How Not to Write a Novel

There are two kinds of people in the world: Those who can write, and those who can't.

The people who can't start off their books with "there are two kinds of people in the world."

Well.

So lately, I've been thinking of making my blog more advice-y. Can you adjective a word? I think Calvin and Hobbes would be mighty proud. But while I enjoy writing about the random-ness that is my life, I thought I would try and give back to my loyal readers (hi, Mom) and share some knowledge that I've acquired throughout my nineteen years. For instance, I've learned that you should leave the black jelly beans untouched, and no that's not racist, licorice flavor is just gross.

A lot of people technically can write. Fewer have the desire to produce a novel, but it's turning into more of a thing what with "learn to write!" apps and fancy word docs and keyboards that sing at you.

That last one should be a thing. Your keyboard should start playing a Red Hot Chili Peppers song if your sentence flows well enough.

Anyhoo.

Fewer people still can successfully sit down in front of a blank word doc and produce a novel. But you want to--congratulations, you've won at least three months of hell on Earth!

Before we get started on this writing tips series, I'd like to share with you how NOT to write. Because believe me, if there's anyone with experience with shitty stories, it's Stephanie Meyer.

But it's also me.

So without further ado, I present to you, how to write a really horrible novel that will make you cry anytime you read it! (Not in a Fault in Our Stars way, more of a, ohmygod what have I done to deserve this kind of way).

1) Writing an autobiography with slightly different setting and character names.
So you've heard that you should write what you know, right? So obviously the next time a boy breaks your heart, you should type up your journal and sell it as the next hit thing. I mean, it's easy. You just take dialogue from real life and bam, you're a novelist? Gosh, why don't more of your friends become novelists? They're certainly melodramatic enough.

Okay. Okay. Breathe, oh-hormonal one.

The difference between writing what you know and writing out your life story is a huge one. If you want to write a memoir, that's great. That's wonderful. But you shouldn't disguise a cat as a turtle. Keep the setting and characters the same. Label your work as a memoir. But try to find some way to distance yourself from the course of events. Perhaps view them as how a friend would, or take a humorous perspective. The whole "woe is me" deal just doesn't work, unless it's done ironically.

So you still want to write fiction, huh? It is a terribly sexy genre.

Let's say you played soccer for ten years. There was this one time when a guy on the opposing team kicked you in the shins so hard, you had to go to the hospital. You just thought he was being aggressive on the field, but later you found out he was trying to keep you from going to the homecoming dance so that he and his girlfriend wouldn't be threatened by homecoming king/queen potential.

If you want to keep fiction true to form, write nothing about soccer vs. homecoming. Write about a soccer player who lives in a world where sports are viewed as Satan's art instead.

You know a lot about the subject; the fun part is where you can make up the experience.

2) The love triangle.
I know what you're thinking. "You are mighty witty and fabulous, Kira. Of course I'd love to gift you with a lifetime supply of coffee."

But also, "so many successful authors write about a chick who must choose between two hunky guys and isn't her life so sad, wah, wah, boo hoo?"

First off, thank you. I accept all dark-roast coffee. And second, yes the love triangle is a thing. But it's also a formula. A last-resort kind of approach. And do you really want your first novel to be a "I'm scrambling for an idea" deal?

The successful authors generally do not get their recognition from the love triangle. Why do you think romance novels aren't studied in universities? They're not challenging anything. It's a repeated regurgitation of "girl meets boy. Girl becomes flattered by boy's compliments. Girl falls in love with boy. Girl becomes surprised when boy is only looking for sex. Girl meets other boy in hipster coffee shop. Girl must choose between sexy boy and boy with heart. Girl is scarily close to choosing superficially sexy boy, when girl gets hit with the morals-brick. Girl marries boy with heart, which is always good, because boys without hearts are generally dead."

Your beginning novels should be inspiring, or thought provoking or something other than "I can flail my fingers around a keyboard too!" 'Cause I just wrote your great love-triangle idea in eight sentences.

3) Vampire fiction is getting a lot of attention; I should write about those!

Incorrect. Just...go watch some True Blood and get it all out of your system.

Namaste.

Sex, Misery and French Toast Sticks

First off, might I suggest that would be a fantastic band name?

Glad you're coming with me on that one.

So you're probably wondering how I could possibly link misery to sex, because who could possibly have a terrible experience with intercourse, right?

Wrong. Wrong. Oh so very wrong.

But I'm not here to lecture you about rape. I'm here to link sex and misery because they are both free (not counting prostitution here). Emotionally, they are very taxing. But it's the end of April, we we're free to stop thinking about taxes for a while.

The dining commons had a "late night study break," which my roommate dragged me to because one does not know when one will meet with French toast sticks again. I begrudgingly got my plate of strawberries, and my roommate was all, "see? How often does an adult get free strawberries?"

To which I replied, "the only thing adults get for free are sex and misery."

I mean, even taxes aren't technically free. You have to be an employed member of society to pay taxes. But you could be a bum off the street and no one's keeping you from grinding anyone.

I'm writing this at 1A.M. I'm probably going to regret this.

But why do you think teenagers are notorious for the "sex in the back of the car" thing? Obviously it's because they either A) live in a crap town where you can't do anything for entertainment, or B) you're broke as a...broken window.

Again. 1A.M.

We should just force kids to watch porn in school so that it seems like some mentally taxing assignment and everything will be all fine and dandy.

SARCASM, in case you were wondering.

But yeah, welcome to adulthood. Sex and misery. Woot.

Namaste.

I Was a Professional Cake Eater (or, Giving Up)

Okay, I wasn't a professional cake eater. But I could down a few pieces of dense chocolate cake like a boss. It wasn't until middle school, when I started to be unable to stomach pure chocolate at 7A.M. that I started to lose my dessert-inhaling reputation, and since then, the giving up pattern has just spiraled out of control. Since fifth grade, I haven't stayed at the same school for more than two years. I quit piano after I played Kelly Clarkson's "Breakaway" so many times, it started to provoke my gag reflex. I have a googledocs full of un-finished stories for which I had big plans.

