Recently on Plain Vanilla

Thursday, December 31, 2009

A Look Towards 2010!

My Dear Reader,

Here's a peek at what I've been up to recently:






That's roughly half of the screenplay I've written for a new web series called Drive Me Crazy. It's just a thing my friends and I are doing for fun, you know; no big deal. I saved the funny parts for later. See you in 2010!

Regards, best wishes, and silliness,

-Cecily Jane

Thursday, December 24, 2009

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

My Dear Reader,

Tomorrow is December 25th, which is traditionally overflowing with three of my favorite things: music, family, and Jesus. Yup.

So, I'd like to take this time to thank you for reading this year! We had some great times, didn't we? I think so.

Have a very merry Christmas, and I'll see you in 2010!

Regards, best wishes, and Jesus,

-Cecily Jane

P. S. Speaking of family, my cousins are awesome. They are also on national television.



(Courtney is singing lead, Katie is to her left with glasses. You can buy their stuff here.)


Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Meeting Celebrities

My Dear Reader,

Am I the only one who shies away from meeting famous people? Like, I prefer to avoid it, if possible?

I'm probably weird for being this way, but I think that celebrities, famous people, should just stay on the computer screen. Even if I really, really like them. Even if I'm a rabid fan and I've watched every episode twenty times. I'd just prefer it if there was still a piece of glass in-between us, if you don't mind.

There is this awesome community theater that I liked to go to when I used to live in Utah. The shows were, for amateurs, fantastic. At the end of every show, they have this tradition where all of the actors stand, in costume, by the door so they can talk to you as you leave. Most people love it. I, however, find it horribly, horribly awkward.

I don't really know why I feel this way. I guess part of it is the fact that I honestly believe that anything any famous person does while they're off-camera/stage is absolutely none of my business. Do I absolutely love Captain Kathryn Janeway? Yes. Do I need to know what Kate Mulgrew ate for breakfast? No. I mean, if she really wants to tell me, I'll listen. But, you know, that's her thing.

Part of it is probably that I want to protect the idea in my head of who they really are.

Another part is that I tend to be extremely awkward in those kind of situations. I always tell myself that they're human and that they occasionally throw up,* like the rest of us, but then I meet them and I'm like, "I saw them! They do exist!" I've been star struck by people in a student play, so I'm pretty sure I'd be hopeless in front of someone big. I'd just come off as some kind of idiot.

The only exception I made to this was when I met Orson Scott Card. I hadn't read any of his books at the time (I have since, and so should you), but I had this idea that he was a writer, and I wanted to be a writer, so maybe being in his presence for a short time would open up a psychic portal in which everything I would ever need to know about authorship would be transported directly into my brain. That didn't exactly happen, but it ended up being an okay experience. I wasn't a fan yet, so I didn't have a mental image to shatter, and I think I handled myself pretty well. I don't think it was the greatest experience of my life, but I respect the man.

So, you know, I'm a big fan of a lot of people. They don't need to meet me, though. I'm perfectly happy being a drop in the bucket of fans, faceless and indistinguishable. I don't need to write fan letters, or put my hand out for them to touch. Getting an autograph might be cool, but you know, not necessary. I guess I just prefer to meet people when I'm on an equal basis.

So, all I'm really trying to say is that I'm just waiting until I'm just as famous. Watch out, Kate!

(Just kidding.)

Regards, best wishes, and fandom,

-Cecily Jane

*I use this example because it's impossible to be intimidated by someone who is throwing up. Just imagine what you would do if you ran into Abraham Lincoln throwing up, for example:

Running into Abraham Lincoln normally: awe inspiring!

Running into Abe throwing up: ummmmm, can I get you a napkin, buddy? You've got just a little chunk right there on your beard . . . uh, yeah. I think I just heard my friends call me; I'll go see if they need me. Way over there. Yeah, see ya. Good luck with . . . that.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

What Would You Do with $1 Million?

My Dear Reader,

Sometimes, I just wish that I would open the website to my bank account one day and find that there was an extra million dollars sitting happily in my balance.

Just once. I don't think that's unreasonable, do you?

You never know. There could be some eccentric billionaire out there who, just to pass the time, works part-time as a bank teller. He could be an older man, grandpa age, and what frizzy white hair he has left could like to stick up around the crown of his head. He might also have a thing for sweater vests that his aunt used to knit for him.

Actually, I think he's starting to remind me of my college physics professor. The one who once told me that he was better at dating rocks than women. He was a really, really nice guy.

So this fictional billionaire, whose name could only be Cornelius Figgs, has this little quirky habit: when things at the bank are slow, he likes to pick a random twenty-four-year-old and stuff a million dollars in her bank account. Then he laughs to himself in a way that only a cute, eccentric old man can. And then he has to take a nap.

Why do I want a million dollars, you ask? Well, there are a thousand things I could do with it. The first thing I would do is buy a house and a car. They don't have to be too spiffy, just mine. Then, who knows what I'd do with the rest. I've said before that I'd probably give most of it away. This week, I was thinking that I might just open a bakery as well.

This decision was precipitated by the week I spent house sitting for my aunt and uncle, who now own a small coffee shop. While I was working for them, they let me get anything I wanted out of their shop for free. I could really get used to that, you know? Pastries, doughnuts, cupcakes, cookies, all baked by an expert who has recipes so good that when the State Department gets a taste, they decide to send some of my baked goods to Iran, causing a chain reaction that eventually leads to world peace.

Yup, I'm pretty sure that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad would love my hypothetical pastries.

Some days, I'd help in the kitchen, my face coated in flour in a way that makes me ten times as adorable. Other days, I'd be at the counter, receiving praise, adoration, and marriage proposals from people as they order. Sometimes, I'd just take a scone and some hot chocolate into the corner and write a story inspired by my patrons.

Yeah, I think I'd like that.

So, Gentle Reader, what would you do with one million dollars, should good old Cornelius decide to make a contribution to your bank account? Would you go into the movie business? Go to college forever? Buy a boat and sail all over the world?* Move next to the Jonas Brothers?** Bribe someone to leave politics?*** Type a bunch of sentences with asterisks?****

Please leave your fantasies in the comments section. And if you happen to see Cornelius, please point him in my direction.


Regards, best wishes, and a healthily wild imagination,

-Cecily Jane

*Jonathan, if you're reading this, sorry for stealing your fantasy. It's a really cool one.

**You know who you are. I, for one, wouldn't.

***If I had to choose, I'd pick Nancy Pelosi. She scares me. She's pretty rich, though, so I don't think a million would be enough!

****Oh wait, that's free. HA!

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Novel Excerpt: Joining Red Squad

My Dear Reader,


Sorry that this is a bit late. I had a hard time trying to find something to show you, but I ended up choosing this because it will give you a real taste of what this story is about. The main speaker in this excerpt is one Admiral Alexander Chapman. He, along with his brother, Professor Angus Chapman, is trying to resurrect a special cadet training group (Red Squad) that had previously been banned because of scandal. In this scene, Admiral Chapman is addressing a number of advanced students whom he has hand-picked to try out for the team.



“We stand here today in full view of the Golden Gate Bridge for a reason. This structure, as many of you are aware, is more than a way for people to get across the bay: it's a symbol of Starfleet's heritage. Starfleet, as an organization that has been around longer even than the mighty Federation of Planets, was built by our intellectual and cultural ancestors, and their ancestors built this bridge. A marvel of its time, it has withstood the test of time better than its designers dreamed. The Golden Gate Bridge, an icon of an age, was all but destroyed in our conflict with the Dominion. Slowly, it will have to be rebuilt, piece by piece, until it is restored to its former glory. Starfleet has a similar fate. Starfleet will also have to be rebuilt with young people like yourselves. You are each here because Professor Chapman and I have reviewed your Academy applications and believe that you could be an integral part of this rebirth. Together, we will form a team that will train the best the Academy has to offer so that they, in turn, will have the skills to serve in Starfleet to the best of their ability. This team, this agent of renewal, will be called 'Red Squad.'”



Red Squad? That was why she was there? A chill ran down Carlotta's spine at the thought. There was a lot to learn when you were waiting tables so close to Starfleet Headquarters—she had heard all the rumors, and she knew most of them were true. She had a sudden urge to just turn and run away, but she decided instead to stay and listen. The bridge that Admiral Chapman had talked about had belonged to her, in the way it belonged to everyone in the Bay. The admiral had talked about intellectual ancestors, but she was the direct descendant of some of the original workers. The blood that built that bridge was now in her veins, and it seemed to speak to her as if carrying the voices of the dead. Her ancestors had built this city, and some had even had a hand in building Starfleet. It was her inherited responsibility to keep their legacy in tact. So, even though her instincts told her to flee, she decided to stay. She would listen to this man, and if he told the truth, she would give him a chance.



