan and hear the sofa springs creak as he sits up, stands up, and goes back downstairs without a word, that frown on his face again.
It's just that slight frown, that normal frown that makes me so sad.
And I think, that was a moment of magic, when the world lined up obediently, and sat and waited for my dad, that one moment when I played music for him, instead of him having to line up obediently and hurry along with the world.

Saturday, June 25. Twelve days before the Incident.

We had only taken her home for little bits of time, so she could get used to the atmosphere.
At first, it had been one hour. Then, she stayed for a day.
And two days ago, she had stayed for two days.
Now, it would soon be time for her to move in.
As I thought about Annabeth, I began to remember my past.


As a child, I was neglected, and so was my sister, who was two years younger than me. Our parents would leave us in the house, and go out to parties, meetings, and dances whenever they were invited.
They left us in a little cramped apartment that needed serious cleaning and checkup for any heath threatening foods or animals.
Our parents seemed to forget we were there.
What made it worse, was, my sister had autism. It hurt my heart to hear my parents always rant, hit, yell at Rose, as I would just cry and tell them to stop.
One day, things just went just too far.
"Stop!" I cried.
"You stay out of this, Lily. It's not your fault Rose is an idiot."
"SHE HAS AUTISM1" I would roar, and Amanda would look at me, stare at my forehead with such intensity that she might bore holes through my forehead, and would glance over nervously at Dave, and then she'd look back at me.
"That's it."
First, it was a whisper.
We looked at Rose, who was looking at Amanda with hatred, fire raging hatred in her eyes.
"That's it!"
It was louder, now.
I took at step back.
"It's okay," I whispered, but I knew, just by the look on her face, that it would be no use.
"THAT'S IT!" Her voice did not come out clear and angry, but soggy, unclear, and angry, with a tint of sorrow, maybe a bit of misunderstanding and confusion. The mixed emotions of a confused child was put so accurately into those two words.
She screamed, shouting incomprehensible words, flailing around, her face distorted. I ran over to hug her, despite my own mother's dirty looks and my father's scared and nervous eyes.
"I love you, Kim," I said, whispering it into her ear, as I hugged her tightly so she could not move.
She hugged me so tight I couldn't breathe, and she replied, "I am proud of you."
I never knew where she had learned that. But she had always said that, every time I hugged her.
And somehow, she did make me proud, at that moment, whenever I took care of her, or at times later when I was sad remembering the days when Rose was my cheerful yet emotional sister.
Later, our parents disowned us, and we were put into an adoption center, with the little orphans, and we told everyone we were orphans, to the extent that we forgot our parents and often thought ourselves that we were orphans.

Deacdes later, there I was, at an orphanage, talking to a child with a rare mental disability.
"It can be dangerous," the ward had said. "She can be dangerous. She needs to visit the therapist nearly daily."
"I can handle it," I had said. Oh, if I had only known what disability it was. "My sister had autism, you know."
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"You don't have to be." I forced a grim smile, as I walked into the 'Meeting Room', which was decorated with little pictures of children, drawings, and more pictures of what seemed like the perfect family.
"I am a girl," she had started. She spoke each word clearly, slowly, as if still understanding the letters, the meanings.
"I am ten and a half years old." She looked at Tom, who was, and is, my husband.
She looked at him for about five seconds until continuing her introduction. "My parents are dead." She looked at me now, cheerfully, as if she did not know the meaning.
"They died in a car accident." She looked at the table, probably looking at the intricate designs of the wood.
"They loved me."
I felt sad, and sympathetic.
"Hi, Annabeth," I said slowly, clearly, like I spoke to Rose. "I'm Lily. This is Tom," I said, gesturing to Tom. "We are here to meet you, so you can, maybe, become our daughter."
She sat there, tracing the lines of the artist who drew the little lines. She did this, for about five minutes.
Tom looked at me nervously, but I just smiled at him.
Annabeth was silently examining the lines of the table, following the lines of the little curves and circles. She seemed to have no idea why we were here, or if we were here at all.
Suddenly, she whispered something, murmured something we could not make out.
"Mindy," she whispered this time, barely audible.
"Mindy, I am proud of you." She murmured it to the table, and immediately, I felt a lump begin to rise in my throat, my eyes stinging with tears.
"Andy, I love you." She said to the table.

That had been our first meeting. We had sat there for nearly an hour, and she had refused to answer any questions, talk to us, or make any eye contact.
We did leave eventually. As I left the room, I looked back to see that young girl, the black strands of hair hanging over her face, as she pressed her cheek against the wood of the table.

When she did agree to become our daughter, it was very awkward. After all, she had a rare disease nobody had found a cure to.
And we didn't know much about it, either.
She had Somnium, which was a very dangerous disease.
I did not know how dangerous it was, until it was too late.
It didn't seem harmful, the way the explanation of the disease was basic: hallucination.
Her life was full of hallucinations.
So she was not able to understand reality as simply as we could. If I told her that this was an apple, and that you eat it, she would not understand. She would first ask why it is an apple.
Then she would ask why you would eat it,
then into the whole argument of why you do eat apples or food.
And she would ask why we needed energy to live,
then to the ultimate question that always ended our conversation--why we were alive, why we were living.
Through that, I learned a lot and thought a lot about the meaning of life, and such. I began to look at things in a different way, the way Annabeth would. It would be simple: her head was full of 'why's and 'how's, even for the most simplest things.
What I didn't know, however, was what really did go on in her head, and how potentially dangerous it would be, and, little did I know, fatal.