These big plans involved reading my stories to my pillow pet Ernest and my stuffed crab Phyrso.

I should just start calling this the "Jenna Marbles gif blog"

And being at the age where adults start to look at you funny when you stamp your foot and whine, "but I don't wanna!", I figured it would perhaps be good to actually stick with something. It's a great intention to have for a few hours. You sit down in front of your computer, fresh with fantastic ideas for the next great American novel, you write a few sentences, erase more sentences because they just don't have that writer-ly flow, then Tumblr happens.

It's a black hole, Tumblr.

But even though I'm still cursed with Attention Deficit "ooh shiny!", I've managed to stick with a few things. I've found it's important to prioritize what you actually want to get decently professional at, and what is "just for kicks."

Mine literally was just for kicks

When I quit dance classes, I didn't feel like I was giving up because I just wanted to do some twirls, have some fun, and obviously have an excuse to wear stage makeup. I didn't ever plan to become a professional dancer, and I still enjoy bursting out into dance in my room every single night occasionally.

But the occasional dance class isn't going to turn you into the next Martha Graham. So for those activities that you know you should stick with, here are some tips for not losing your mind while practicing that cat-screeching violin ten hours per week:

1) Create something.
We all know that playing Chopsticks on the keyboard over and over is basically your "get discouraged quick!" remedy. It's so basic it makes us wonder if our piano teacher sees us as pet monkeys. It's important to learn the basics, but it is easily discouraging when that's all you focus on. So learn a few chords, or dance moves, or ways not to burn yourself on a stove, and make something. You could write a totally stilted song and be waaaay off key, but it doesn't matter. If you have a piece that you could hypothetically share with the rest of the world, it gives you hope that you can create something a million times better once you've mastered the basics.

2) Look at your inspiration
Chances are, you took up your hobby because there was someone who'd mastered the craft who is just so cool.
If only Lindsey Stirling was a thing before we were five, right?
Looking at your favorite singer/songwriter/dancer/fruit impersonator will remind you of why you decided to get into these shinanigans in the first place, and what you can strive for. Looking at this role model isn't meant to be a "why couldn't I be this good?" type thing. Don't shoot yourself in the foot with the high-expectation gun.
We should ban all high-expectation guns.
I'm waiting for the Republican outcry.

...No? Okay, coast is clear.

When I wonder why in the hell I'm typing sentences onto a screen (other than for you, dear blog reader, did I mention you look marvelous today?), I read some Daniel Handler and Jodi Picoult. Perhaps a few Bryarly Bishop blogs if I'm in a blog-specific writer's block (never!). The passion for writing comes through in their works, and it's the kind of genre that I strive to be strong in.

And I've been channeling Daniel Handler since second grade, so something must be working.

3) Talk to someone.
Okay. Duh. Any advice-ish thing is going to tell you to talk to someone. But I don't mean like a therapist or your mom, or your cat. Talking to release your feelings, but what happens after you tell your cat that you feel like a failure?

"Mere mortal," he'll say, "figure it out in another life...oh wait, you only have one."

I mean that you should get some concrete advice from someone who was in the exact situation as you.

I know what you're thinking: "I accidentally put my underwear on my head this morning, my car ran out of gas on the highway, my jeans don't fit on Tuesdays, and I've been living off bananas and pop tarts for the past year and a half! Nobody in the world has been in the same situation!"

That is all true.

But if you're taking guitar, singing, pie eating, etc lessons, you'll probably have a teacher ("no shit"). That teacher is not just there to teach you the chords and that you cannot wack your history teacher on the head with your guitar; he is also there to talk to you, to give you advice. Because this master was also once at a point where he wanted to give up. Who else is more qualified to tell you how to push through something?

4) Eat a piece of chocolate.
This helps everything.

Namaste. 

Books and Beauty Products

As I started unpacking my stuff at home, I realized that I was struggling to find room for two things: books and beauty products (jeans too, but we're going to ignore that thought because it doesn't work with my metaphor...damn you, denim for destroying my analogies!) While everything ended up fitting, I had to get slightly innovative...and if I ever loan you a book that's covered in dust, you'll know why:

I had to find an innovative jeans home as well

But then you look across the closet, and see this:

Ganesha is destructing the obstacle of fitting everything into one room

A normal person would think "oh, I have a lot of stuff; I should probably give some away," then they would tralalala to have a cup of coffee that's covered in bees (respect if you get the reference). But me, being the strange-minded person that I am, I decided to take this series of events, and transcend it to some thinking about stereotypes.

'Cause everyone loves to be bombarded with stereotypes at 9A.M. right?

I once ran into a classmate on the CATA Bus. He was majoring in awkward comments it seemed, as calling someone's braids sexy wasn't exactly CATA passenger protocol last time I checked. But there I was, covered in sparkles and eyeshadow and eyeliner, smelling like "Paris Amour" perfume. And this guy was all "oh, are you a party girl? Because you kinda seem like one."

I went on to tell him, "yes, I do like to wreak some havoc with some Kelly Clarkson CD's in my bedroom every now and again."

Except I didn't, because I'm not minoring in awkward retaliations.

Why is it that a bottle of spray perfume and black liquid stuff on our face makes us seem like we just wanna have fun, and being armed with a poetry anthology makes us seem all stuffy and "academic"? If I fit into both categories, does that mean I don't really fall into either?

The way I dress is very "ooh, ahh, bonjour! Tralalala! Let's go frolic in the forest!" But I'm not at all a flighty person. Okay, I'm not a very flighty person.

Sometimes, I exhibit non-flighty moments. There.

However, in my reading/writing/eating pie, I am very analytical. I think serious thoughts like, was there perhaps, not large enough of a chocolate to crust ratio in that pie? Important stuff, you know?