“Now, I know what some of you are thinking. This idea is not new, nor is the name. In fact, I'm sure that most of you have heard the sad tales of what happened to Red Squad in the past. I assure you, though, that this will not happen again. Red Squad, in hindsight, wasn't a mistake, but it was dangerous. The idea behind it was to take the red cadets—the command-oriented students—and put them in a position where they would get more opportunities to lead. It worked on paper, and for a couple of years, it worked in the field. Once the war started, everything changed. Students from other concentrations were added with the rationale that they would compliment the command students, but this was twisted into the idea that they were a crew unto themselves. Red Squad went rogue—used by a radical for his own ends, the cadets stuffed with enough hubris to make them believe they could act alone. They were put on a ship, made a crew to fight the war on their own, and all but one died. Red Squad was created to breathe new life into the next generation of officers, to give the exceptional students the chance to excel. Instead, their lives were wasted in an ultimately meaningless pursuit. But we need that breath now more than ever. It's not just San Francisco that's being rebuilt—it's the Federation itself. It's the fleet. Each of you has a chance at becoming part of that process.”


The admiral stopped to take a drink of water and give his brother a glance before he continued.


“It's true that we're still going to call it 'Red Squad.' The name hasn't changed, but the meaning has. Those of you who wish to try out for this project will need to understand this new meaning before you apply. Red means much more than command, more than just the true color of this bridge . . . it has a deeper, more primal meaning. It means courage, passion, and for many species,” he nodded at Saraal* as if to admit that she was about to be an exception, “red also is a symbol for the blood of those lost. The cadets that died trying to fight the wrong war—they deserve redemption. All of those who died in the war do. So when you think about joining Red Squad, know that we will be a team stained with the blood of our betters, of those nobler and abler, and that our true mission is to do whatever we can to to honor the lives lost. Many of you knew one of those lives.”


He looked out over the crowd, and saw heads bowed reverently as he invoked memories of the dead, some out of respect, some out of agony. The noticed that the Esposito girl looked especially grim, almost pale.


“As you go through the application process, I want you to think of those who you've lost. I want you to think of what you need to be in order to truly honor them. That drive is what you will need to join Red Squad.”


The admiral finished his speech and sat down, with Professor Chapman seamlessly taking his place.


“Thank you, Admiral,” he nodded to his brother, “Now, for the practical portion of this meeting. In order to be a candidate for Red Squad, you must enroll in my Survival Skills class. You may be aware that this course is normally reserved for second-semester students, so you will need to have special permission in order to enroll. There are thirty spots in the class, given to the most worthy applicants. Out of those thirty, only nine will be chosen for Red Squad. There will be no changes in the number of students allowed in the class, or to the number allowed in Red Squad. In order to request a seat in my class, please fill out this PADD and turn it in to either Admiral Chapman or myself by the end of the day. Dismissed.”



Regards, best wishes, and honor!,


-Cecily Jane


*Saraal is Vulcan. Vulcans have green blood.


Tuesday, December 1, 2009

NaNoWriMo Redemption! Huzzah!

My Dear Reader,

The results are in: I won NaNoWriMo this year! For yay!

It wasn't easy; I slacked off for the first few weeks, so I did the last half of the challenge (25,000 words) in one week. That's what I call intense! So, I hope you will excuse me if this post is a little on the short side. My fingers are a little drained.

Those of you who have been following Plain Vanilla for a while know that this was my third attempt at the 50,000-word challenge. The first year, I nailed it, and I felt like I could do anything. The second year, I failed miserably, and I wondered if the first time I simply had something like beginner's luck. But after proving to myself that I can repeat my success, I've come up with some ideas as to how to win NaNoWriMo next year:
  • Pick a story that you can care about and characters you can fall in love with. If it's not fun, it gets a lot harder.
  • The more pre-writing you do before November 1st, the better. It's easier if you know what's you're going to write before you write it.
  • If your novel requires research, do the research well ahead of time. If you get stuck on the minor details, you can easily get side tracked from your word count.
  • Don't be afraid to just take an inspiration and run with it. If you get an idea for something that's ahead of where you are in the story chronologically, write it down while it's in your head and worry about piecing it together later.
  • If you're having problems writing from the beginning to the end, do snippets at a time. No one says it has to be a single, coherent story.
  • No matter how much planning you've done, allow yourself to explore as you write. One of the most rewarding parts of NaNoWriMo is when, in a frenzy of writing, you discover moreof your characters and story than you had previously imagined.
Well, that's all I've got for today; any more and my keyboard may charge me with abuse. Please excuse me as I bask in the glory of my accomplishment.

Regards, best wishes, and redemption,

-Cecily Jane

P. S. Excerpts of this year's novel are here, here, and here. There may be more to come on Friday!

Friday, November 27, 2009

Novel Excerpt: Carlotta's Speech on Equality

My Dear Reader,

Here is another chunk of what I've been writing for NaNoWriMo. You may have noticed that I write about Carlotta a lot, but let's just say that I can identify with her. And sometimes, she says things that I wish I could have said to a bully or two, back in the day. Enjoy!


Carlotta's Speech on Equality

By Cecily Jane


Carlotta tried to smile sweetly at Abigail, but the corners of her mouth twisted into a look of contempt. She couldn't help it. How long had she been trying to be patient to this girl? There were times you were supposed to turn the other cheek, and no one could deny that she'd been doing plenty of that, but there were also times when you had to go to the moneychangers and overturn a couple of tables. There were times when being meek was the wrong thing to do, and now was one of those times. Now was the time to act with boldness in order to stop something and make it right.


You know the feudal system is over and done with, right?”


Excuse me?” Abigail showed Carlotta a face writhing in disgust.


The feudal system, you know—knights, princesses, and serfs? We don't do that anymore. It went out of style, oh, about a few hundred years ago.”


You are an idiot. Why don't you just go back to your kitchen?”


"Funny thing: first of all,” Carlotta wagged a finger at Abigail, “it's my father's kitchen, and it's a noble family history that has preserved and enriched the history of our culture. Second, you may have heard of something called the American Revolution? And maybe, you've heard of the Constitution of the United States of America?” Her voice was ironic and playful, making a great distinction from Abigail's poisonous, vicious tone. “It was seven hundred years ago, but you may have missed it, seeing as you're just the daughter of an admiral. Maybe he couldn't send you to the right schools.”


Abigail's anger was boiling over, and she pounded the table when her rage seeped over the edge. Carlotta wondered if Abigail was being violent in an attempt to intimidate her, but even if it was, the admiral's daughter should have known that it wouldn't work.


"If you were smart enough, and if you had paid attention in school, you would have been able to figure out for yourself that for the better part of a millennium, the rest of us humans have been intelligent enough to understand that all human beings are created equal. Should I look that word up for you?”


Abigail responded with a cold, hard stare that tried desperately to mask the fiery emotions within.


"And because all of us are equal, things like occupations, place of birth, and trivial things like that don't matter. You know why? Because we're not a feudal community anymore. We don't need to have a small, wealthy minority stand on the backs of the weak and emaciated. We no longer have to push others down in an attempt to catapult ourselves upward. Instead, we have a society of equals, where we each have an equal opportunity to be judged based on the factors we can control. Not the things we were born with.” She leaned over until she was only a few centimeters from Abigail's nose. “And it seems to me that only a person who was afraid of being deficient would resort to an attempt at weeding out the competitors based on characteristics that have absolutely nothing to do with the prize. So, Princess, it doesn't matter that my dad is a chef and yours is an admiral. What matters is what we've made of ourselves since we came out of the birth canal, and from a purely objective standpoint, I have managed, through my own hard work, to get higher test scores than you have. That, my dear, is a fact.”


By this point, Abigail's face had turned bright red in a heated rage, and it looked like she should have had steam coming from her ears. Carlotta saw it plain as day, but she didn't let it shake her resolve. She aimed to be heard, and she wasn't going to let Abigail stop her from reaching her goal—not now, not ever.


"Now, maybe you're right about the whole kitchen thing after all. Maybe, because I grew up in an environment where I had to work hard, and where I didn't expect to just be handed things out of status, I was better suited to do my own work when I got here. But what's absolutely clear is that I am proud of who I am and where I came from, and I'm proud of who my friends are. You may feel threatened by my success, but you can't stop it. You won't intimidate me, you won't humiliate me, and if you continue to try to destroy me, you'll find that you've merely wasted valuable time and energy on a pursuit destined for failure. Instead, you'll realize that you could have taken at that time you threw away trying to tear me down and spent that time working hard to improve yourself enough to actually compete with me. And if you take too long to notice that, you may find yourself old and alone, without any skills outside of intimidation and manipulation, which you will then realize are useless. You will have made a life for yourself that will be empty and worthless, with the blame squarely on your shoulders. Then, people won't look to you with the worship you crave, but they will see you as a harbinger of destruction by ego, and take you as an example of how not to live. The only true tragedy will be in the fact that you will see this for yourself only after it is too late to change it, but the cold, hard facts of the matter are that sooner or later, the piper must be paid, Your Highness. So I would think a bit about your future payment options before you run up too much debt in the present.”