Of course, I have no idea whether I'll continue this story or not, or whether I even like this story. But a thought came into my head, and I have decided to write the beginning of a story.
Just the beginning, for now. Maybe that's all it will be, a beginning, nothing more, nothing less, a forgotten beginning with no end.

It's too late for (your story here), but I'm going to write anyway, because there's no rule that keeps you from writing.

So here goes.


 PROLOGUE:
My mind is empty. No. My mind is full of anger, pure anger, sought for revevnge, avengement, something that is beyond words, expressions, feelings. I feel a radiant buzz and myself glowing, but I don't restrain myself, as I clench my already white fists, walking down the dissolving hallway.
It turns into a boardwalk, that familiar boardwalk-bridge that I'd always seen and walked through every day after school, that joyful boardwalk. But there's a different feeling to it. Everything is hazy, and faint, with slight vibrations shaking the air and atmosphere.
I clench my fists.
Everything I see, I hate. I hate that chair, I hate that floor, I hate that river, hate that fence, hate that water, hate myself.
I walk down the boardwalk, but it doesn't seem to end. It goes on, on, and on.
And suddenly, I am afraid. I run.
There is no end. And I look back. There is no beginning.
And slowly, the thought dawns on me: there was no beginning.
Far away, in front of me, I see a little figure, running in circles.
At sight of a human, I am so glad and grateful, for a moment, I forget my anger and grief and guilt.
I run, but as I get closer, I restrain myself from running and hugging it. Who is that person?
Why are they running in circles?
And as I move closer, I hear the person, who is laughing.
Why are they happy?
I move closer, feeling attracted by this laughter.
This familiar laughter.
Suddenly, the light changes, a sun appears out from behind the shadowed clouds, the haziness, the humid tense feeling disappears, and is replaced by joyfulness, and sounds fill the air almost immediately. But right before that almost immediately, when you can hear muffled sounds from other people, as if you're covering your ears, as the world turns bright and colorful, there is that moment. That moment when you hear just that laughing, clear, ringing through this space, this place I am at, as other noises are muffled and barely heard. And just like that, the moment passes.
There are people all around me, as I look around, the people seem to ignore me. But that girl, that girl spinning in circles--she has not disappeared along with that feeling.
She is still there. And now, she's running to me.
I look at her, with this weird familiar feeling, thinking, 'I've seen her somewhere. Seen her somewhere, Seen her somewhere...' repeating to myself, when she comes running into my arms.
"Annie! I missed you!"
Then it hits me.
I stagger back, astounded. Dumbfounded.
"No, you didn't." I say firmly.
She looks at me in this weird way, so I repeat it. "NO, you DIDN'T!" I scream now.
"YOU DIDN'T!"
Tears form in her eyes, the little sparkling marbles of sorrow rolling down her face, as she runs to her new mother, who is standing a few feet away.
I feel all eyes on me, now. Even the people who had ignored me before.
I'm on a roll.
"THIS IS A DREAM."
She hugged her mother's legs, sobbing.
"YOU'RE DEAD."
My throat is dry.
"AND I'M GOING TO KILL YOUR MURDERER."
Everyone seems to take a step back.
A woman comes to me, and hugs me.
"Anna, Please." She is pleading to me.
Why is she pleading to me?
"Please, Anna."
Now she changes the order. Does that mean something else?
"NO! STOP!" I scream. I don't understand.
These people are traitors.
These people aren't people... the thought comes to my mind.
And then I realize the truth. They're... monsters.
"YOU MONSTER!"
"Honey, please!" Her voice is rising.
"YOU FILTHY MONSTER, TRAITOR! I TRUSTED YOU. YOU ARE NOT A HUMAN!"
"Honey!"
A man steps beside her, and he whispers to her.
Something about killing me, probably. They're probably communicating through telepathy, but they are trying to decieve me into thinking they are human.
"I AM NOT A FOOL!"
The man looks at me with sorrow in his eyes, as he says, "Hon, it's time for you to stop playing fantasy. Come to reality."
And as he spits that name, Reality, I shudder. Loathe, hate, despise.
"NO!" I scream. "NO!"