There's this weird balance in the way we look in relationship to the way we act. Are more academic people normally inclined to wear pant suits and ties? Maybe. If we saw someone like that on the street we'd think either "oh, he must be smart!" or "oh, he's a fuck-off businessman."

Or he's got a discount at Ralph Lauren. The world will never know.

I had a substitute English professor who wore like 6 inch heels with a million colors to work. Then she started spouting off theories and facts and cool-sounding things about rhetoric. And she didn't trip once.

In theory, we accept that smart people can wear outlandish clothing, but we still make these assumptions on the street. You can be an appreciator of all things sparkly and be intelligent too.

We call this "smarkly."

So to all those smarklies out there,

Namaste.

It's the End of the (Freshman) World as We Know it!

You knew there would be an obligatory "it's the end of the school year" blog, didn't you? Ah young blog reader, you know me too well.

You know how you go into new situations with these outrageous expectations--like by the end of an aquatic retreat you'll come out looking like a turtle? I've always been bound with these ideals that by the end of some phase, I'll look completely different, and the feeling like ten million rainbows have exploded right next to me will magically follow suit.

I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting this time around. Perhaps it was something like this:

We NEVER tolerate dancing around dorm rooms....

How did I turn out at the end of the year?

We just have bundles of fun

So the outward change wasn't terribly different. I think it's just too much of an indicator that you will not be a party girl when you spend recess writing plays. But I've actually enjoyed having (somewhat) challenging classes, particularly Eng-assmic (that excited feeling an English major feels when learning literary things) was literary theory. New Criticism and I just understand each other.

Seriously, if you love reading, you will want to live in English 200.

But as fate usually has it, I realize that instead of sobbing over the lack of drastic change, I realize it's all right to be the glitter loving, semi-disorganized time-nazi every once in a while.

When you show up to a class half hour before it begins, your teacher will notice you. Perhaps not positively, but hey look how much attention Britney Spears got for shaving her head, and that was a dreadful idea.

Soooooo I suppose I should make some sort of conclusion about freshman year. I wouldn't label it as "wheeee, fun!" It was more like a "you'll thank me later" kind of fun. And learning how not to look tired. Yep, lots of that.

It seems easy to stay in your home town for college. My house is ten minutes away, they know me by name at Webster's, I know which alleys to steer clear from (hint: it's all of them). And while it's been nice to get a lot closer to State High people, it's also a strange feeling to have such a new experience in a familiar place. If I were to move to say, Alaska (and buy ten thousand winter coats) for college, I would recognize the setting as "this is my collegiate place. It's where I do collegiate things." Similar to Colorado, where I think "this is my meditation place. It's where I wonder how much cheese I can buy with my paycheck think meditative thoughts." But my brain gets confused when this is the place where I think Quaker thoughts (and eat lots of oatmeal), go to dance, speak in outrageous French accents, and attempt to eat at every downtown restaurant in one Summer with Keri (we failed). During Summer session, I went to a yoga class downtown, and it was so like my senior year of high school, that I was all, "okay, I'm just gonna go home and watch some Survivor with my dad."

Oh, wait.

I had to remind myself I lived on campus about ten million times.

So it's familiar, but it's different. And you thought you had a confusing brain.

It was nice to have a job off campus, as I didn't feel like I was sequestered to dorm-life forever. And I got nice and friendly with the CATA Bus schedules, which are more guidelines than actual rules.

Academically, there are quite a few classes I fell in love with. Science 200 got me excited about the subject because it stressed critical thinking more than it did chemicals and experiments and knowing that molecules go "ooohhh."

I don't know what sound molecules make.

But if you're looking for a GN requirement, this class is like any blogger's heaven. You get good grades whenever you question the universe. I spent the first month of this class asking myself if it was all a joke, and the professor would say "nevermind, you must find a new theory of relativity in 5 minutes...go!"

But cruel joke it was not. Proud moments I had. Annoying yoda speak I will stop.

'Twas a good year. I'll let you know how it goes as an apartment-dwelling sophomore. Maybe I'll dye my hair an even more ridiculous color next time.

Namaste.

B-E-A-U...Shouldn't Give a Rat's Ass

Today, in true procrastination fashion, I went to Webster's to grab a gallon a moderately proportioned cup of iced coffee. As I sat down, I heard some young women talking about our society's perceptions of beauty.

And when I hear talk of image in culture, my reaction goes something like:

But as I evesdropped all creepily, I heard that on the high school's morning announcements, there was a montage of "the beautiful people at State High." I've yet to see this video, but from what I've heard, there were photos of curvier women. That's great to try and promote positive body image, but this video was not such a hot idea.

For one, the video still contained distinctions on what beauty is. A curvy girl can be beautiful, just as a skinny one can. Labeling new means of beauty isn't solving the problem, it's just making the skinny girl wonder what on earth she did wrong for having a high metabolism. Having new ideals about external beauty is just displacing the problem on more superficiality. Why are we still focusing on the external? That's like saying, "hey, you're an alcoholic, so you're going to switch to wine instead of vodka."

Why not drink a nice refreshing glass of intellect, or joy instead?

Everyone has a right to feel beautiful. But even if we choose to see the fleshier as what's truly beautiful, those hips aren't going to stay as full. The boobs don't perk forever (sorry guys, they just don't). These attributes fade. Why not make a video about a beautiful poem, or piece of art, or clot of nerds who talk of Doctor Who and Wizard Rock before first period?

Joy emanates through skin. Enthusiasm seeps through cheekbones, no matter how full or sharp they happen to be. Persistence and determination aren't defined by curves or hipbones. These are the traits that last.


Namaste.

Who Peed in the Dressing Room?

So last night, to avoid homework, my roommate and I decided to go shopping instead (up until this point I've done well saving money--but once I lose it, I lose it completely). My justification? I needed some Shoshoni-worthy clothing. Giving up material attachments? Well done, indeed.