And with that, Carlotta shrugged, and left Abigail alone to think about what she had said.



Regards, best wishes, and 11,741 words to go,


-Cecily Jane

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Why-come Thanksgiving Is Awesome.

My Dear Reader,

I hate it when people refer to Thanksgiving as "Turkey Day."

Yes, there is turkey. Yes, there is also a parade, and football. No one is denying that. Thanksgiving, however, is so much more. In fact, I think it's one of the most overlooked holidays of the year, sometimes not even seen as a holiday as much as a hurdle on the way to the Christmas season.

Don't get me wrong--I love Christmas. What's not to love? Oh, yes: that whole holy war we have to get through every year. Arguments about whether or not Christianity is appropriate saturate the season (that's right: it's not a holiday in the crosshairs; it's a religion) and I really get tired of that. I think a lot of you out there, no matter which side you're on, can identify with that one way or another.

That's why I think Thanksgiving is so important to our culture. Right before the holiday that, despite its message (or, because of it), manages to divide people, we have a holiday all about unity. A holiday that reminds us that even though we're each different, we're all Americans. That's why we eat a meal consisting of foods entirely indigenous to the land we love. That's why we share that meal with people we love. Thanksgiving is there to remind us that before the problems that we have today, before The United States of America even existed, this piece of the Earth we live on has had a knack for getting people to get along. People who were different ideologically, ethnically, religiously, and etc. That's why the greatest nation on Earth was created on that land. That's why The Book of Mormon calls it the Promised Land. There's just something magical about it that creates peace where there should be none.

It's true that a lot of people in history have disrespected what Thanksgiving is all about. Our history is stained with their black marks, of men and women too selfish to see what they were doing to others, and to us. Still, out of that horror, there still came peace. A nation that is so diverse and yet gets along so well is supposed to be impossible, but Thanksgiving gives us a chance to sit around and wonder at the fact that this impossibility has come to pass. It gives us an opportunity to be thankful for all of the things that this land and nation has given us.

I think that if each of us really took that to heart, and celebrated the unity of Americans on Thanksgiving as we watch our football and eat our turkey, that act of reverence could put is in a position to appreciate Christmas properly. If we remember how much we love our diversity and individuality, knowing that it doesn't have to get in the way of our unity, we can make each day until Christmas just that much sweeter.

Just a thought. Because Thanksgiving is that awesome.

Regards, best wishes, and thanks for being here,

-Cecily Jane

BTW: 20,484 words! Only a few days behind on NaNoWriMo!

Friday, November 13, 2009

Novel Excerpt: Carlotta's Flashback

My Dear Reader,

The following is a snippet of what I've been working on for NaNoWriMo. (I'm writing a Star Trek-thing, in case you forgot. This story takes place in that universe.) It's a flashback that takes place about seven months before the main story. The main character's name is Carlotta Esposito, whose family runs an Italian restaurant called The Stradivarius, which has been in San Francisco since the 1950s. In this excerpt, her brother, Mike, has just left her in charge of the restaurant (against the rules) so he can get an engagement ring for Eva, his girlfriend who is with Carlotta in the restaurant. Earth is at war with the Breen, and she was carrying bags of flour into the kitchen when an announcement of an impending Breen attack threw her to the floor. Later, the story shifts to the point of view of Peter, Carlotta's friend who comes to rescue her. Feel free to ignore any Trek references you don't get. And please, please tell me if it just sounds silly.



Carlotta's Flashback
By Cecily Jane

Carlotta stayed on the ground after she fell, after the announcement had told her that there was an attack on Earth. The voice had said that the Breen were coming for Starfleet Headquarters, and if that was true, the entire restaurant could be flattened along with it. Where was Mike, now that she needed him most? How could he leave her in charge when the world was coming to an end? Crippled with fear and covered in the flour she had been carrying, Carlotta thanked God that her brothers and sisters were out of the city and pleaded with Him for the strength to do what only she could. Then, she forced herself to jump up and take command.

“Everybody, quiet!” Living in a large family had required Carlotta to learn how to be loud. The patrons and employees turned to look at her, a small teenaged girl standing on top of a counter, shouting orders at them.

“There is an emergency shelter underground, if everyone will follow me . . .” the crowd, scared for their lives and hungry for relief, started running at the back of the restaurant in chaos. Carlotta took a deep breath. “I'm the only one who can open it!” she boomed, her voice ringing against the pots and pans and stopping the stampede in its tracks. She got down and she led them to the shelter, giving each person she met as threatening a glance as she could muster. It was a look that had been forged by countless hours of babysitting, a face that told people to behave or else. She tried to hide her surprise when it worked on adults as well as it had on children.

She led them all to the door of the vault, quickly and with order, and put in the code to open the doors and let the others in. She would be the last. It was something she had always imagined doing but never thought would actually happen—opening the door to the bomb shelter her great-great Espositos had built back when the Earth was split into nation-states and every day was filled with fear. They had built it with their bare hands, and through the centuries, other Espositos had kept it stocked with food and supplies, just in case. This would be the first time since the Bell Riots that it would be used.

The crowd, about fifty in all, took no time getting inside. As they started pouring in, she remembered the protocol her father had taught her in a family meeting, when she was bored and complained about the uselessness of learning such procedures. With the door closed and everyone inside, she was now to check the restaurant and make sure that no one was left behind. As the only Esposito in The Stradivarius, it was her duty to make sure everyone was safe. The kitchen was empty, but when she went out to the front entrance, she found Eva sitting at a table, staring hopelessly out of the large windows.

“Eva, come on! We have to go now!” Carlotta grabbed her hand and pulled her up, noticing the tears that were in Eva's eyes.

“Mike, he's out there.” Eva's desperate words made Carlotta pause. He was out there. How far could he have gotten? Was he in a safe place? What would Mike do if he was in her position? She didn't have much time to think.

I know, Eva. But he'll come back. He knows the code to the door, he can get in even if we close it up behind us. We'll all be safe there, and there's enough food for us to survive on for years. We'll wait for him, and when he comes, we'll wait out the attack.” Carlotta took hold of Eva's hand a second time and pulled her away from the windows. Eva struggled to stay where she was.

No, Carly, we can't leave him behind. I won't!” Photon torpedoes might explode on them at any moment, and there they were, playing a desperate tug of war. Carlotta looked at the woman who was soon going to be her sister and already was in spirit, the woman who knew her well enough to have to privilege to call her by her favorite name. Carlotta had learned to love her like her own sisters after Eva and Mike started dating seriously—he had seen to that. She had to save Eva now; Mike would want her to. She would force Eva in the door, and go looking for Mike herself. She just had to get her in there.

It must have looked strange to a passerby—both women were thin, but Carlotta was small, and Eva was almost a foot taller. If it weren't for the hours she spent training for soccer, Carlotta probably wouldn't have had a chance, but as it was, she was making progress. Eva was wearing heels, and she was too frantic to focus on her freedom from Carlotta's grasp, but she had managed to dig her heel into a groove in the floor, and Carlotta was pulling on Eva's sweaty, slippery hand harder than she had ever pulled anything before.

They were almost to the hallway when the first volley of attacks came, shaking the earth harder than an earthquake and breaking the beams that supported the ceiling. Three seconds later, and Carlotta would have had the two of them safe in the hallway. Thirty seconds later, they would be safe inside the shelter. But when the first strike came, the crumbling beams started to collapse, one of them less than a meter from the two women. Out of the corner of her eye, Carlotta saw the beam coming at her, like a tumbling column from the Parthenon, and she put all of her strength into one last tug.

It wasn't enough. The momentum that Carlotta achieved in her last push to safety had gotten her out of the way, but the beam had crushed into Eva head on. Carlotta was thrown to the floor and hit her head, but she got right back up again, and turned to face the sight that would haunt her the rest of her life.

Eva was lying underneath a beam so heavy that countless bones had been crushed. Was this what Martirio Esposito had looked like after the car crash? Carlotta had never seen so much blood, didn't know there could be so much, and she felt her self shut down at the sight of it all. Eva's broken body, her legs and arms in an unnatural position, the life spilling from her . . . Carlotta heard a thump! in her brain, and she felt her knees become numb and buckle, taking her to the floor. Her strength was draining out of her faster than Eva's blood, and soon, she would be in oblivion. She was slumped on the ground, her eyes only centimeters away from Eva's, which looked at her as her lips formed the smile of the dead.