---


Monday, June 27. Ten days before the Incident

I am a girl. I am ten and a half years old. My parents are dead. They died in a car accident. They loved me. I need someone to love me.
It was the sentences I had repeated to those two strangers who were sitting across from me, at the table.
"Hi, Annabeth. I'm Lily. This is Tom. We are going to adopt you."
I think of dogs. Dogs on TV. TV is the box that shows things that are outside of the room. Sometimes, they are not real. Sometimes, they want to make you think a certain way. Sometimes, they are real, and you learn information from it.
Information is something that is true, and it is very useful.
Each sentence rolls through my head, remembering it being repeated to me, by that nice lady in the white coat, who always let me play with blocks, arrange letters, or draw pictures, with the little colorful sticks called crayons.
Crayons are what you draw with, she had said.
Crayons have different colors.
Colors are one of the attributes to what you see.
This is red.
This is blue.
I remember every word she said.
And I repeat it to myself.
I miss that nice lady. Mindy, she said.
I miss Mindy.
Mindy is her name.
A name is an attribute to a person. It makes the person unique, so that you can identify them easily.
I repeat that to myself.
My name is Annabeth Truce.
Mindy did not tell me what Truce means.
Annabeth is the combination of Anna and Beth, which is short for Elisabeth. Anna means grace or mercy. Elisabeth means 'God is my Oath'. They are both Hebrew names.
I like my name. It is triangular, and it makes me feel very happy. It reminds me of candy, peppermint candy.
Candy is something you eat that is sweet. But it is not good for you if you eat it too much.
Vegetables are good for you. She hands me the bowl, that has something called salad.
And they are tasty.
No, they are not. Candy tastes better. I spelled out each word through my tongue, saying it slowly.
She looked at me.
I am proud of you, she said slowly. You have learned many words.
What is proud? I ask.
She does not answer. Instead, she hugs me, and says it again. I am proud.
I don't know what proud is, but I like proud.

Now, Mindy is gone, like my parents.

The man looks at me with sorrow in his eyes, as he says, "Hon, it's time for you to stop playing fantasy. Come to reality."
And as he spits that name, Reality, I shudder. Loathe, hate, despise.
"NO!" I scream. "NO!"
Suddenly, I see the woman has tears in her eyes. They glisten like the plastic crystals that Mindy let me play with.
Let's play treasure chest, she always said when I played with them.
But these crystals, they shimmer, then fall.
The woman hugs me, and she holds me tight. I loosen a little.
"Nononononononononononono..." I whisper, my voice hoarse from screaming.
"I'm proud of you." She hugs me tighter.
Suddenly, I cry. Tears streak down my face, leaving little trails of sorrow and grief.
"I love you, Mindy. I love you, Mindy. I love you, Mindy."
I know Mindy is gone. I know I will never see Mindy. I know she is not Mindy.
The woman strokes my hair.
"I love you, Annabeth." She strokes my hair.

Hmm, It's been a while since I've written a DW, and anyhow, it's only the second one.
And did you know, you're probably reading this at the other side of the globe where I am right now, as I'm writing this DW.
I am in KOREA. This is very new to me, a billion "First"s to add, and a billion "Never"s to erase.
First...
Airplane ride
Lone Airplane Ride
In Korea
Out of the US
Travelling Alone
Having a suitcase
Seeing Korean Money
;DDDD


You do not know how amazing it is, and how faint it is to be in Korea. And how it's still same land, solid land, so it doesn't feel any different, only that there are Korean people everywhere, and yeah, there's no difference. I expected something big, I don't know what, something that would make Korea much better and cooler than America, the way I dreamed it to be, but it's same old land. No magical unicorn or mysterious wizards.
But I just like it, just knowing it's Korea. Pretty hard to imagine I'm not in America. At all. It feels the same! Geez, I probably think our house is next door.
It's sort of scary, how... same... it feels.
But I hope there's much more to see out of Korea. So this is day 1 in Korea, DW2.
This is Celine the reporter speaking, Thank You for reading LoVe, ReAd, wRiTe! DW writings!
(PAHAHHAAHHA)
AM 10:37 Pyongtaek, Korea. July 29, 2011.

So I am extremely surprised at this sudden advance not only in design, but in convenience and up-to-date-ness of blogger. Again, I shall say--Blogger fails to fail me once more.
Actually it's the first time I've said that.

Anyway, here comes the idea of a DW. DW is an abbreviation for Daily Writing, meaning I write every day, literally. It's part of my Summer WorkBook plan. Of course, I wrote daily in my notebook. In fact, I had five sections in the notebook  (It's the sort with the folder/dividers to make five sections). The first section for DW, the second for Summer Study Books, the third for Geometry Notes, the fourth for Geometry problems, and the fifth, you can name whatever, but the truth lies beneath nothing.

Anyhow, I changed the first section to essay-writing, and the DW will be transferred to here, this blog. It will be filed under the label "Daily Writing", and I greatfully respect blogger because of their sudden convenience in making new labels without publishing it then naming it.

It feels very high tech, yet it seems to be missing the coziness of the previous blogger, with the two layers of tabs and multiple links.

So here is today's DW. Quite bloggy, and shortly thereafter I shall change the mood of a bloggy DW to a writey DW. Anyhow, here I am, writing in a public blog, which is, wherefore, I am not revealing much personal or of the sort information.

Anyhow, my Emsred story is quite well planned out, and in fact, I am working on it very well.
The progress of the actual plan, however, is not, and in fact, I fear I must be failing myself and any of those who truly follow this blog (which I regard as none). Therefore, this is just failing myself, but yet I'm not so happy even if I'm just failing myself, because as it is only one and just me whom I am failing, the importance is that I am failing at all. Therefore, I must quicken my pace or at least modify it (which would be wimping out), so I shall just quicken my pace.