It was nearing closing time at the store, and I was in the farthest dressing room. We heard the generic pop music switch off. All of a sudden, in between trying on my tie-dye pants and floral print shirt, I hear...

"This is not in my job description! I cannot deal with bodily fluid!"

My first thought, being the college-influenced person that I am, was that someone had some "fun" in a dressing room. Even that seems more believable than what actually happened.

Someone peed in the dressing room.

Presumably, this person was shit-faced enough to be unable to judge right from "you stupid idiot"-esque behavior. But these dressing rooms are not that big. There's this huge space from the floor to the door. Even in a drunken state, would it ever occur to this person that perhaps a random passerby would see suspicious looking liquid fall to the floor and put two and two together?

Maybe they mistook the changing stall for a bathroom stall. Perhaps we've gotten to the point where shop-keepers need to put up signs that say "THIS IS NOT A BATHROOM, PLEASE HOLD YOUR BODILY FLUIDS FOR POST CHANGING."

Plus, there are these huge mirrors everywhere you turn in the changing rooms. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't feel particularly comfortable watching any sort of...erm...action.

I'm quite pleased that customers at my work ask where the bathroom is.

At least I got some cute stuff out of the shinanigans:

Namaste.

Living in the Now (A Mal-Constructed Justification for Dyeing my Hair)

Scene 1: August 5th, 3:00A.M. A sleeping mother human's (JUDY) room. It is pitch black. The curtains are drawn. A sound machine hums in the corner.

Enter KIRA, a six year girl with pigtails and a huge grin. Flings arms in excitement.

KIRA: Mommy, Mommy!

Judy snaps up in fear, gasping when she hears her daughter's desperate plea.

JUDY: What's wrong?
KIRA: I know what I want for Christmas!

Judy groans. Never wake the sleeping mother.

JUDY: A mother who doesn't get pestered for gifts in the middle of the night?
KIRA: Do they sell those at Tadpole Crossing?
JUDY: Go to sleep. I'll wake you in 4 months.

END SCENE.

SCENE 2. The deathtrap, otherwise known as high school. Crowded hallway. Enter an innocent Kira, chomping on a protein bar.
Enter intimidating bully, who eyes innocent bystander.

BULLY: Did you set your hair on fire today?

(16 year old) KIRA: D'uhhhhhh...Allow me five minutes to think of a witty response and I'll get back to you on that.
(Five minutes later, when bully has exited the vicinity): Yeah, I set it on fire...with my smashing good looks.
God, I can't wait for college.

SCENE 3
A college dorm room. Kira is studying furiously (allow this term to be used liberally).
KIRA: I can't wait for Shoshoni.
And grad school.
And marriage.
And anything that's not now.

So I have this tendency to constantly think about the future. I genuinely enjoy planning things, but they rarely turn out as expected. The present moment frustrates me. It bores me. What was once new turns into routine. Why, this shirt was new and exciting just two weeks ago:

How could a foxy shirt become routine, I ask of you?
All of a sudden, I'm thinking of the new animal shirts out there, the new shopping excursions I could embark on, the new shades of yellow I could look like a suntanned lima bean in.

I seriously need to stop this whole shopping thing.

I thought I was alone (or at least a minority) in this mindset, but enter Bryarly Bishop's post in which she talks about the exact same thing. Bishop writes that "I sometimes worry that that mindset will lead me to live my life straining so hard for the future that I miss the present and end up with a head full of half-experienced memories."

She nailed this phenomenon--I can't even count the number of yoga classes where I lay in Savasana, wondering "what am I going to pay way too much money on cook for dinner?"

Sometimes I feel like an impulsive person, but most of the time, I'm just sitting there, wondering about what my future will entail, if I'll finally be able to parallel park--you know, the important stuff.

As important as it is to be goal oriented, that mindset seems to serve us less as we grow older. We go through our entire primary education focused on that golden goal: to get into college. Working through college pays off when we get to grad school. Doing well in grad school gets us to a career. Once we've got that career, that marriage, those kids....

what is the purpose? Sure, there are promotions that roll around every once in a while, but there aren't any pervading "standard "goals shoved in your face.

(This goes hand in hand with my theory that you officially become a pro-adult when people stop asking "what are you going to do with your life?")

It seems to be both comforting and terrifying once you hit that time when you've got your life figured out. It's unsettling to know that this is it, I've found my purpose. No more weird rebellion phases, no more fashion dares...
no more cinnamon challenges. 
It's like getting the Park Place property in Monopoly. It's predictable. It's kinda fun to laugh at the scrambling minions, but it can get boring.

Although it's nice to have comfort of knowing that my life is more flexible and freer, it presents me with the daydreamer's dilemma. How much of the now should I immerse myself in, rather than thinking of the then? Ideally, I'd stop the thinking the now and start feeling the now, but let's be real here, I'm an English major. There's no ceasing the analytical here.

If you just keep floating around, thinking it will become more liberating tomorrow, that moment will never come. There's no 9A.M. appointment with bliss.

So, I'm still gonna have fun imagining the tomorrow, but perhaps the persistent hope that it will "get better" is a silly one. Imagining the future shouldn't be at the expense of feeling the present.

And hey, if you let yourself fully immerse yourself in the now, sometimes what seems like a bad decision actually becomes an epic one:

Impulsivity at its finest.

Namaste.

That's So Raven Will Haunt Your Soul

Okay, so maybe it won't haunt your soul, but it definitely leaves some sort of impression you didn't even realize was there. It's like the show buries itself in a little cave in your mind, and doesn't re-emerge until your nineteen year old self decides to pull up an episode of your childhood obsession and you're all "omigosh that girl is me."

I mean, obviously I haven't gotten the psychic thing down yet but the fashion, the "oh snap!"s and the tendency to turn a teeny tiny accomplishment into "I'm queen of the world!" are all traits Raven and I have in common. I suppose it made sense in 6th grade, seeing as I basically had a Raven shrine, but it's surprising to see that she has stuck.