You have to find him, Carly. You have to bring him back,” Eva said with her last breath, her hand stroking Carlotta's soft hair before the darkness overcame the young Esposito.


Eva's dead body was the first thing Carlotta saw when she came to, and she screamed so hard she thought her throat was bleeding, but was filled so deeply with horror that she couldn't stop. Peter was there, burying her in his chest, stroking her hair as Eva had, when Carlotta heard her final words. Peter shielded her eyes and dusted off the debris, hoping the relief he felt at seeing her alive would be enough to soothe her fear.

She had looked dead when they got there, lying in a pool of blood next to Eva. Both women were still and pale, and Peter couldn't help weeping uncontrollably when he saw them. His father had run with him all the way, though the streets where shrapnel was flying from every direction. By the time they got the The Stradivarius, the attack was over, and the city was quiet and cold. It took the two of them to force the doors open, and to create a path through the destruction to where Carlotta and Eva were. Now, he was cradling his friend in his lap, and wailing like he never thought he could. Howling like an animal. His dad was standing over him, eyes full of sympathy, and he leaned down to close the eyes of the deceased Eva and comfort his son with a warm squeeze. Peter saw him, distorted by tears, as he gently picked up Carlotta's arm and started to examine her.

Peter wait, a pulse! She has a pulse!” He looked at his dad in disbelief, and feeling for himself that it was true, felt himself fill up with joy that dispelled the anguish. He wiped the tears away.

What? A pulse? But the blood . . .”

The blood is Eva's. Carlotta must have passed out. I'll try to get us some help.”

The medical team seemed to take forever, but they came. They found Peter still holding Carlotta as if she were a child, singing her a song she had sung to him whenever he was very sick. He tried to sing it as sweetly as she had, but there was too much emotion going through him for him to keep his voice steady. How many times had she picked him up when he had fallen? How many time had she hugged him when he was sad? Memories of finger paint and finding worms after the rain were filling him when she woke up, when she started wailing with the same force he had at first, except with a violence that only true suffering could bring. He pulled her closer. He'd teased her a thousand times about blood, but he knew that her fear was real. He'd never seen such agony on a face before. He would protect her from that, since he couldn't protect her from the Breen. Since he had already failed her once that day. He wasn't sure how long they had sat there, holding each other while his body muffled her screams, when the medical team pulled her away from him. She reached for his hand, and he didn't let go. He would follow her as long as she needed him.

“Mike! Mike, come back!” Somehow, Carlotta had escaped from the people who were trying to examine her and was tearing out into the street, calling for her brother. It shocked Peter, but he recovered quickly and went after her. She was standing in the street, surrounded by crumbling building and covered in blood, looking as lost as a women starved in the desert. Once again, Peter pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her, and for the second time he could remember, she was soaking his chest with hot tears.

“I saw, him. I saw Mike,” she said.

“Where?” Peter looked all around, but saw no one. “Are you sure you saw him?”

“He hates me for what I've done. I killed her. I killed my sister!” She had lost all her control, all of her strength, and Peter didn't know what else to do but stand there are give what strength he could to the sobbing girl who was, in all intents and purposes, his sister.


Regards, best wishes, and 15,201 words,

-Cecily Jane

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

You Say "Nano," I Say "WriMo!"

My Dear Reader,

I'm on to you.

I know what you've been thinking, as you refresh the main page of my blog over and over again, waiting for the next post to appear. This post. You've been up to it all day, haven't you? Yes, I know you have. Don't worry; I understand. I won't judge you.

But back to the thinking you've been doing, and how I know what it is. Yes. Well, it's obvious, isn't it? I mean, Halloween is over, and it's that time of the year again. I know it just as well as you do. And I know that you know that during this time of the year, something special happens. And you're waiting for it, aren't you? Wondering if it's going to happen, praying that it will, thinking to yourself, "When is Cecily going to start talking about NaNoWriMo? WHEN????"

I know you so well.

Okay, so maybe I'm being a bit overdramatic. Life is much more fun that way. But it's true, Gentle Reader: NaNoWriMo (or, National Novel Writing Month) has come upon us once again, Or at least, it's come upon me. I'd like for it to come upon you, but that's a personal choice.

As you may recall, this is the first year I've done it, tried to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. The first year, I nailed it. The second, I failed miserably. And then I tried a second time, and failed even more miserably. I think I got to 16,000 or something: pathetic. This year, however, I'm planning on making up for that. Serious. I even did pre-writing this time. That is historic.

So, what is my novel about, you ask? Okay, this is the part where I'm not so awesome. This part is the part where I turn into a total nerd: I'm writing a Star Trek fan fiction-thing.

"WHAT?" you say! "Didn't you have an entire rant against that, like, forever ago?" (Just try to pretend that you haven't read every single word I've written so many times that you've committed them all to memory. I know you have.)

Yes. YES. I'm so ashamed. Well, half of me is. The other half is like, "But the story is so dang awesome! I've been thinking it up for years. Years, I say!"

Okay, so here's the deal. I'll tell it to you straight: when I was a freshman in college, like three million years ago, I had the most ingenious idea for a Star Trek series EVER. I promise, this isn't just the Halloween candy talking. It's pretty cool. Remember, this was when Star Trek was still on the air, so it's not quite as pathetic and lame as you're thinking. I still know what you're thinking. Anyway, I went to two of my friends and together, we were going to write this thing. It was going to be a stand-alone series, set in the Star Trek universe, but with completely new characters and stuff. And we all took turns creating the characters and figuring out what the plot was going to be, but truth be told, it was my baby. I planned out a whole seven seasons. So when one of us got married (Not me; don't worry. I'm not hiding some secret husband somewhere.), and decided she couldn't do it anymore, the whole thing kind of fell apart. It happens. People move on. Well, except me. I'm not very good at that.

So since then, these characters have been floating around in my head, haunting me like ghosts who want vengeance, except instead they just want me to write their story. And I have been. Actually, a lot of the fiction I've posted here actually uses characters from my series that I've tweaked to make them work in another setting. Yup. I swear, they just won't leave me alone. So, I'm going to write their series, if only to satisfy them. You don't have to read it. I'll even put a synopsis here* so you don't have to read that.

So, that's my plan for NaNoWriMo. I'm actually 6,340 words in already. If all goes as planned, I'll surpass last year's word count by next week. So I'll keep you updated, as usual. And if you're doing it too, and you want to be my writing buddy on the official NaNoWriMo site, my name is theotherone. We'll keep tabs on each other, like people with substance abuse issues.

Here it goes!

Regards, best wishes, and I heard that,

-Cecily Jane

*Okay, so it's called Star Trek: Academy. It takes place right after Deep Space Nine, overlapping with Voyager. The idea is that after the Dominion War, the Federation has taken such a beating that they're in the process of rebuilding the fleet, starting with the new class of cadets. The series follows a special group of these cadets, from their first day through graduation and their first assignments. Yup, I'm a geek. And a nerd. And a dork. I'm a nerdgeekdork.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Quote: "Busy," Unquote

My Dear Reader,

Sorry about October.

I mean it. I feel awful about the whole thing. I'm the worst person ever.

I could say I was too busy, which would kind of be the truth. Of course, it would also be a lie.

The truth of the matter is that, except for moms, people are rarely too busy for the small things. Especially something they've done on a regular basis for over two years. I hate it when people tell me that they're too busy, when I can tell that what they mean is, "I could have done it, but I didn't value it enough to take the time, slash I forgot." So I won't do that to you, Gentle Reader. You deserve better than that.

You see, if I'm going to be truly honest about the whole thing, I should really say that I had a lot of stuff to take care of and that sucked up a lot of time that I normally reserve for blogging. Of course, it's not like I spent every second of my time as wisely as I could have, and I definitely could have taken the timeout of other things I did, but I was honestly so stressed out about work and other things that when I took personal time, I did other things that, for me, acted as a better stress reliever than writing.* And then I'd get home after midnight and say to myself, "Oh man, it was Tuesday today! How could I possibly forget that it was Tuesday?" And then I feel horribly stupid for forgetting what day it was, afterwards feeling guilty because you probably got on my blog and were disappointed that nothing was new. And then I feel like an egotistical jerk for thinking that anybody actually cared that much about my writing, but then I remind myself that there are lots of people who care about my writing, but I the person I really let down was myself, and that I'm even more stressed than I was before. So I do something that I do to relieve stress, such as bake cupcakes and/or watch TV online. Yes, at midnight. You have no idea the number of times someone has woken up at two in the morning to get a drink and found me baking in the kitchen. The looks they give are priceless, though.

Then I go to bed utterly confused.

Anyway, I hope that I have provided an explanation which was honest and entertaining enough to satisfy you, Gentle Reader. I'm still sorry. You didn't see it, but I literally just made a puppy dog face at my computer screen as I typed that last sentence to prove my sincerity. I'll be back next weeks, or maybe before that, even though next weeks is November, and I am once again participating in NaNoWriMo.