I honestly think Emsred was quite a fit name, because it sounds like Emerald; green, bright, shining, inspiring, wondorous, yet brave but beautiful emerald. The 'red' part was not included because of the color, but I dunno.
I started out with Emerald, and then the name just sort of came to my mind, and then I knew. I knew I had found The Name, and that Emsred was just fit for it. Nothing further said about it.
And then the Grendall. My brother says that Grendall was in Lord of the Rings, but when you think of it, my brother only has seen three minutes in the middle of the Lord of the Rings movie while surfing the TV (and not the web) in Delaware when we were bored, so I don't really trust him. Yet, I sort of do (which is highly irregular), because Grendall did feel like a name I had also heard during that three minutes of intense Lord of the Rings movie. But it also felt like the perfect name for Grendall, an old, wise, yet kind man who helps Emsred.
Although I had never read Lord of the Rings before, I wanted it to be slightly the mood of Lord of the Rings. And honestly, I know nothing besides the fact that there is a hobbit, an old man, and that it's fantasy. No lie.
But for some faint reason, I sort of pretended to myself that Emsred was like Lord of the Rings. Emsred was like that whoever-it-was that I saw in the movie, probably the main character, hobbit, and that Grendall was like that old man whoever-it-was who died for the group of whoever-they-were, and that the story would be like whatever-it's-like. Honestly, I have no clue why it has anything to do with Lord of the Rings besides the fact that they're both fantasy.
Perhaps those three minutes, those three intense minutes that I watched ever so intense-fully, had inspired me to write Emsred. In fact, I actually like Lord of the Rings. A lot. Imean,
I never read it before, heard of only the first book--The Hobbit, from school, and that's all. I didn't like it before, because I didn't like dragon-fantasy books, (Harry Potter doesn't count, it's not dragon-fantasy. You have to be me to understand) and Lord of the Rings sounded very much like one of those fancy dragon-fantasy books.

Right now is very late, and my brother is bugging me about a bug on the wall (HAH. get it?), so I will go to sleep.
I must resume writing my "Emsred and the Order of Death" story tomorrow. I drastically changed the plot and characters, so I am in a slight cloud of confusion. If only...
it'll clear away, as a mist slowly gathers away from the beautiful landscape.

Until then,
__(Signature Here)__

This is a very peculiar book, because it's about outside-world things like the fourth and fifth dimension. It requires a lot of thinking and time to think, so I, on one hand, have to read much slower than I usually do.
This is about a Dark Thing that is covering the Earth, which endangers those who live within it, and this Dark Thing is evil--hatred, accusations, hate, murder, treachery, betrayal, whatever that is Evil, that is bad.
The main charater, who's name is Meg, has a brother named Charles Wallace who has extreme understanding skills, and can almost read minds (I'm not sure whether it's actually directly reading the mind or just simply understanding very well), and Calvin, who is able to go into the mind and understand very well.
They must find their father, who is fighting the Dark Thing. Her father had been studying the art of Tesseration, or Tessering, or going into a Tesseract. To tesser is to go from one place to another by simply wrinkling what is in between. For example, if you take a string and hold one end with one hand and the other end with the other hand, and put an ant on one hand and make it go to the other, it would be a long distance to get to the other hand by going on the string. But if you simply wrinkled the space in between the two hands, the two start and endpoints, by puttting your hands together; folding the string, the ant will be at its destination in just one step. That is the act of tesseration, going on a tesseratct, of tessering. Now, you can do this with time and space, and Meg and Charles Wallace (siblings)'s father had done. He had landed not on Mars (which was his intended destination), but on Camazotz, a planet that had given in to the Dark Thing, and had let itself fall under the Dark Thing's rule, whom they called IT. IT had a strict pulse that if you didn't conventrate away from it, your heart would beat to that pulse, everything would beat to that pulse, and everyone would be doing the same thing in the same rhythm all similarly.It's really creepy, how it's written in the book, and right now you're probably wondering how doing the same thing can be creepy, but you have to read the book to know, just so you know. Anyhow, Charles Wallace, Meg, and Calvin tesser with the thre Ms. W's (Ms. Whatsit, Ms. Who, Ms. Which) to different worlds and finally, to Camazotz, where her father is. Chalres Wallace, in his arrogance and pride and effort to try to read the mind of a person of IT, falls into the hands of IT, and becomes like the people of Camazotz, hypnotized (in the most vaguest expression) and beating to the pulse of IT. Charles Wallace becomes not himself, but who IT orders him to be, and Meg and Calvin must try to get Charles Wallace back to himself as well as find his father.
Which they do find his father, only he doesn't understand that Charles Wallace has changed into under the force of IT, and which her father continues to treat Charles Wallace like he is Charles Wallace and not Charles Wallace Under the Order of IT.
And they actually go to IT, which is a oversized human brain that beats an irresistible beat that if you don't concentrate away from it, or relax for a moment, you go under it's beat and force. you have to not listen to it,think of other things, not give in.
That's as far as I got in the book.

L'engle, Madeleine. A Wrinkle in Time.
(forgot how to do the citation).