So, of course it got me wondering what other parts of my childhood have stuck with me, making it even more impossible to grow up:

1) Every time I see a Hula Hoop, I think about flinging it onto the garage roof.
This one requires a bit of explanation. Somehow my brother, mother and I went from attempting to twist a circular object around our hips (never worked) to trying to fling them over the garage roof. It was more fun to watch them catch speed and return to us like well trained dogs, but there was that rush of adrenaline when it finally got over the roof. I'm not entirely sure how this game got invented, but we'd spend hours of the summer amusing ourselves with the Hula Hoops. When I made some new friends in 6th grade, the first thing I showed them when they came over were the swings in my basement. But the second thing was this game. Why they didn't decide I was too strange to be associated with right then and there is beyond me.

2) I always associate Mulan with jelly beans.
So this is a "younger Kira was kind of a dick" story. In order to celebrate the turn of the millennium, my family decided to watch Mulan. (Let's just note that I was like seven years old here, so it was perfectly acceptable to be terrified of the Huns). My mother told me that during the movie, I was allowed twenty jelly beans, which was kind of a "cue the angelic music here" moment. I should probably learn a thing or two from my younger ego, as twenty jelly beans is now a pre-frantic exam snack. But before we began our festivities, I messed up somehow, and was only allowed ten jelly beans. Oh boy, did I fight that punishment like it was a death sentence. I think I proposed locking myself in my room for a year before I had to give up ten jelly beans.

What can I say, I really liked candy.

3) Whenever someone says "girl power," I automatically think of the Cheetah Girl's song.
I'm sure you'll be shocked to know that since I loved That's So Raven, I was even more obsessed with the Cheetah Girls. In case you're not familiar with the song, voilà:

...A work of musical genius right there. My father, in attempts to embarrass me, would burst out into this song at every opportune moment. Thus, it stuck. It's rather strange to associate feminism with a pre-teen chick flick, but c'est la vie.

4) Play mobile cars are surely not for driving, they're for flinging down staircases.
Every time I see a Play Mobile car, the first thing I think of is a decapitated driver and a bunch of gear smattered around a basement floor. In my youth, every Christmas my brother and I would visit my extended family in New Jersey. And every year, my "crazy cousins" would allow us to stuff the cars with every piece of gear imaginable and fling them down the staircase. The more in disarray the car was, the more accomplished we felt. And then everyone was surprised when I hit a bunch of things in an actual car.

At least there weren't any staircases in sight while I was driving Alphonso, my beloved car. 

Namaste. 

Smart Bliss: Smart Water, Sword Fighting, and Death Drives

So lately I've been learning about Chan Buddhism and Taoism, and I was all along for the ride with this "rejuvenate the mind by keeping the body strong" (actually, that's more of a confucianist belief, but, let's not go all lawyer on me). There's a very "go with the flow" attitude towards these religions--it's not exactly passive, but if a Chan Buddhist were to get a D on a paper, they would probably say, "oh, I must study harder next time," rather than "WHY DO YOU HATE ME PROFESSOR, WHY?"
So that's all fine and good. I'm a fan of letting life roll of your back so we can just enjoy the gifts this world has to offer--especially clearance sales at Kohl's, I mean, isn't that a miracle? But what stumps me is when the masters of Buddhism and Taoism start bashing analytical thinking. They're more "hey, let's take a blind leap of faith and everything will be dandy."

There's kind of an issue with that. I'm far from a scholar on Eastern religions, but I have read the Tannisho in between episodes of Girls. And while I acknowledge that the text is very deep and powerful and has some badass names in there, it's because of rhetoric that this is the case. The Tannisho writers are persuading you into this sect, this belief, but you cannot use rhetoric in response. It would be similar to going into a dual with a stick, while your opposition has some super epic sword. Unless that stick were a wand in disguise, you're kinda dead.

And the winner is....

(In case you were wondering, I do, in fact, [kinda] know how to sword fight. Thank you, RenFaire for that one).










We could all use some acceptance in our lives. I mean, it gets to a point where over-analyzing every little thing just makes us miserable. Let's say you're shopping with some friends because you have a little extra moolah to spare (how do you do it?? How, you secret mother-fridging alien?). You put on a super adorable dress that will draw just enough attention from the male population, but won't make your grandmother fall on her death bed right on the spot. Your friends ooh and ahh in excitement and say "that makes you look so pretty!"

To which the normal population would reply "thanks!" but to the analytical sort, the response would be something like "What, am I not naturally pretty? What are you saying, that I shouldn't go out in the world 'cause I'm too fat and ugly? I just shouldn't buy anything! I should become a hermit who clothes herself in a paper bag and eats cat food!"

And then you become crazy and die alone, blah blah, yadda yadda.

I certainly get the damage of reading too much into things. Once you try to find the meaning in "hi" and "hey" in a text messages, you know you've gone a little too far.

Unless of course, you're reading into this text message:

Passivity isn't inherently bad. If someone tries to mind-fuck you 24/7 because they know you won't respond, you might want to take some action. But especially in our speed up and conquer the world in 60 minutes or less atmosphere, some chilling out is always a good idea.

However, I wonder at what level analytical thinking goes from useful to unnecessary. My favorite class in the history of forever is a literary theory course, where we apply theory to novels, poems, films...basically everything.

That cat you just got? Analyzed, bitches. Animals have death drives too!

It's really rather helpful to study psychoanalysis in order to study other people's motivations. I now know that person with the face and the eyes and the teeth didn't get along with his father. But in all seriousness, the vast variety of theory doesn't just end at literature--it transcends into life as well. I mean, we're all bound by paradoxes, and chicks who are all "I'll live in the kitchen if that's what I wanna do, you misogynist!". Understanding where those patterns come from is one of the most valuable life lessons.

New Historicism would have made social studies a lot less confusing in elementary school. They should teach this stuff in kindergarten.

