Writer's Block

          As a writer, I often find myself feeling as though I keep reaching for the same tattered and dingy phrases again and again. Its a problem we often face that involves a lack of inspiration and quite possibly, exhaustion. I'm still recovering from Mockingjay at the moment, so my fingers are itching for a new book, but my mind is just a little rummy. Perhaps I'll take a third stab at Life of Pi, perhaps I'll hit the hay before 10 for the first time in months. But instead of disregarding this-book/writing diary, I'd like to share an old english assignment with you.

I wrote this short story two and a half years ago in my English II Honors class, the assignment was to include two people exiting a building. Enjoy.


  She bit her lip. Her cheek muscles contracted and there was a sudden rush of pressure at her temples. She could feel his hands tighten around hers. They were cold. As he whispered something into her ear, she could feel his breath on her neck. She couldn’t tell what he was saying, she couldn’t hear anything but a low rattling that seemed to echo out of the emptiness. He led her up the hall, across the foyer, through the door, and down the dark street. It had stopped raining only an hour before and the pools of shallow water reflected every light like tiny luminescent moons on a black canvas. The ordinarily peopled sidewalks had been vacated, and soon, even the low hum of life was absent from this place. Her heels clicked against the slick pavement, each step a lifetime.  She could feel the damp edges of her skirt as they brushed against her calves.
Their destination unknown to her, she let her mind drift away. Into the old, blue Toyota that had seen better days. Over the bridge on 64th and up the long driveway to the place that she called home. There was a stack of soggy newspapers on the porch under the swing and she could not remember a time when the mailbox had stood erect. By the front door were her tall stilettos kicked off one by one after a long day at the office and her coat sat abandoned on the couch. There was laundry on her stairs in a faded old hamper and her bathroom light was on.
Suddenly they turned a sharp corner, his nails dug into the her arms at the turn but her cries were muffled by fear. She saw a bright flash of light and her eyes struggled to adjust to it. This street was wider and emptier. The darkness it held seemed to buffet the pair on all sides. The light had come from a lamppost that seemed unusually tall and far too bright for an alley like this. At his first chance, by the light of the lamppost, he tightly bound her wrists with a strap that had been the sole occupant of his jacket pocket. He scratched his stubbly chin now, glad to have the use of his right hand.
They were making good time but he was in a hurry, and he jabbed her in the back twice to remind her to keep up the pace. She began to bleed and the warm blood slid down her back and seeped into her blouse. This time she gasped and he made good with his word as he tightly fettered her mouth with his handkerchief. To her surprise, it smelled freshly laundered and was neither tattered nor greasy. It seemed odd to her, that a man like this could have in his possession something so clean. She tried to imagine him laundering a handkerchief. Perhaps his wife had even folded it for him this morning, or maybe it had been a gift. He had, after all, not looked like the type who would gag and bind an innocent civilian and drag her to her doom. She just now remembered her watch. She wondered what time it was, it felt like hours had past but it really could not have been more than five minutes. This street was much longer than the first. She had goosebumps from the biting cold, the hair on her arms and neck were raised, and she began to shiver.
Almost without warning a car appeared, this was dark too, and the man stopped. He pulled out his keys and manually unlocked the trunk. He withdrew a thin cord and, with it, bound her legs so tightly that it cut painfully into her flesh as she tried to readjust. He also took out a rough clothed bag that cinched at the end, and pulled it over her head. The light from the lamppost shone through the weave of the bag like dwarfed stars until she was shoved into the trunk, her knees pulled up to her ribs, and the man slammed it shut. She listened to his footsteps as he walked around to the front of the car, got in, and locked the doors click-click. The pair disappeared down the street, swallowed by the darkness, and all that remained was the beaconing starlight of the lonely lamppost.

*If you're feeling really ambitious, complete the assignment yourself and share it with me below~
(Real blogs will resume on Monday)

Words and Weeping

          Has a book ever made you cry? And I don't mean one glistening tear, brought on by the bad-assery of the author. I mean cry for an unexpected snag in the plot or for the loss of a main character. One instance I recall being quite a tear-jerker for many, is the loss of the greatest sorcerer in the world. I am referring of course, to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Everyone loved Dumbledore, and his pathetic death was somewhat of a shock. Surely this great, loving, eccentric and yet ever witty giant among wizards would find a way to survive. But we mourned alongside Harry, our half-moon spectacled friend was gone.