A very surprising thought, indeed, that a historical fiction book which won the newberry award with a normal boring cover written in the old sort of style about a historical time period would be, actually, fun. Now, besides the last four words of the prior sentence, it seems like an extremely boring, dreadful book that drones on about "tis this" and "tis that" and "twas this" and "twas that", but it actually was sort of suspenseful and fun. I found myself reading beyond chapter two, and I thought I was on chapter three, but it turned out I was on chapter four. So, so far, it isn't a bad or dissapointing book. Better than I thought, actually, because I thought it'd be best to force myself to read such boring book (I thought this before reading this, you must presume and also understand),  so that I wouldn't just leave it there on the shelf until it was due two weeks later at the library.
So, what book I'm talking about is called (of course you might have caught on)
The Witch of Blackbird Pond by (searches on Google because too lazy to find the book herself) Elizabeth George Speare.
It's purely historical fiction; I wouldn't be surprised if there was a girl named Kit who was suspected of being a witch; (anyhow, that's beside the point, so) it's about those times in the US history when everyone was quite religious, and Puritan was The Way, if you know what I mean, and people got very tense about witches and wizards and killed you if you were a witch or a wizard.
Now, how they proved that was very inevitable. In the way that,
if you were suspected, first, you'd be put to the test if you were a witch or not.
That is, to drown you in the water.
And, if you floated, swam, or didn't drown, you were a witch (or a wizard).
If you drowned, well, too bad, an innocent fellow at the bottom of the pond.

Sad, isn't it?
So this girl, Kit, lived in England, and she learned to swim there, of course, she lived on an island. Barbados, or something of the likely. Anyhow, she moves unexpectedly to her Aunt Rachel's house (without telling her first, just sort of barging in saying 'and by the way, I'm going to live here from now on) and on the way swims (in an adventure you'd have to read to find out), which causes mass suspicion (one person, mainly, actually).
That's as far as I got.
The End.

So, summer is soon to come, and assuming it already has, I shall begin my plans for this year's summer.
I shall, (insert cheer here) visit Korea for a while this year, which may be of slight interference, but no matter. I shall have internet connection and a computer whilst my visit, so it may not be much of a cease in progress.

I shall try to read most of my summer reading books (if read-able, as in fun, enjoyable, or lesson-learning), and this is what I shall do:
Write three reasonable questions per chapter (that I have thinked of, not thought) of wonderings, references, etc. Please refer back to the Reading/Writing Workshop Worksheet (I must find that somewhere). One reasonable question that would be on a prospective test about the book (open ended, multiple choice, no matter). Summarize that chapter. Give a prediction.

That will be a slow process, so I shall do this on "Summer Study Books". (SSB, Study Books, etc.)
I shall try to do this every summer, or just whenever I have time or feel like it (besides all of summer).


This may become an arduous task as summer sets in and laziness comes around, so I shall try to shoo away this being of perezoso, and try to become more trabajador.
SPANISHHH!

Anyhow.
That's it.
So, thanks for faithfully reading.

--
Celine.

Hence the title: 2011 UNTITLED FAIL.

I hate to break the news, but, this year's goal has become more of an epic fail than ever. Oh no, I feel so bad, I have failed myself!

Therefore, I shall try not to wimp out but say that poems count as short stories.
And my long story isn't working--the Survivors--I've become too bored of it. So if anyone'd like to spark up my imagiation, please be welcome, just email me at celinerulez@gmail.com.
But I have plenty other new and fresh stories to start out with and I have a full six months to write twelve stories and one big story, so I (think) I have enough time to fulfill my goal.

Notice I am trying not to wimp out on the whole 12+1 story.

AHA! 12+1= STOR13S!
That is a great title for this.
No longer is it 2011 Untitled! (And I thought that was a catchy sort of title.)
AHAHAHAHAHA!
Please keep up to date on my website, too (check side for link).

A nother story, and also nother story has come out. Two nother stories.
They are quite different in genre, and style, though I assume, since I am one person, wherefore (I wonder if there's such thing as herefore or whofore, because there's wherefore and therefore) I cannot exactly change my style, because I am jumping from one to another, though that prior phrase was a lie, but anyhow--
One nother story is titled Light like a Star and is a realistic fiction story about a little girl in first grade who gives hope to a senior named Tom, and learns some stories about the "good old days," whereas Tom, who is diagnosed with a rare sort of cancer, is in jeopardy of dying, yet keeps the secret from the little girl, Lucy, and finds hope in her naiive-ness. The story ends... yeah I won't tell you.
The other nother one is about a girl named Jade (I like that name, so you'll see that name a lot. It means brave? Courage? I forget. Something of the sort. Oh, just so you know, I usually pick names by their meanings). (Yes, Lucy means light, thus the title of the prior story). SHe lives in a country that was once the United States, but not so united anymore, and the whole states thing dissappeared, after the strike of 2089... I don't want to explain this one. It's so vague and faraway, I have to explain so much, and the only reason I got on the computer was to write, only I decided I'd make a post first, but now I'm going to eat dinner soon, so I don't want to waste my time. Enough with the HWC Syndrome, I don't need to waste more time.
So if you want to read on, please go to the website. I am too lazy to type it in, so go to the labels bar at the right or left, the one titled "Labels/Links" or something of the sort and click the last link. "WEBSITE." Pretty self explanatory. Then you go to "Files" at the side, the left side, and you'll scroll through the list of documents and "View" the story you want to, and the reason I'm telling you this is to read one of either of the nother stories, so I would sugggest reading one of the nother stories.
understand?
Fine, the link is here. www.sites.google.com/site/lovereadwriteinfo/documents/
it'll get you right to the files page.

You're welcome!
Thank you and Have a nice Day. (c)AJ2010

From,
Me.