Sometimes, analytical thinking doesn't even take away reading for pleasure. It's a different kind of fun, but whipping out that pen and underlining the hell out of your book brings a new level of satisfaction that episode of Jersey Shore didn't quite cover.

But then we go back to those ancient beliefs that intellect is irrelevant--that true life mastery comes from faith, good karma, and the ability to stop burning toast. Is becoming smarter going to make us more miserable? Are we becoming bogged down by all this knowledge? Should all just renounce from this whole school thing and search for bliss through other means?

During my month in an ashram, I paired the two together as best I could. When chanting the Guru Gita, I didn't try to figure out what every single stanza meant. I think I read the English version once. Instead, I tried my darndest not to mess up pronunciation, felt the vibrations of the chanters around me, and leaped saying the Sanskrit words. But during my time off, I would read books and revert back to my word-underlining, text-analyzing ways.

I'm still not sure if I can equally balance pure acceptance and critical thinking. I'm a fan of both; I'll try to explore the idea farther as I return to the ashram.

I mean, we are naturally inclined to question the world. There's "smart water," and what could be more natural than water?

Do any of you have life-approach preferences? Do you find critical thinking to make you happy, or bring down your bliss-levels?

Namaste.

Journalism Majors, I Request Your Assistence. AKA What is My Life

So this isn't gonna be one of those "I'm trying to be funny and somewhat failing" or "let's find the deeper meaning" blogs. I'm actually going to let this blog serve its original purpose and tell you some things that are going on in my life. If you're bored, don't say I didn't warn you.

Thing one:
Apparently I'm now a newspaper editor. Like, for something other than a homemade scrapbook-gone-wrong type newsletter. As in, for a real live publication.

What is my life?

I suppose an explanation would be nice. So would a lifetime supply of Creme Eggs. But in this instance, you win here. I had heard from the liberal art's internship magazine that State College had a newsletter called Voices. It's essentially the alternative, liberal local newsletter. Since I'm a lefty all the way, I thought it looked intriguing. I emailed the editor-in-chief a short inquiry and a resume, hoping that I could get some further information along with an application.

Instead, I was told to come to a meeting (At Webster's--always a good sign). When I did finally show up to a meeting, I voiced which articles sounded interesting.

Then something kinda crazy happened. Those articles got assigned to me.

Last time I wrote a newspaper article, it was the fourth grade. So we'll see how this goes. I doubt the "blog" voice is gonna work when the State College community is looking for straight up facts, so for another tone I shall search.

But if any of you are journalism majors or have experience in the newspaper-editing world, I would love some pieces of advice. I mean, do people still record interviews? Or conduct email interviews? I don't even know. As a child, I only interviewed myself. I doubt that's gonna fly in the big kid world.

So yeah.

Thing two:
3 more weeks until Shoshoni. 
I have yet to make a packing list. Also haven't figured out the hair straightener debacle. I should probably work on my downward dog abilities.

Thing three:
Has State College skipped Spring completely? I'm not complaining, except it makes it so difficult to get anything productive done.

Namaste.

A Conversation With Hair

So as I'm sure all you curly haired folk can attest to, we're on quite the strugglebus. I mean, those with flat-as-a-board haired can't mess with their hair and be the next Carrie Hope Fletcher (obscure YouTube references, anyone?), but they can also hop out of bed, grab a gallon of coffee, and go on their merry way.

Do you know how hard it is to burn your head at 7A.M.??

That extra hour of sleep can turn you from this:

to this:

Then again that extra hour of sleep is the difference between this:

And this:

It's kind of a thing when you show up to class as a cross between a poodle and a forest in which you could discover entire civilizations.

So there's a simple solution to this, right?
You might think a ponytail would be the answer to the poodle-headed sort.
You would be wrong.

The thing about ponytails is that they look fantastic on angular faces. Angelina Jolie, that's why we're all (not so) secretly jealous of you. For the softer faces, pulled back hair makes us look we've tried to impersonate one too many chipmunks. On the plus side, 60 years from now, we'll look like we're 40 years old. Or something.

But then there's that whole hair tie ordeal. Scrunchies have been obliterated in the land of the '90's. Thick bands are alright, but get them to wrap around anything bigger than pine cone width, and you're SOL. But even though those hair-ties-gone-supermodel can't stretch the entire length of Europe. And thus, I've come to realize the worst sound in the entire world:

The hair tie snap.

I'd argue it's worse than nails on a chalkboard. Oh yes, I went there.

Which means the only solution is dividing your hair in two, no? Preferably, hair salons around the world would realize I do, in fact, have enough hair to donate to Locks of Love, its just not lengthwise. So for now, it seems simple enough to go the braid route. It's a fantastic compromise...until your hair tells you it would rather make you look like a five year old off to play in the sandbox.

At this point, you're twenty minutes late for class, and you wonder how you ever get out in the world to begin with.

So what do you do?

There are several courses of action you can take:
1) Go get a billion dollar job and get your hair chemically straightened until you go bald.
2) Pretend you live in the '70's and that it's cool to have a forest on your head.
3) Get up at 3 A.M. and burn your hair (Call now and you'll get free sleep deprivation!)
4) Become a hermit.
5) Why the hell are you becoming a crab?
6) Sometimes I crack myself up.
7) Where were we?...Oh that's right, the list.
8) I don't know, dude, we're all just screwed.
9) Just have a really great personality to make up for it.
10) Or a body that would make Jillian Michaels eat a tub of ice cream.
11) I'm totally kidding, just get some tits and nobody will even notice your hair.
12) So this is getting awkward.
13) Erm...bye.

I'm thinking we should all just get dreadlocks and be done with everything.

Namaste.

Idiosyncracies, or where have all the good socks gone?

One of the perks of living with a roommate is that you get an objective point of view about your habits. While I'm not a very particular person, I do have oddities that I didn't even realize were strange until I had to share my living space. At least I don't still think walking around in circles while music is playing is normal (something I should probably tell my five year old self...), I'm sure correcting my roommate's grammar at midnight is not much better.