          However, I was not among those to reach for the tissue box. I was sad, but no where near close to tears. And I would not consider myself a cold person- I still can't watch the Lion King because Mufasta's death is quite possibly the worst single moment in all Disney history (next to Bambi's meadow experience). The fact remains: books don't make me cry. So what makes it possible for some to weep by words and others to merely flip the page?

          I propose that it is a loss of imagination. I cannot get past the fact that these characters are words, and they cease to exist whenever I wish. I close the book and they are gone: black words on white pages that don't mean anything without a reader. I feel their emotions whilst reading their pain, books can depress me for days or excite me to the point of annoyance (to others), but death is nothing for me to weep over. How could it? Real death is sad because one can never have that person back- never relive their favorite times together, and it's final. In a book, a character's real death comes at the end of the book. And all characters die. You will get nothing knew, all you have is the past. When a character's life is cut, I can relive my times with them as with the others- by rereading the book. I can have them alive again: or just as alive as they ever were. 

          At its core, a loss of imagination inevitably means a loss of innocence; and I in no way am about to advocate for a loss of innocence. Logic crushes imagination in its fist, and imagination is not something so easily rescued. If you are one of the lucky ones who still needs those Kleenex, I admonish you to safeguard it against the world. And if you're like me? God help us.

*Do books make you cry? Share opinions from your attic in the comments below

Alas, Relief *Mockingjay Spoilers*

          It is currently 1:31 (ish) AM on Thursday morning, I officially will be getting next to no sleep tonight, AND I just finished Mockingjay (the final installment of The Hunger Games trilogy) by Suzanne Collins! I must say, I feel somewhat abused by Collins. In the course of this book, she has jerked around my emotions with each death, injury, or personal setback to Soldier Everdeen so thoroughly, that I am quite literally sore (let's not call attention to the fact that I've spent the last two days in a less-than comfortable chair with wooden arm-rests, primarily sustained on a bag of dried mangos). When recommending the trilogy to friends, I always recall the series' intense plot-lines and intriguing characters...However in her last installment, though- to safeguard myself from crazed fan-girls, I do love the book in its ability to END the plight against the Capitol, I must say I was somewhat disappointed.
          Perhaps it is for the precise reason that it is over that I sit here, wanting just a little more. But what I really want is something just a little different. Collins had me right up until Katniss' plan to kill Snow by somehow gaining access to his mansion. But when she killed off Prim (which, by the way, I have predicted since Rue's death in The Hunger Games), she lost me. From there it was one wrong move after another: Katniss (as always) only coming to once rescued and in the hospital, Snow's accusations of Coin, Katniss and Haymitch's voting in favor of a "revenge-hunger games," Paylor's presidency, Katniss' trial and subsequent exile to District 12, an altogether too easy forfeit of Gale's companionship (after a mere inkling of his having to do with the death of Prim), and finally Peeta's spontaneous appearance on the scene. And where, I beg of Collins,  is the amazing reunion between Katniss and (the REAL) Peeta? Though I find myself to be a solid "My favorite character is Haymitch" girl, Peeta took close second and yet he never really came back. And that was the real problem: sadly, the unprecedented kindness and wisdom of Peeta were lacking in Mockingjay.
          Overall, the book was disappointing, and I almost wonder if even Suzanne Collins didn't quite know how to reconcile our star-crossed lovers to a middle ground where they knew each other for who they really were, and yet loved in spite of themselves. I caution others not to expect too much, and to get plenty of sleep before undertaking this novel, the emotion you will exhaust on it is punishing. However, if the planets align and a fourth installment (District 14) falls into my hands, I intend to read with renewed vigor!
        
Now comes the worst part for an addict: withdrawals. Perhaps some Harry Potter is in order...

*And as always, please feel free to comment below on the thoughts in your attic!

A Christmas Miracle

The most fantastic of my summer memories was my (quite timely) stubble upon Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games. In the little world of District 12 I became absolutely obsessed. I soon closed the cover of Catching Fire (the first novel's successor) and was faced with the sad truth: 1. Peeta was captured and 2. I had to wait a month to reach the end of the CRAZY trilogy! Well the days of waiting are up, because my brand new, beautiful hardback copy of Mockingjay arrived two days early and here it sits, expectantly upon my nightstand. Alas, I cannot disregard such a gift from the heavens- I bid thee farewell.

*Buy Suzanne Collins' books here:

KOOL KIDZ CLICK THIS LINK

Also, I found a $0.99 copy of Catching Fire as an app on iTunes, normally I wouldn't condone stealing HOWEVER, in this case I may have to make an exception...

Happy reading, book review to come!