How cowardly of I, to make such an edition as to decrease the amount, yet think that I may maintain the true value.
However, this year, is a Busy year, also. Of course, me and my Homeworkicitis Syndrome, the HWC Syndrome for short, has caused me a great deal of time to be wasted on hours of homework that could be (maybe) finished within minutes, if acted swiftly and quickly. However, I, having a severe case of the HWC Syndrome, I could not help but waste my time through such dreadful thing called Homework, in which one must take many doses of in the dreaded level of Middle School, though not as dreaded as the High School levels, or even, at the extreme, college. Though people say something called adulthood is something one must regret to experience. Though some say it's inevitable...
Anyhow, I am in the dreaded level of Middle School, with a severe case of the HWC Syndrome.
In which I am going through therapy, but... so far, it's not exactly succeeding.

How cowardly of I, to make such an edition as to decrease the amount, yet think that I may maintain the true value.
How cowardly of I, to change the goal of this year. Yes, indeed.
I have found it a bit off too hard a task, as I have stated that this year, is a Busy year, although if this year is a Busy year, then next, and the following years would become a Very Busy year, later on to become an Extremely busy year.
So, before you get confused whether I may or may not state the actual edition or not, here goes.
I shall edit the one chapter book and twelve stories to five full written, perfect stories.
Of couse, the term perfect is inaccurate, because even the best of authors and writers (sans difference) fail to find perfection in their writing, wherefore, I am an amateur writer, (did I spell that right? There's no spell check on this computer) whom, as you may have noticed, cannot write a perfect writing within my lifetime.
Well, that may sound quite negative, but it is very true. Quite so.
Anyhow, on I go, ranting nonsense when the whole thing could be stated within four sentences, or less, but anyhow, it's fun writing (mayhaps, typing) like this.
Wherefore. The goal is changed to, as I stated before, five full written (almost) perfect stories. Even (almost) perfect is an exaggeration, because no writing is (almost) perfect.
Though, some are... but I'm only... twelve. I haven't even lived half of my life yet.
Though... who knows...?
It is a drastic change, of course, and I may (slim chance) be going to Korea alone (with my brother, but he doesn't count as someone ), and writing when on vacation in a foreign country may be a difficult and arduous task. Whence, my cousins will come priorly, which shall also be an obstacle, and a month may not be an abundance of time to write a whole chapter book, and, twelve stories in which I have been procrastinating to commence any.
So, five full (not nearly) perfect stories, each over about three pages, let's say, so not exactly short, but not a Big Sort of Book, if you know what I mean, because authors and certain amateur writers tend to take a while to write a single Big Sort of Book, (coughmecough.) and,,, there.

So. If you don't mind, I shall change it.
Actually, whether or not you mind or not, I shall change it. (did that make sense? too mut "or not"s?)

My apologies, for the past few months this blog has been just a bit slightly neglected, as the dust has been forming a second or third layer upon this template.
So I changed it (a lot).
It's a bit messy, for my liking, but I find myself a bit too lazy to fix it back. And anyhow, I like the elephants.

Here is a photo:

Why, hello, again. I have returned to my prior habits of giving a small report on books I find interesting.
Well, of course.

Anyhow, I had stumbled upon such book titled The Orange Houses written by the author Paul Griffin. Now, before you assume the book is extremely tiring and the type that would make you sort of droop your eyes without realizing it, you must listen.
It is a very, good, book. very. good. book.
I think--
Well. You'll have to read it yourself to know whether you'd like it or not, wouldn't you? I-mean, shouldn't you?

Now what I am extremely confused about is whether Mik is chubby or not. I don't want her to be chubby. I want her to be pretty (I guess she is, by the way Jae and Gale are acting... ), but then Sha calls her a fat itch.
Hmmm. whenever a word doesn't make sense and it rhymes with a term of profanity, it is then a replacement of the term of profanity it rhymes with. As so in this case, it may be applicable. coughitchcough.
Anyway.
I am also confused whether Mik is... umm... African American or not, and whether Jimmi is, because for some reason, I have that feeling at the pit of my stomach, though they never say so.
So I think she's... Caucasian, but... who knows? Those slang and stuff.
But I'm sure if Mik is Caucasian, Jimmi is, and so on. Because... I don't know.
And I think (pretty sure) that Fatima is Egyptian. Because, they said she was in Africa, and then they said they were going blah blah blah Egypt blah blah blah (I forget the whereabouts of such mentioning).

I am not sure, so I strongly suggest that you read the book that Mr. Paul Griffin read.
I honestly think authors should have a title. Mr., Mrs., Wr., or maybe Aut., No. Au. No.
I think Wr. is best.
So I shall start the revolution.
Wr. Paul Griffin wrote the book The Orange Houses, and I strongly suggest such reading of such sort of literature. As it does have some interesting poems, and it is fairly hard to decipher. I think I shall take a second round of reading it, whence my confusion has caused me so.
(Hey, I like talking like this.)

And I very much took a liking of Jimmi's poems, as though the grammar may not be in much agreement with a Literacy instructor, it has a good rhythm, almost. It's a catchy type.
And catchy means that I want to write like that sort of poems.

Already made some.
They're on my other blog, www.therecipetolife.blogspot.com.
Thanks, and have a nice day. (c)AJ2010

I'm not sure whether I said this or not, but The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins is a strongly recommended book.
Nothing left to say.
Just to say, Catching Fire and Mockingjay are two follow ups to The Hunger Games and they are three amazing books.