So besides learning math, how to properly write an essay, and that 8 A.M.s should be avoided at all costs, I've also learned that there is an ample list that makes up my idiosyncracies:

1) I cringe whenever someone says "real good" or "I'm going to try and..."
While "real good" isn't even grammatically correct, it's a colloquialism that even my English professor uses. Maybe it's the generation of "relatable" that allows younger professors to have such slip ups, or they all know that we're still asleep at 10A.M. and can't be bothered to correct anyone. There was a time when I went to said professor's office hours and he said my essay was "real good." I swear, I had to bite my tongue so hard it drew blood.

The distaste for "I"m going to try and..." has actually lasted since my youth. If you think about it, you have no idea if you're going to succeed in your attempts. You could try to beat a chihuahua with a spoon, and instead get distracted by a piece of cake. If you try something, there's no way you can predict its outcome--unless of course, you're Shawn Spencer.

In which case, well played sir.

2) I feel uncomfortable whenever Ernest my pillow pet is on his stomach.

An unhappy Ernest

So, before I left for college, I got my beloved pillow pet who is very important because he's Ernest. Heheh, English humor. I do, in fact use him as a pillow, thank you very much for asking. But he is always on his back. My roommate tells me I'm sexualizing poor Ernest, seeing as he's all "wheee, here I am!" But I'm actually saving him from suffocating. So he should probably thank me if he wasn't an inanimate object and all. Whenever someone moves him on his stomach, I actually stop breathing for a moment. Yes, my concern for a pillow pet is that great.

See, he's smiling.

3) I prefer bananas that are not yet ripened.
I don't know what it is, but there's something about a mushy banana that's just....ehhhh. I know they're not supposed to be appetizing when they're all green, but I suppose I'll just be a fruit maverick.

4) If I sleep with socks on, I always wake up with only one sock.
This particular oddity was brought to my attention by my mother. It's not like I wake up, decide I really hate the feeling of fabric on my feet, and rip one off. But it never fails; I always wake up with only one sock.

Which brings me to another point. Where do all the socks go? Does the washing machine eat them for lunch? That's rather selfish of the laundry, eating all the good socks. Perhaps we should invest in some washing-machine-only snacking materials.

5) And finally, when I'm nervous, I pick my nails, but only on Tuesdays.

Just kidding, it's really on Wednesdays.

Namaste.

Text Speak: Is Technology Bringing us Down?

Being a '90's baby, I have a full appreciation for technology. I've grown addicted to Tumblr. I check facebook as though it's the news (and the news as though it were as important as facebook--first world problems). It's nice to constantly be connected with your friends; if it weren't for video chat, I probably would've had my own personal soap opera during my first five months at college and been all

"WHY, CHANGE, WHY? WHY MUST YOU HAPPEN TO ME??"

Which is a kind of strange first impression to give to your roommate.

So in a lot of ways, I couldn't live without technology. But then there's these "new, hip" inventions that bring us back to where we started. Take voice text messaging, for instance. Basically, you record yourself saying a certain message, you send it to your friend, said friend listens, and records their voice in return.

It's like futuristic text messaging, is it not?

No. It's like a phone call. In fact, it would save more time and more button pushing if you just called that person up, and your exchange of pleasantries would sound a lot less like "oh fuck it, what does this button do again?"

And then there's comments. My father once noted that I had a few comments on a blog post, and, being the English professor that he is, assumed that they would be well thought out "here is my feedback and suggestions for improvement" type comments. Instead, he found "first," "what's a landshark," and "I don't believe in nature." While it's true that providing comments is more easily accessible, it makes the feedback less meaningful and more inside joke-y.

Even technology that is clearly progressive makes me wonder if it is for our own good. My family was discussing the usefulness of land lines and chord phones and I was all "my fingers are allergic to buttons." While I used to heartily accept the fact that landlines would soon go extinct (it'll save a heck of a lot of money when I get an apartment next year and have to live off Easy Mac), I've started to realize that with chord phones, you could be assured that the person you were calling was actually paying attention to your words. Even if your phone was in your kitchen, you couldn't start cooking a pot of spaghetti because 1) you spent your grocery fund on sparkly earrings again and 2) you would get twisted up in the chord until you strangled yourself and there's nothing like death to put a damper on your karaoke night.

Remember when karaoke nights were a thing? Yeah, me neither.

But now, with iPhones, that phone call is the last thing on your mind. I remember when I first got my iPhone I became boss at Angry Birds before I even learned how to use that keypad and dial a phone number. But if I did, for some ungodly reason, have to speak on the phone, I could be beating those pigs with vengeful birds and no one would even know. My friend could be sobbing about her breakup, and my "you dick, why won't you die?!" could be misconstrued for sympathy hate.

And I mean, even if you are focusing on talking to your friend, no one actually holds their phone to their ear. You should see people walking in between classes. You've got their headphones in, you're yelling "no, mom, I did not get a C on my exam!" and everyone else is just looking at you like you've lost your mind.

I wonder if all the professors here think we're schizophrenic.

Namaste.

Hold that Thought! Or, Sticking Through with It

I don't know what it is about yoga class, but it's got magical powers. Before you give me that look that's all "stop talking all that voodoo shit," I'm not trying to claim that yoga bunnies pop out of hats in between postures, or one becomes instantly enlightened after ninety minutes of turning oneself into a pretzel. What I am saying, is that there's some quality in a yoga class that makes the mind calmer, and all the more ready to be epiphanied.

Yes, you can verb that word. Don't judge, said that English major.

