But then I opened Itunes and P.S. I Love You by the Beatles came on. Do you know how hard it is to be mysterious when listening to the Beatles? So..
Perky and Happy Bethany today!
Alright, so I finally finished *round of self-applause, corny literal translation included* Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, and now I'm done! Woohoo! I can cross that off my 'can't believe you've never actually READ that!' list. The past few months have lessened that list considerably, including Dickens, Les Miserables(I love the musical and I'm in France, for pity's sake), and Through the Looking Glass. All of which I enjoyed! Scratch that, I detested Les Miserables. Sorry!
So now I'm moving on, authors-friends! To Phantom of the Opera (dundundundundun-musical style) and Ysabel, both of which are set in France. Am I detecting a theme??
To be honest, when I read about the Ents, I half wondered if Lord of the Rings was set in France too. They take so long to do anything but get riled up real fast!
The other day (by which I mean twenty minutes ago) I was checking up on the blogs I follow, and came across this post by Tahera (who is fabulously fabulous!) which, among some beautiful writing, asks that moment you started writing, and what the moment/place/memories mean to you.
Technically I started writing in seventh grade. I say technically because, though I loved writing and put my whole passion into it, I wasn't sure if it was another of my 'spur of the moment' obsessions or something I'd do forever, and I was writing 'fanfiction' in the sense that I was spinning off another author's world.
In eighth grade, I knew this writing thing was here to stay forever. And I started writing my own story. And it was good. (Ego much?) I still love to pull it out and read it, and recently tried rewriting, though I still love the first version - the only time I successfully pulled off first person. (in a story)
SINCE it's still April, I thought I'd share a poem with you all about those moments in eighth grade. Are you excited? (you should be!) But while I type it (it's on paper) I shall be grooving to Boys by the Beatles. Yay!
My girl says when I kiss her lips,
gets a thrill through her finger tips
Hey hey (Bop-shoo-op, bop bop shoo-op)
NO THAT'S NOT IT!!!
(yeah yeah, boys)
Okay, here we go!
The notebook had to be green;
The ink had to be black, always black
Dark Bleeding Ink that sank in the pages,
down the side of unfamiliar faces,
dripping dark onto the shattered pavement
seeing stories not meant to be seen.
The classroom was musky, often dark and loud
it tasted like peppermint, it was stifling.
The relentless angst of a preteen crowd,
bound and bonded by their imprisonment.
It was a battlefield, littered with the corpses of
forgotten assignments, young crushes,
best friends, lies
just beginning to acquaint.
I know the memory has a certain taint
Sweet and sizzling, electric and iron.
The taste of death in a thirsty mind.
The boredom began it, the strive for a story,
Lust carried it, the need for the glory
of my characters, who I'd just met
and dragged into a fantastical hell
with blood and love and metal,
Neverminding their pain and their loss,
a fictional plot of their stories lost,
Scribing their journey through deception and pain,
Providing the poison that coursed through their veins.
All this wall I sat and ignored
my history teacher, who was just as bored.
(Did I mention I was kind of disturbed in eighth grade?)