I don't know, but The Hunger Games almost seems to try to give a point across about today's government.
...I forget. While I was reading it, I kind of knew why, but...
Never mind.

THEY'RE MAKING A MOVIE OUT OF IT, TOO!!!!
It's coming out in 2012, I think. I'm pretty sure. Hopefully, maybe, late 2011. But I doubt. Yeah.
I think it's 2012. Since I'm so lazy to look it up, I'm just going to guess.
MAKING A MOVIE. Yay.
Oh yeah, and so is "Uglies." They better get a good Tally.
And a perfect Katniss and Peeta and Gale.
I wish the Katniss and Rue from "Katniss and Rue" on youtube were the actual actors for the movie. Then it'd be perfect. They were great. Just like the book.
I wish the movie would be that good.



Any reading suggestions, please tell me...

Okay maybe this year's goal is a bit too big... but I'll stick to it anyway.

...
I hope.

Right now I'm writing Chapter Four of Survivors and I haven't started a short story yet... -.-'
if you want to see the progress please go to www.sites.google.com/site/lovereadwriteinfo/documents

Any suggestions for short stories, contact me at celinerulez@gmail.com
THANKS.

Yeah, thanks for suggesting me SOOO much suggestions on what this year's goal should be.
I mean, I had SUCH A VARIETY to pick out of i still didn't decide what it should be called.

http://www.sites.google.com/site/lovereadwriteinfo/contact

please. I really can't come up with one.
to keep you updated on how it's going...
so far:
writing Survivors
not writing any short stories yet.

go to the website (at the side, under Labels)

thanks, that's where everything is.
you can comment on the stories i'm writing if you go to www.sites.google.com/site/lovereadwriteinfo/documents
and "view" Survivors or any other story that i found and uploaded.
please ignore my school stuff that's just for my convenience.

TY A HAND.

Thanks to your so-generous help in finding the title of this goal, I haven't come up with one yet.
This year, most of the information will be on a site I created. Writing is different than reading, because you revise your writing, but you don't revise your reading. So I can't post the same story again and again every time I make a change to the writing. It would be hard. So I made an info site, at https://sites.google.com/site/lovereadwriteinfo/ so that you could do a lot of stuff there, where I posted my writing.
In blogger, I found that you couldn't upload any documents, which I find inconvenient, so that is why I made the info site.
If you go to "contact," you can suggest this year's blog goal title.
If you go to "project documents," you can see the latest version of each of my writings.
If you go to "blog," you'll find yourself back here.
If you go to "Journal" you'll find a daily (or almost daily) post on how my blog goal is going.
If you go to "2011 Untitled Tasks" you'll find a list of the stuff I'm doing to achieve my goal.

Thank You and Have A Nice Day.


{^copyright 2010 from Allison Jiang who has come up with it originally from computer screens after you order something online but then she decided to use it on Buzz, Facebook, etc. so now we have copyrighted it into her hands when used in Buzz, Facebook, etc. (other social networks)}

As A.A.Milne writes in The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, "Many happy returns of the day to you."

The New Year of 2011, as the title of this quite important blog post says begins with a rather important resolution.
Perhaps, if you went to last year's 1.1.2010 blog post, I wrote about my first assignment of the year.

Of course, the CoUnTdOwN 4 BoOkS goal that was set for the sole and only year of 2010 (if that makes sense) was to read, at least, 55 books. Of course, it was all calculated when I knew that there were 52 days in a year, and I thought to myself that why not make it just even, round up, just for the sake of it, thinking, it may be a challenge when I read more than one book a week, just 3 books worth, because i'll have a goal that much higher and that much better.
And so here we are, in the new and fresh year of 2011, new resolutions to follow, new rules to make, a fresh start to continue making your new self as you do every year. That means, another goal for this very blog to follow. Yes, indeed, this blog you are reading, unfortunately, must let go of the former goal of CoUnTdOwN 4 BoOkS.

Of course, I might as well continue my CoUnTdOwN 4 BoOkS goal, but then it would be boring, and tiring, and dragging along in my head as some another assignment I dread to do. After all, you can get just a bit sick of things after a while, in this case, a year.

And, I remembered,
Happy Birthday to this Blog.

And, as to continue my wonderful (ahem ahem) speech...
where was I?
Oh, yes. So, you can get a bit Sick of Things, after a year or so.
And so, I've come to a very important decision.
This is the year, of Writing.
Well, Of course, I do write on my own, even without a goal to myself...
But I've set a goal in which I am making right now in this very brain that I have right in my head.
Yes.
Now, where was I...

Yes. This goal, being made up this moment (well, maybe not to you, since you might be reading this a while after I post it), but I have come to a very important decision, as I have declared earlier, that this is a Writing Year.
Of writing.

I shall try to:
Write one chapter book (e.g.  The Twenty Dollar Lie)
AND
Write another 12 Rather Short Stories.

This may be an easy goal, of course, so I may modify it as the year passes, so you might want to bookmark this page in case it seems to change as the year passes.

It may change from "Write another 12 Rather Short Stories" to "Write another 12 stories" to "Write another 12 Chapter Books," but that may be a bit too tiring, since a professional author may write one chapter book within a year or two.