I promise.

Regards, best wishes, and successful time management,

-Cecily Jane

*Writing, for me, is only a stress reliever if I'm angry and I'm writing it out. I wasn't angry these past few weeks, just stressed and worried. Don't get me wrong; I love writing, but it's hard for me to be the way I am here when I'm worried about stuff.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

You Stayed Alive This Long? Have Some Cake!

My Dear Reader,

(Sorry for missing last week's and this Tuesday's post! I've been working on another big writing project, and it kind of got in the way. Hopefully, when I post it here, you'll understand. And the Batman-y post is coming; I'm having a hard time with acquiring some additional media.)

I count myself very fortunate that I am my Madre's daughter, especially on the day of the year that I ritually get older. Why? Because when I grew up, a woman's age wasn't something to be ashamed of; it was just a fact. When I was young and I asked Madre how old she was, she would tell me in a way that let me know that it wasn't a big deal. It sounds small, but it really had an impact on my view of aging and birthdays. In fact, just a few months ago, one of my friends was freaking out because she was about to turn twenty-four. One foot in the grave; I know. I told her that I've been waiting my whole life to turn twenty-four. It's my favorite number, and my birthday's on the twenty-fourth, so I've always been thoroughly convinced that it was going to be the best year of my life. But even when I turn twenty-five, I'm not going to sweat it. Age isn't a weakness, and birthdays aren't an admission of guilt: they both just are. And we might as well take advantage of it, right? I mean, it's only once a year that you have a day set aside just to celebrate you.

I think a lot about birthdays a lot now, because in addition to being a Sunday school teacher, I am my ward's (read: congregation's) official Birthday Card Girl. No joke; I have actually been assigned the responsibility of making cards for all of my fellow women on their birthdays. (This is not an uncommon practice in Mormondom.) Anyway, once when I was getting ready for church, I pulled out the greeting card drawer and found, to my horror, that I'd already used all of my birthday cards. All I had left were some cards that had Snoopy on the front that said "Thank You!" And then I had this epiphany:

As important as rituals are to the human psyche, we have one big "we're sorry you're dead" ceremony: the funeral. People only die once, so it seems appropriate. But people get older every single second of their lives, and if you consider the entire course of human history, getting older is kind of an accomplishment. I mean, historically speaking, the fact that you, Gentle Reader, made it past age five* means that you're lucky and/or remarkably resilient. And that should be something to be proud of. Besides, every day is a blessing, and every day, you are a blessing to others. So, maybe we shouldn't think about birthdays as a "Hey, you're older!" ceremony as much as a "Wow! You survived this long?" or "We are so happy you're still with us!" ceremony. I mean, I am so glad that you didn't die of dysentery. Truly.

So I took those cards, and wrote on the front so that it looked like this:

THANK YOU!
for being alive!

People really got a kick out of that one.

Now that I've had this change of perspective, I find that every time I wish someone a happy birthday, what I really mean is, "I am so glad that you are in my life. You stayed alive this long? Have some cake!"

And you know what? You should go have some cake right now, even if it's not your birthday. After all, you survived today; you earned it.

Regards, best wishes, and many happy returns,

-Cecily Jane

*Sorry if you're not five yet, Gentle Reader. You can make it!

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Who's Your Facebook Narrator?

My Dear Reader,

I have determined that it is time for something frivilous. Facebook counts.

I probably got on Facebook before you did. Serious. I first heard about it back when mostly Ivy League people were on it (2005?). In fact, the only reason I really joined was that my Ivy League friend contacted me and asked me to create a profile. Back then, it showed all of the friends you had and what college they were from. I guess BYU was the last space she needed on Facebook College Friend Bingo. I made a profile and forgot about it, until a year later when it exploded. It's been interesting to see Facebook progress since then, especially in regards to the status updates.

You might have been there by the time the statuses started. Originally, there was a drop-down box that had about five options, kind of like this (I don't remember the exact wording):

Tell your friends what you're up to!
  • At work
  • Studying
  • At home
  • Away
  • Sleeping
  • Custom . . .

You clicked one of the options, and it would pop out a status with your option and "[Your name] is" as a prefix, like "Cecily is studying," or whatnot. It was a small thing on the sidebar, and who would have guessed that it would eventually outshine every other feature Facebook had. Soon, everybody was choosing the custom option, writing things that fit the "[Your name] is" prefix. It was fun and different, and it became everything that Facebook was about. And then a rival website, Twitter, popped up that had just the statuses, it was so big. But it's easy to understand, at least to me. The reason is simple:

Facebook statuses make me feel like some omniscient being is narrating my life.

I mean, if you think about it, Facebook statuses are, by default, in third person. The "is" is now optional, but you still have to start out with your name, which equals third person. So, in a way, it's like you're writing your own narration to your life. I think that's pretty cool. I'm a documentary on penguins or and eighteenth-century romance novel. And that's how I imagine it as I read them to myself. Well, as you know, narration is really only as good as the narrator. I mean, would you listen to anything narrated by Gilbert Gottfried? So I thought long and hard about who I would like to "hire" as my narrator, and I came up with . . .

George Takei.

Yup, Sulu from Star Trek. He has one of the best voices I've ever heard.

And that got me to thinking: who would you like as your Facebook narrator, Gentle Reader? Tell me, and maybe we can put together a quiz that you can annoy your friends with, courtesy of Plain Vanilla. But seriously, I want to know, so tell me in the comments. And I might actually do a quiz, so there. Trust me, the world needs to know who your narrator is!

Okay, I think that's enough frivolity for now. Come back next week for something serious and involving Batman. Honest.

Regards, best wishes, and awesome narration,

-Cecily Jane

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Is Exceptionalism so Exceptional?

My Dear Reader,

I started reading Charles Dickens' novel Little Dorrit after I watched the fantastic adaptation that BBC produced earlier this year. The book, of course, is even better. As I was reading, I came across this quote in chapter 25 (page 322 in the Penguin edition):

"[T]hey had a notion that it was a sort of Divine visitation upon a foreigner that he was not an Englishman, and that all kinds of calamities happened to his country because it did things that England did not, and did not do things that England did."*

Oh, I thought, so these guys are ugly Americans.

You know the stereotype: a fat, pig-like man in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and a fanny pack. At the Acropolis. He has a loud, whiny voice in which he tells his hoggish wife and their piglet children how quaint Greece is, how nice of a picture it will make, and how disappointing it is that the Greeks neglected to make their ancient inscriptions in English. They should have known better. These people are noisy and rude, but the poor native executives put up with them because of their large tips. Meanwhile, farrows upon farrows of piglets in the Homeland are sitting in classes learning that America is the best, that the United States is inherently superior in all respects to all of the afflicted countries in the world. Sounds a lot like Dickens, doesn't it? So the piggish masses aren't strictly American! HA!

Of course, at the time Dickens wrote Little Dorrit, his Britain was a lot like our America, meaning that it was the most powerful country on Earth, and if Dickens' description is correct, they were very much aware of the fact. They thought themselves exceptional, just like those piglet American students. I mean, we definitely see ourselves as exceptional, don't we?
Our founders risked their lives for true principles, which were used to create a system of governance that unleashed true, everlasting freedom on its citizens. That's pretty exceptional, I think. Our way of life, our laws--they're different from everybody else, and we like it the way it is. And maybe, just maybe, other countries would be better off if they had our Constitution, wouldn't they? Well, if Dickens is right, then we're not alone, and though there are a lot of differences between 1800s Britain and our 2000s America, exceptionalism is one thing we definitely have in common. Maybe we didn't invent it, after all.

But exceptionalism is bad, isn't it? It's arrogant, right? Americans get called names because of our exceptionalism on a daily basis, from within as much as without. Those Dickensonian pigs are a prime example of how nasty American-style exceptionalism can be. How dare they think that they're better than everybody else! If they were Educated, and if they knew the Truth about the World and How It Really Is, they wouldn't dare act that way. Pigs.

When I started my first semester of college, I met with a lot of exceptionalism, but it wasn't necessarily the American kind. It was the Virginian kind, and the Nevadan kind, and the Washingtonian kind. I, of course, had brought with me the Californian flavor. Of the forty-four girls on my dorm floor, forty-four of them were quite certain that the states they came from was the best in the Union.** And I liked that. I think it's a good thing to think that your home is a good place, and perhaps, the best place. I mean, we all have our list of complaints, but at the end of the day, we like being where we are, because where we are is exceptional. Right?