So here's the thing. Do you want to hear the thing? Too bad, I'm gonna tell you anyway. I hate holding postures. Even if I'm sweating through it all, I'd much rather sprint through that down dog/chatarunga/up dog sequence a bajillion times than keep at this pose for more than two seconds:

It's kinda sad, but after shaking through five breaths of such a posture, I start thinking of things I would much rather be doing than supporting myself with one leg and one hand. The list includes:
-Taking a math exam
-Eating licorice jelly beans (seriously, who likes those things??)
-Running a mile
-Telling my Republican friends that I watch Rachel Maddow religiously

...Amongst other things. By the time I've finished this mental list, the whole class is "om"ing, and they're all like "I pity the fool!...Namaste." Then I can't walk for the next week.

If yoga class were a gym, sun salutations would be the equivalent of a cardio machine, and a regular hatha yoga class would be the weights/strengthening portion of the workout. Except with less grunting and sweat (usually). With cardio, you feel an instant change. You can start justifying those evenings where you eat an entire bag of Easter M&Ms (they were on clearance anyway, and I promise I won't tell). You're so focused on not, y'know, falling over and dying, that you don't have much time to consider exactly how much hell you're putting your body in. And hey, if you turn up some David Guetta, you won't even realize that you're in pain.

I do love me some David Guetta.

However, once you reach the weights/strengthening, you've got some more freedom to think. You don't pick up a weight and instantly become the hulk. Which is a shame, because I think we all know that the hulk is the most badass of all the avengers. It takes time to build strength. Consistency is key here. You can't sprint through twenty million reps of chest flies in one night (how very Jillian Michaels of you) and expect anything but some very sore wrists. The slower postures/workouts make a difference when you keep on doing them, which means you must keep showing up. 

Yes, this means dragging your butt away from the Ellen DeGeneres show and hitting the gym, yoga class, Skittles racing class*, whatever it is you want to achieve. I know. I love Ellen D as much as the next person. But watching her dance is not going to turn you into a dancer.

Sometimes, it feels like those things you have to trudge through aren't worth the time. In 6th grade, I took piano lessons, and I was convinced I was legitimately getting punished for somehow wronging the teacher when he made me keep at Kelly Clarkson's Breakaway for two months. So I quit. Now I can't even play Chopsticks on the piano.**

Suffice it to say, I was shocked when my yoga teacher admitted she prefers the slower, strengthening postures to sun salutations. But upon further inspection, it makes sense to want to explore through a posture, rather than change your position before you even realize how cool you're making your body look. This is a seemingly difficult challenge in a generation where watching a 22 minute television show is a struggle, but maybe it would help us become better thinkers and all that jazz.

Sometimes, it's the exploration of the tough rather than the excitement of the newness that can be the most rewarding. And just remember: it's the strengthening at the gym, not the cardio, that makes your abs look good.

I'm totally kidding. It's those cadburry cream eggs that will work their magic on your abs.

Namaste

*This is not a real thing. But it should be, just sayin'. How cool would that be?
**I can, however, play the very basic chords for the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack. Captain Jack would be proud.

The Second Time Around: A Re-Shoshoni-ites Aspirations

So this time next month, I'll be frolicking in Colorado, doing some yoga, and working with the staff to help maintain the beauty that is Shoshoni. While I'm not too concerned (yet) about this sudden change of pace, and it'll be a a somewhat easier transition since I know more of what to expect, I realize that being a second-timer doesn't mean I'll be perfect. Because I didn't know what to expect last year, I made a lot of assumptions, changed my wardrobe, stopped straightening my hair, and tried to memorize a heck of a lot of chants.

My style doesn't necessarily have a permanent "look," but I'm far more comfortable wearing comfy sweats and jeans than flowy skirts. Sure, I enjoy some aspects of "the hippie look," but not all day every day. It got to the point where it felt like I was wearing a costume to go eat breakfast, and while it wildly changed my demeanor, it still didn't feel like me. So it's not like I'm going to show up at an ashram with my craziest party dresses and flashy hot pink jewelry, but I now know a pair of jeans here and there is not utterly taboo.

My "home" style

Also, if you're kneeling down to pick rocks up from the ground and throw them back onto a path, dirt stains are much more practical to get out of jeans than yoga pants.

My second concern (not concern, so much as it is a realization) is that I would love to get some documentation of this trip. I was in a bit of a rush to get photos last year, so it turned out that 1) the photos were not that good, and I didn't capture any ashram-life and 2) my camera stopped working before I could upload the pictures, so there ya' go. It's not like you need definitive proof to reminisce over a good experience, but it helps to give friends and family an

My "Shoshoni" style..."and now for something completely different"

idea of what you were doing/where you were going. I'm not the greatest with technology, but I've tried giving it a go at YouTube videos, and I think it would be epic to film a few hikes, pick-axing moments and such. The trouble is, I would both look and feel like such an imposter if I walked into the Shoshoni kitchen with a big-ass video camera while the staff was calmly chanting "om namah shivaya." I'd have a lot of great footage to show everyone when I got home, but capturing a moment effectively can also distance a person from it. The point of Shoshoni is not to exhibit a lifestyle or to capture perfect moments, but to feel internally the changes and the positives of that life.

So, I'm kinda facing a dilemma here. I'm wondering if I fit in so well last time because I never walked around the grounds with a camera. Do I sacrifice those images for that full immersion? Maybe I should have designated "documentation days" where, 3 or 4 days out of 29 I become that crazy tourist. Any suggestions from the internet-verse?

Realization numero trois is a personality matter. Ermagherd, Kira's blogging about personality, who would've thunk it?

But seriously, guys. Every time I'm in a new place, I give off this impression that I'm quiet and timid and--apparently, and this one shocked me too--calm. I mean, as much as I would love to to emanate tranquility, I seriously doubt that's how I am 99.9999999% of the time. I'm not trying to fake another personality, I just kind of comes out this way when I'm not entirely comfortable. But given that Shoshoni is one of the safest, most accepting places I have ever seen, I would like to get past this "discomfort" block and show that I am indeed, kinda crazy (but in a yogic way, or something).

Just be aware, next month's posts will contain much nature and yogic references. I'll try to keep the internal stuff brief, and let you know what I'm up to! :)

Namaste.