Or, It may go the Opposite, as quite the contrary.
I might write "Write one chapter book (e.g. The Twenty Dollar Lie)" instead of the usual, "
Write one chapter book (e.g.  The Twenty Dollar Lie)
AND
Write another 12 Rather Short Stories."

But who knows, since the future is always a mystery.
As the saying goes,
"Yesterday is History. Tomorrow is a Mystery. Today is a Gift. That is why it is called Present." --Anonymous

Yes.

So, if you have not still understood what this rather confusing sort of blog entry was trying to clarify,
this year (2011)'s goal is to:

Write one chapter book (e.g.  The Twenty Dollar Lie)
AND
Write another 12 Rather Short Stories.

Yes, indeed.
A rather good goal, since last year (technically yesterday)'s goal was to read at least 55 books, so this year is to write at least 13 pieces of literature, whether prized or not. Of course, I can't say to write 55 pieces of literature because that would be an awful pain in the neck, especially to one who spends many hours on writing one story.
coughmecough.

Yes, and the reason it has to be 12 stories, is because I must need time, wherefore since I am in the dreaded level of Middle School (as though not as dreaded as this High School they speak of, oh, and College). The reason is, because i need time, so there are 12 months in a year, so therefore must be 12 pieces of writing, one per month. (:

Now that I think of it, this goal must have a title, as to be easily identified when being written of in this very blog. Since last year's was CoUnTdOwN 4 BoOkS, this year's must be something spectacular. It can't have "Countdown" in it, since I've already used that one, nor can it have a number "4" in it, either, since I have also used it, OR "books," which will be a hard one. But now that I think of it, this year's goal doesn't have as much to do with books as last year, so it might not be as important to include it in this year goal's title. How about 2011 Fresh Writing? No. Too... not good. Just doesn't sound right.
How about... hm... hmmmm. tink tink tink... must...think...

Let me think. Yes, thank you.
Should it have writing in it? No. since last year's didn't have "reading" in it, this year's shouldn't have "writing" as well...
Since Reading:Books as Writing:Literature (I guess), shouldn't we have some sort of word relating to the term "literature" in it? No, sounds too teachery and schooly, if you know what I mean. We must get as far away from that as possible, in case some reader may mistake this blog as some sort of teachers blog, in which this is very not.
Hmmmm, so "literature" is out of the question.
Maybe... Oh! Literature Log.
I've gone to www.thesaurus.com to look for some synonyms of notebook, in case I may kind of synonimize "Writer's Notebook," if you know what I mean...
But that has "literature" in it. But... I like the alliteration... must consider.
I shall add it to my Considered list.

Ooooh! I found a word called wordsmith and I think its rather wordy and witty. Wordsmith! Now, that's one witty word. (: Let me look up the meaning...  Ok. Author.
Wordsmith Wordbook?
Wordsmith's Wordbook?
Wordsmith Wordbook Wish? I like that one, but it's a bit lengthy...

Let me abandon the whole wordsmith idea for this moment.

oh, look. I give up.
Well, of course not, if you really don't want me too.
Why, thank you.
Of course, of course..
but...
well, what I meant is...
well I'll aim to try.
But I can't come up with one!
Why, that's a good idea.
Yes...
Uhhuh...
Yep. Wonderful! Splendid.
Okay, thank you.
Yes, I must be going, too.
Yes, bye.
Bye.

Well, why don't you come up with one? Yes, you.
Well who else is reading this?
The person next to you, you say?
Oh.

Well then both of you come up with something, and please EMAIL it to me at celinerulez@gmail.com or countdown4books@gmail.com but I'd suggest celinerulez@gmail.com because I really think that's better.
Because.
Why? I don't have to tell you if I don't want to.
Yeah.
Okay. Good.
Anyhow, so I've modified the above Long Paragraph to
Well then both of you come up with something, and please EMAIL it to me at celinerulez@gmail.com because I really think that's better.

What? Well first of all if you don't have a computer you wouldn't be reading this anyway?
Well it's obvious, isn't it? How would I not know?
Yes, of course. If you don't have a computer, then you wouldn't know this webpage existed, then you wouldn't even be wondering how to email me altogether!
Yes, a very smart conclusion.
Why, thank you.


Oh, you're there, aren't you? I forgot you were there. I'm sorry.
Anyhow, I must be bugging you much, since you're squirming in your seat waiting for this page to end. So here goes...


So, may I wish you a merry New Year, as the new and fresh year of 2011 begins and unravels its mysteries in which we have not unveiled will come to occur at an alarmingly surprising rate.

Let me tell you, time flies if you think of the past and time slows if you think of the future. Just think of tomorrow if you want time to slow and think of yesterday and how the week has passed if you want to make time feel fast.
And before you know it, another minute has passed as you are confusedly thinking of this ponderous sentence/paragraph I have typed. (: Glad to confuzzle you.

Yes, as I wrote a few thirty minutes ago, Happy New Year!

Many happy returns to you,
Celine, Administrator of Love, Read, Write!


P.S. Any modifications of 2011 goal is shown as edited here, in the following text:
None, so far.

P.P.S. I haven't come up with a title yet so this post doesn't have a label yet so you better come up with a title fast!