Well, I'm tired of being looked down upon because I think that the United States of America is exceptional. Or because I like living here. Sure, I would appreciate it if my fellow Americans would try a little harder to represent the best of their nation when they go abroad, but we all know that we aren't really pig people, we just act like it on a few select occasions. And it's not like every other country in the world doesn't have something to be proud of, or doesn't have any people who occasionally act like pigs. My guess is that the main reason that most countries have a problem with American exceptionalism is that every country sees themselves as exceptional. Because if they didn't, they probably wouldn't mind us and our cultural invasion so much. It's like they're saying, "We take offense to you telling us that you like it your way because we like it our way." And they have the right to feel exceptional, because they are. I'm just sick of being considered part of the unwashed, barbaric, piggy masses because I like my home. Only an arrogant, piggish person would hate me for that, don't you think?

I, for one, think the pigs are just standing on two legs.

Regards, best wishes, and (respectful) home pride,

-Cecily Jane

*To be fair, the actual context of this quote makes the 1800s British sound a lot, lot worse, and I did cherry-pick the quote that best-suited my purpose. But I think it's also fair to say that the entire description that Dickens gives is a sarcastic exaggeration, and that the quote is chose was probably the least exaggerated of the lot.

**Yes, that bad grammar were was intended.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

I Am a Peasant

My Dear Reader,

Has anyone ever asked you what you would do with a million dollars? Or if you won the lottery? Mormons don't gamble, so I'm never playing those numbers, but I've wondered what I'd do if I, by chance, came upon more money than I could count. My brother Youngest once told me that if he had a million dollars, he'd buy me a roller coaster.

I think I'd give most of my million away.

You see, I grew up somewhat poor. Padre was working something like a ten-dollar-an-hour job while we had five kids in the house under the age of eight. Later, there were six of us under the age of thirteen. I remember the first time I ever got new clothes (i.e. not HermanaMayor's hand-me-downs): I was in junior high. I know what it's like to ask your parents for something small and getting a "no" because it will break the bank. After a while, you just stop asking, and you realize you really will survive without it. I learned a lot during those years.

My brothers, on the other hand, had an entirely different experience. By the time it was their turn to be teens, my parents were in a much better situation. And as my sisters and I left for college, the family burden got even lighter.* Youngest probably doesn't remember a time before we got cable, but I was a sophomore in high school at the time. I spent fifteen years with bunny ears made of wire hangers and aluminum just for the local channels. I even remember the first time we got a remote. My brothers are used to getting iPods and DVRs. They get clothes off of the rack. They put the big gifts on their Christmas lists. I got all of that stuff after I was already used to living with less.

I just never got into that lifestyle. Don't get me wrong; I don't think there's anything wrong with spending the money that you have, I just am not into the extravagant. I like to buy media, like CDs, DVDs, and the stuff with which to play them, but that's pretty much it. I don't care much about clothes, cars, or make-up. I like things that are simple. I don't like cluttering my life with things that are high on cost but low on purpose. In other words, I'm a peasant at heart. I'm not better than anybody else, I just have a different style than you see in the movies. The less stuff you have, the more room you have to be creative.

My brothers ended up getting that peasant lifestyle after Padre got let go two years back. My parents are still really good at saving money, and they decided to sell the house, move into an apartment, and stretch Padre's severance package as far as they could until he found another job. My brothers were a lot different after that. Now, TwinOne's favorite store is Goodwill. Madre always says that happiness comes from lowering your expectations, and they definitely started expecting less after that. I wonder what it's going to be like as TwinOne and ZweiteZweitung enter the life of a starving college student. You know, when they're so poor that even pickles are a luxury. I'm sure they'll do fine; they've got their peasant training down.

As for me, I hope to be in a situation where I never have to worry about affording anything. I wish everyone could have that, in fact. I just don't see myself buying fancy cars or mansions, even if my book gets sold and becomes an incredibly successful international phenomenon/movie franchise. Yeah, I'd stay a peasant. It's a good way to live.

But I think I'm going to hold Youngest to the roller coaster.

Regards, best wishes, and provident living,

-Cecily Jane

*Padre is not the type to just pay his kids' way through college. In our family, you earn your way. I knew kids whose parents gave them everything, and even though they had a lot more time to study, I think they missed out on some character-building life experiences. I didn't meet many spoiled brats, though. Most people I know with money are really good people.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

This Is Mostly a Joke

My Dear Reader,

The other day, I was having a conversation with my friends that went something like this:

Cecily: You know, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to get shot.

Friends 1 & 2: WHAT?

Cecily: You know, with a bullet-proof vest on.

Friend 1: You mean bullet-resistant vest.

Cecily: Okay, sure.

Friend 2: Why on Earth would you ever want to be shot? With a gun? You hate guns!

Cecily: Well, I'm thinking of having one of my characters get shot in something I'm writing, and I want to be able to fully describe the experience.

Friend 1: Oh, so you're insane.

Cecily: No, just incredibly curious.

Friend 2: I knew a guy who got shot. He was a police officer. He said it was like someone hitting you with a baseball bat as hard as they can.

Cecily: Well, I'd like to see for myself. I just need to find someone with a bullet-proof vest and someone else who's willing to shoot me.

Friend 1: Bullet-resistant.

Cecily: Whatever.


Yes, I am aware that this sounds crazy.

Have you ever watched a movie and said to yourself, "I wonder what it's like to fall off a skyscraper," or something? I think that all the time. I've also wondered what it felt like to pass out or bleed excessively. I wonder what it's like to feel a hot piece of metal hit you with excessive force, and what the bruises feel like after. I know it sounds certifiable, but trust me, I'm really, really not into hurting myself. I'm a depressive, but even I have my limits. I knew people in high school who were, and I had a really hard time wrapping my head around that one.* Pain and I are not fans of each other, and I abhor violence. And just so you don't call that hotline, I also wonder what it would be like to do positive things, like flying, walking on the Moon, or winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I envision winning lots of prizes, actually. I'm an imaginative person, and I hope to have a long life full of rich experiences. I would prefer the Academy-Award-Winning-Biopic-type, but I'll take whatever comes my way and try to savor it as it comes.

I don't think it's unusual to have a desire to go through something crazy so you can tell a story about it later. Some people want them so bad that they make them up. Of course, it's stupid to want bad things to happen to you, and there are probably a lot of people out there who look back on their lives and wish that their life had been a little more provincial. Ooh, maybe I should write a story about that. I can write about boring.

By the way, I'm probably never going to be shot, on purpose or otherwise. Especially since Madre reads this, and she's probably planning to lock me in my room right now. And I keep myself out of dangerous situations. And no one in their right mind would ever help me take that risk. And I would never be brave enough to actually go through with it. And I still really, really hate guns.

Sometimes being a coward/having a brain can work towards your advantage.

Regards, best wishes, and I promise I'm not actually going to do it,

-Cecily Jane

*I knew a lot of really messed up kids in high school. Don't worry; they all got help, as people who wish themselves harm should. Somehow, all of us managed to survive into adulthood.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Song: The One Who's Mine

My Dear Reader,

[Note: I know I promised something today, and even though what I planned isn't done yet, I figured I'd still deliver what I could. I've got the words now, and I'll try to get you the music either tomorrow or Monday.]

I got the idea for this while I was listening to the Beatles' "I Will." Since I'm not very good at writing music, sometimes I try to write lyrics to the melody of a song, and then change the melody. It's weird, but it's the only way I can do it sometimes. Because I'm weird. It's funny because I follow some real songwriters on Twitter, and they all say that music is the easy part, but not for a word worm* like me.

My band is called Cecily and The Think System. It's a reference from The Music Man that means I don't actually have a band, it's just me and some synthesized instruments. I'm so clever.

I'd like to dedicate this to all the single people out there, especially the ones who feel old and have people continually trying to "cure" them of their singleness. We know who we are.

[This is where the song will be once I'm done with it.]


“The One Who's Mine”

She stands there in the airport
Wears a hat, a suit, and tie
And she doesn't know his name yet
Still, she's holding up a sign

She stands there at arrivals
Those that pass must wonder why
'Cause she doesn't know his face, so
Her sign reads, “The One Who's Mine."

[Chorus]
I wish that I could help her
She been there so long
And the sign looks heavy, and
Who knows what she's in for
But she stays there strong
Holds that sign all along
Determined she will find
“The One Who's Mine"

She stands there in the evening
And she dreams of him, but then
She wakes up to find that she is
Standing while she lies in bed

She fills her life with meaning
Saw her friends all find their men
Still, the thought of what he'll be like
Is there dancing in her head

[Chorus]
We wish that we could help her
She been there so long
And the sign looks heavy, and
Who knows what she's in for
But she stays there strong
Holds that sign all along
Determined she will find
“The One Who's Mine”

Some days she must be lonely
Though her life is ice and lime
And most times she seems so happy
But her heart is still in line

And soon her love will find her
He's been waiting all this time
And she'll see he's holding something
A sign that reads “The One Who's Mine.”

[Bridge]
And just then he ran
Down the escalator
Said, “Excuse me ma'am
But that's who I am
I know I seem late, but it took long to get here"
And he looked in her eyes
And she said with surprise
“Yes, it's true, here you are
The One Who's Mine”

And we never had to help her
She was there so long
And the sign got heavy, but
She got what she asked for
And she holds his hand
Together they stand
So happy they could find
“The One Who's Mine”


Regards, best wishes, and I've got more where this came from,

-Cecily Jane

*Yes, I did just put myself in a Cranium category. I kill at that game.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Welcome to Sunday School; Cecily Will Be Your Teacher for the Day

My Dear Reader,

Teaching isn't something I've ever really had to do in a formal setting before. I mean, unless you count class presentations, which, for me, can have a tendency to go horribly wrong. Or if you count being a big sister as teaching experience, and with four younger siblings, I can say I've done plenty of that. But the first time I actually had to prepare a lesson and actually teach a class was when I was called to be a Sunday school teacher for the gospel principles class in my branch. It has been quite an experience.

I thought at first, that it would be cake. As the daughter of an "actress" (she was never professional, just community stuff), I've been on stage ever since I've been in diapers (community stuff as well). I sometimes feel more at home in front of an audience than I do talking with just one person. So that was definitely in my favor. Besides, I've been going to Sunday school for over twenty years, and I know the material cold. So, no worries, right? I was looking forward to a really fun experience.

The first couple of times I taught were awesome. I was well-prepared and everything went smoothly. After that, it was harder, and I think it was because I let the first two times go to my head. I tend to do that. For me, if it's not a challenge, I completely lose interest, and then I don't work hard enough to keep up. And that pretty much explains every poor grade on my college transcript. I literally did better on harder classes than the easy ones. It's one of those really, really lame character flaws I'm still trying to work on.

Another thing that made it harder was the nature of the class itself. It's gospel essentials, so it's designed to teach basic principles to new churchgoers. A starter class, if you will. That means that my students generally were more shy and reluctant to speak up than the students in normal classes. It also means that there are fewer students, and that the number changes from week to week. Sometimes there twenty, and sometimes are only three of us. It's hard to be able to plan for that. Also, the material itself is very basic, and there's not a lot of it per lesson. It's easy to get trough everything and have time to spare of you don't elaborate and try to dig deeper, and if your students don't want to raise their hands, it's hard to do that.

The result of all of this is that I feel like I'm teaching a really boring class. I actually had some one fall asleep a couple weeks ago, though I think there were extenuating circumstances on that one. I feel like I stand up there, and just go through material that could be interesting, but to my students, it's boring as a blank piece of paper. I just don't know how to inspire them, I guess.

So, I'm not sure where to go from this point. I try so hard to bring the Spirit into our discussions, but it's nearly impossible to do that when your students seem uninterested in whatever you say. I could bring baked goods or something like that, but wouldn't that take away from what I'm trying to teach? I wish I knew exactly what I was doing wrong so I could fix it. It's just so frustrating, mostly because I was supposed to be so good at this! I'm going to do some praying this week, and a little more self-analyzing than usual. If you have any suggestions, feel free to leave them in the comments.

I suppose what I've learned through this experience so far is to respect my teachers for what they do. I hope I'm the kind of student they need me to be. Hopefully, this will all work out some way or the other.

Regards, best wishes, and stay tuned this Friday for something special,

-Cecily Jane

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

How to Fix America

[Note: Cecily probably has no idea what she is talking about, but she does have a college degree. In English.]

My Dear Reader,

You may be aware that Congress is now debating bill that will "reform" healthcare, or in other words, change every aspect of our healthcare system forever. Every aspect forever.

Of course, you may have a different opinion on universal healthcare than I do. You may think that government-run healthcare is a great idea. But you can't possibly disagree with me about this particular bill that it now in congress, because you don't know what's in it. No one knows what's in it.

No one.

No one has read this bill. No one, not even Barack Obama, the guy who is behind the bill in the first place. He publicly admitted it. That's because it's longer than an unabridged copy of Les Misérables. We are using a piece of legislation to fundamentally change the structure of this country, and we don't even know what that legislation is.

Does that seem right to you?

Think about it this way:

*

When I was in elementary school, and when I was taught about the structure of the government, I had this crazy idea that we (the people) elected representatives and sent them to Washington. Representatives, as in people who represent our interests and try to get things done the way we want them to get done. How naive! The more I pay attention to politics, the more I realize that politicians aren't really representatives as much as they are your less-than-average English major.

You see, if Les Misérables is assigned reading in a college English class, a majority of the class will read it, while the rest will just use Wikipedia and Sparknotes to get by. It is possible to get a degree in English without reading a single book, if you do it right. (And don't care about grades.) I mean, some people can manage to write a ten-page research paper on books they've never even glanced at. This is exactly what President Obama did when he had a press conference on a bill he hadn't read. He did the English major equivalent of being an annoying, unabashed slacker. Like that slacker, he thinks he can fool you into thinking he knows what he's talking about.

Of course, most of our legislative representatives aren't any better.

Do you know what English teachers do to get their students to actually read Les Misérables? They went through the system; they know that people are trying to pull fast ones on them. Do you know what they do to stop Obama-style slackers? They use a tactic that is the bane of slackers and the mild annoyance of good students: the reading check quiz. They give you a quiz on Les Misérables that covers what websites don't. The more aggressive the teacher is about reading check quizzes, the higher the percentage of students who do the reading. These are the teachers that the slackers avoid, and these are the teachers that we (the people) need to be like.

Imagine a United States where the constitution has a 28th amendment. This amendment, put into law by an outcry of those who were sick and tired of Obama-style slackers, states that before a House representative or senator can vote on a bill, that politician has to first pass a detailed reading check quiz on that bill. Then, the politician has to sign a legally binding document saying he/she had read the bill in its entirety and understands completely what the bill is. If we find out that the politician actually hasn't read the bill, we then have the opportunity to replace them with someone who will.

Or maybe that 28th amendment says that there are two kinds of congressional sessions. The first session is when congress presents and debates the bill, and the second is devoted only to voting on bills. Between these two sessions, there is a mandatory recess, where each representative is required to return to his/her district and have a series of town hall meetings where he/she is then must explain what the heck is going on in Washington. You go debate, then you explain to the people, and then you vote. It may just be crazy enough to get our representatives to actually represent us!

Our political representatives should be the best students out there, not the slacker who sits in the back and makes you pull all the weight on group assignments. I think that no matter what side of the aisle we're on, we can all agree that you're not really acting effectively unless you really understand what exactly you're doing, just like you don't know what happens in Les Misérables unless you read it.

Just think about the other bills like this that have been rushed through without anyone taking a second glance. You know, like the Patriot Act? Or TARP? Do we really want to add to the list?

We have the unique opportunity to give our representatives a reading check quiz on this healthcare bill, because it looks like there actually will be a recess before they go back to vote on it. So we can go to these town hall meetings and makes sure they know what the heck is going on. We have the unique opportunity to go to our politicians and give them a college-style, no-nonsense reading check quiz on this bill. I highly encourage you to do just that.

You know, it's either that or create a musical version.

Regards, best wishes, and representation,

-Cecily Jane

P.S. You know, despite what you say about Sarah Palin, I betcha she could pass those reading check quizzes every time. And yes, she reads. If you don't believe me, click here and fast forward to 3:26.

*Yeah, I know Glenn Beck has a reputation for being less than sane. But if you don't look at him as an average political commentator, and instead look at him as a Mormon (which he is, by the way), then you start to recognize his MO: object lessons**. Watching his show is like a big-budgeted, politically-charged version of my entire Young Women's experience. On acid.

**Object lessons are a way of teaching where you have a specific object which you use as a metaphor for the concept you are trying to teach. You know, like when they're talking about time management, and they bring in a jar with sand and big rocks, and the sand represents unimportant tasks, and the big rocks represent big ones? If you put the sand in the jar first, you can't fit in the rocks, but if you put the rocks in first, everything fits. This paragraph can also be used as a coupon to get out of time management classes. And yes, I did just explain my explanation. So there.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Calm Down, Okay? It's Only the End of the World.

My Dear Reader,

The world just seems to be going crazy lately.

2009, so far, has been extremely disappointing.

People just seem to be dying left and right, don't they? Oh, and I don't know how this happened, but Obama has turned out to be even worse than I thought he would be. I feel so foolish now for thinking that an Obama presidency would, at least, better foreign relations. In a positive light, disappointing me means that Obama (with due credit given to Biden) has actually achieved the impossible.

Amazing.

Did I mention that North Korea is launching missiles at us?

We're in a recession caused by people who bought houses that they couldn't afford, and in response, the government has attempted to fix it by spending money that they [read: we] don't have. Let's chew on that for a second.

Oh, yeah, and now the government will help you buy houses and cars that you (still) can't afford. You can't forget that. And soon, you're going to have to buy health care for your neighbors, so just get ready. I swear, they must think that being a first-world country is way, way overrated.

Besides, being third-world is so much greener!*

Oh, and to top it all off, a certain blogger with a strange real name has been displaying incendiary, brutal honesty. The nerve.

Wait, wait, wait! Get off of that ledge, Gentle Reader! I was just about to get positive, I promise. It's okay; calm down and take one step at a time. There you go, good job. Gosh, you almost gave me a heart attack! What would I do without you, mutter to myself even more than usual? I already freak out the kids at the grocery store. With you around, I can at least pass off as eccentric, which, of course, is important because eccentric people don't get put in straight jackets.**

Anyway.

What I was going to say, before you had your little, uh, excursion, was that despite all of the craziness in the world, and while I've recently been wallowing in a lot of negativity because of how purely awful 2009 has been to me personally (and trust me, even the people who live with me don't know the half of it), I've managed to find a couple of things to be happy about. I will now list them in no particular order:
  • 2009 is already half over! Besides, next year is 2010, an election year. We will soon have the power to kick out all of the wackos that decided to turn the housing bubble into America's new lifestyle choice. I think it's time for them to know what it's like to be in the unemployment line, don't you?
  • You can now learn all about Ninjormans. (Mormon ninjas. SO much better than regular ninjas.)
  • Brooke White just released a new, awesome CD. She is still, like, the coolest person ever.
  • Sure, China might put men on the moon in 2020, but I'm positive that if we all collectively poke Obama with a stick (gently but repeatedly), we could get him to send men to Mars before then. Preferably the Mars landing will be timed so that it occurs about fifteen minutes prior to the Chinese landing, at which point, we Americans can turn to them and say, "Oh yeah, and how many times did you say you hosted the Olympics?" Neener neener neener.
  • There is a chance that the most powerful leaders of the world will unite against Obama's health care bill, since the socialization of our health care system would mean that they personally would actually have to get treated in their own countries. Trust me, they shudder at the thought. I had a long talk with Sarkozy about it just yesterday.
  • Harry Potter 6 was, without a doubt, the best movie of the series. I mean, they even had teenage romantic drama in there and still managed to blow me away. There is still hope in American cinema! Change! [Insert mindless chant here.]
  • Twilight fan or not, you can still enjoy this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z22mgGzorDk (The screaming crowd, not the other thing.)
  • I have a Twitter account now (thececilyjane), so now you can get offended by my incendiary, brutal honesty every day! I know! Today I talked about getting stuck in traffic, so who knows how wild it's going to get next.

You see, Gentle Reader? Sure, the whole world is going crazy, but if you mix one part optimism with five parts bemused sarcasm, you get an anti-depression potion so strong that even the destruction of modern civilization gets bearable. Even Snape would be proud hold back his usual sneer! After all, a good sense of humor is often our best line of defense.

Oh, and on a closing note, I hope that if you happen to be a parent, Gentle Reader, that you will raise your children to completely ignore politics. It turns out that ignorance really is bliss on that one.

Regards, best wishes, and padded cell-free sanity,

-Cecily Jane

*And BTW, I pretty much want to vomit every time I hear the word "green" now, so I apologize if I inflicted nausea on you. Overexposure. And yes, I see that it's poetic that "green" turns me green. How do they always win?

**And now that you know that staying out of a straight jacket is my number one life goal, I bet a lot of the stuff I say suddenly makes a lot of sense. You're welcome.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Forgiving, Forgetting, Consequences, and Learning from Pain

My Dear Reader,

When I was in high school physics (which, BTW, has saved the world)*, I learned something that I have, at last, found useful: that horizontal motion is separate from vertical motion.

Yes.

Let me explain it to you this way: if you have two ping pong balls, and Ball 1 is dropped straight down while Ball 2 is hurled to to the side as it falls, the two balls will fall at the same rate, landing at the same time. If you don't believe/understand my very poor explanation, please enjoy this animated gif. That's because the forces pulling the balls down are independent of the forces that are pushing Ball 2 to the side--the two forces don't really affect the other, even though it might seem like they do. I would like to venture that this principle can be used as a metaphor for forgiveness and consequences, or in other words, I would like to propose that forgiveness and some consequences are just as independent as horizontal and vertical motion.

It's true that a lot of the time, forgiveness means forbearing certain consequences. For example, forgiving a debt means that you don't make the debtor suffer the consequences of his/her debt. Duh. Those aren't the kind of consequences I'm discussing here. What I mean is this: if on Monday you forgive Sally of a debt of $200, do you honor her request for a $300 loan on Wednesday? If you don't loan the money to her, does that mean that you haven't truly forgiven Sally?

Trust me when I tell you that I have heard about forgiving "seventy times seven" about 490 times. I promise that I understand the concept. But if a child is bullied, and the child forgives her bully, does complete forgiveness mean acting like the bullying never happened? I say no, because I know from personal (and recent) experience that ignoring bullying only leads to more bullying. And ignoring bullying for too long often has the strangest effect of making people side with the bully. Weird, right?

Whatever.

Anyway, I think that you don't have to give Sally the $300 in order to forgive her. The ball will still fall just as quickly, whether it's pushed to the side or not. I think that while you did forgive Sally of her/your $200, completely forgetting that Sally apparently has a loan repayment problem isn't going to help anybody. What if you end up having to forgive Sally of the $300, and then she comes and asks you for $400, and so on? Seventy times seven can get expensive, not to mention that this "forgiveness" can also be described as "enabling." I think it's true that destructive behavior should be forgiven. I also believe that destructive behavior should be stopped. And I think you can do both at the same time, because forgiving someone is independent from that kind of accountability. A woman can forgive the man that murdered her husband and still let the murderer go to prison. Not sending the murderer to prison is irresponsible and wrong.

I find it extremely annoying when someone is behaving inappropriately, and when I tell someone about it, I get a whole lecture on how I'm not being forgiving enough. People who know what's right have a responsibility to stop wrongdoing when they see it, and "forgiving and forgetting," in my experience, can do little to solve problems. It's true that Christ asked us to forgive. It's also true that evil triumphs when the good do nothing. These aren't mutually exclusive. I suppose what I'm getting at is that you can offer someone forgiveness without offering them trust. They are two completely separate animals.

Forgiveness is a gift that you can never earn. If you think you deserve forgiveness, then you don't understand what forgiveness is: a divine consequence of pure love. A purging of negative emotions. A shedding of pride and selfishness. Forgiveness is about feelings. Forgiveness is about staying free from revenge, grudges, and hard-heartedness, and not letting pain taint you.

Trust, on the other hand, must be earned. This is because trust gives special privileges that can easily be misused. Violated trust must be re-earned, often at a higher price. To a person who truly forgives, trust is freely and happily given when re-earned and can be re-earned an infinite amount of times. The lack of trust does not denote the presence of hate or an absence of love, but is a natural consequence of negative and destructive patterns of behavior. Trust is about prudence and good judgement. Trust has nothing to do with feelings, though it may be accompanied by them.

If a wolf comes and kills your sheep, do you forgive the wolf and forget that your sheep is dead? No! You forgive the wolf, AND you build a fence to protect your sheep. You take the situation and you learn from it. Forgetting puts other people in danger and perpetuates the problem.

Purging yourself of all ill-will towards that wolf is healthy. Forgetting means you end up with a flock of dead sheep.

We get hurt so we can learn to be strong, or in other words, strength requires sacrifice. A good ninety-five percent of the pain in our lives comes from other people, people who, according to the Redeemer of Israel, we must then forgive. I refuse to let my pain be pointless. I refuse to invite unnecessary pain into my life. I refuse to stand by and let people destroy me or others. And as I refuse to be bogged down by hatred and revenge, I pledge to learn from my pain and let it make me a smarter, better person. I pledge to let my pain teach me how to not treat others. I pledge to protect myself and others from evil as best as I can. I pledge to stand up for myself and never allow another to destroy my sense of worth. I pledge to give my trust wisely. And lastly, I pledge to continually work on stripping myself of pride, and offering forgiveness to the vilest of offenders.

After all, the only other alternative is destruction.

Regards, best wishes, and a healthy flock,

-Cecily Jane

* Yes, the English graduate did just reference an in-joke among physicists. I used to have a good friend who was a physics (i.e. not physical) education major, and now I can't ever say/type the words "high school physics" (which isn't exactly often, but whatever) without my brain's autocomplete adding "saved the world." It's based on a quote from Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. It is also thanks to her that I know several songs about Albert Einstein. People that amusing don't come by very often.