Nearing the End and Inspiration Rant.

Yeah, I am wiped.
So wiped.

I gave myself an hour today to write for fun.
I wrote ... nothing.

Man, I cannot wait for these exams to be over ...

We Interrupt Exam Studying for ...

CONGRATS TO SMITHY!

My friend, Smithy (who better remember me when she's all famous and stuff) has made it to the next round of an Agent contest - so she is this close (imagine I am holding up a forefinger and a thumb, they are very close) to achieving all her dreams - and I couldn't be happy for her!

And this in the midst of the worst exam season ever!

Congrats, girl - you deserve it! And I will b3 right there with the balloons and the I-told-you-so! :)

The Little Writing Demon ...

There once was a philosophy tutorial I was in. It was my first year at the UofT, my first philosophy class and it was quite intimidating: there were plenty of people older then me, lots of richer kids too, with their Macs and their faraway looks. Needless to say, I walked in with my three year old bag, jeans and old Catholic school uniform sweater, and I about died from nerves - though I was also intrigued. All these people had a story, after all. James - the only Oriental in the room (trust, if you knew UofT you would know how rare that is), with his dyed red hair and green contacts; Rick, the typical ginormous WASP with his blowy blonde hair and lashes and these sick looking blue eyes; Benjamin, with his spectacles, briefcase and top hat. The list goes on.


Loren was our TA. She quickly put me at ease when in the first ten minutes, she responded to Rick (who apparently was trying to assert that he was The Awesome) that "Not all of us have little black turtle wearing existentialists on their shoulders telling them all they need to know about the universe."


We all laughed that off then, but over the years, it has become, in my warped
way of thinking, near true. I have two crowded shoulders.

I have the little Historian with her smudged spectacles and unruly hair that sits on one side of me, gently prodding me with a nail bitten hand to look around and appreciate the history of life - the colour that abounded in the past.


Then there's that existentialist - to be honest, my only "Him" - not sure why, maybe because whenever I think of existentialists, I think of Jean-Paul Sartre (aka JPS) with his awkward momma's boy body, and round glasses and balding head. Every time I come to the facts of life - the inevitability of my own existence, he kicks me. Literally, right near where my collarbone meets my shoulder, the little trenchcoat wearing, pipe smoking existentialist kicks me into action.


Of course, I have Tellulah - that's the name of my inner hippy. She sits to the left of my inner go-getter (I call her Beth), and they argue over whether that fiver in my pocket ought to save the whales or buy a blackberry (as if a fiver was ever enough to do either ...)


And then I have my little writing demon. Sometimes she's Ammy Belle - all sorts of bouncy sugar sweet cuddly goodness and support. Other times, her face changes and she becomes A. Isabel - and then she's dark and broody and into highly erotocized steam scenes. And then at other times, she's sleeping and she's just me - out of ideas for the moment, but sure to rock back into action soon.


And that's the thing, I guess. It's like that saying about wearing many hats, or that all the world's a stage - at times, there is always a need for one of my little demons - and I have tonnes more then the ones I just talked about, but all they do is reflect an aspect of me, and I think there is something scary and interesting in that.


Anyways, what do you all think?
Have I made a profound statement on the existence of personality? Or, are these exams getting to me? :P

Ammy

Secured Transactions and Writing for Fun

Hello everyone - Happy Saturday.

I am currently in a bit of a bind. I have an optional secured transactions essay I want to finsih before Monday, but reading sentences like this:

"Except with respect to rights to proceeds, where a financing statement or financing change statement sets out a classification of collateral and also contains words that appear to limit the scope of the classification..."

and writing sentences like

"there are two problems posed with intellectual property as a security device, as defined in Canada, both in the Ontario PPSA and the various acts concerning regulation and formation of intellectual property:"

I find myself being distracted and writing sentences more like this:
"

Luna looked into his eyes, reached his soul, she didn’t pull back, but suddenly found herself reaching for him, pulling him into her, pushing her mouth onto his with the intensity of everything that simmered between them. Her hands fisted in his jacket and she insistently tugged him closer, though there was nowhere for him to go. He braced both his hands on the island on either side of her body, allowing her to consume him, she knew, at her own pace"

....

So the ultimate question this weekend: What will win? Secured Transactions or Writing for Fun?

I conquered NanoWrimo!

Boo yeah! Yes I did! 50k words in one month - OWNED!

hahahahahaha

Okay ,,, this study break is brought to you by Pwnage! And now I'm done ... I think ... The point of this post (asides from the jubilant glee that is my cheering myself on!) is to assess NANOWRIMO as a concept and a reality - and see what I have taken out of it this year.

But first! For all those still writing, a little bit of love from Toronto Nanos!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yLONlaI1k1k&feature=sub

(I really need to learn how to upload vids ...)

Yeah, that made my day, too.

Anyways, for those not in the know, Nanowrimo was established in 1999 as a month-long venture, where aspiring authors would strive to finish an entire novel length piece (that's 50,000 words more or less). Ensure chaos, right? Right. And sort of, wrong. Or maybe all right? The point is this: I have participated now twice running, and finished .... three novels and a short story between the two Novembers.

I kind of got ahead of myself, but what I want to express is that Nanowrimo is a great idea, and a great reality - even if it doesn't turn out my best work. There are many reasons for this: first off, a month is a lot of pressure. For those of us who do well under pressure (thank Goddess, or I would be funked out in law school right now), this may suck - I mean, the BF for all the good he can do, sucks with deadlines. He gets all anxious and OMG-OMFG! like, and then is useless. I, on the otherhand, buckle down, with coffee and lemon pastry to do what needs to be done! (And avoid studying ...)

So for those like me, Nanowrimo is ideal - it's better then a self-imposed deadline (I hate those, I always try to trick myself, it never works). For those like the BF, maybe not so much ....

Or maybe ...

See, here's #2: It forces you to do more then think about a book you want to read. It makes you actually, you know, write it. And there is something to that - even if it is the most craptastic book in the world - there is something about getting it all down that makes sense. And I think that, more then anything is the dealio with this.

Finally, #3 - it's a helluva lot of fun! I mean, you get into competitions with friends and there are videos like the one above from your community - it's just fun! And fun means more work gets done in an enjoyable way!

Now, there are critics of it - namely I have read anti-Nanowrimo from Maggie Stiefvater and Eric Rosenfield - and I encourage you to read and get their POV. I just don't agree with them. In fact, as much as I liked Shiver and Linger, I think as a novelist, Ms. Stiefvater is kind of ... well ... a tad narrow minded / short sighted. Great writer (though a tad too introspective for my tastes) but not such a great ... um ... visionary?

(Please don't pitchfork me ...)

I did like this article here, and I think everyone considering the anti-nanowrimo camp should think more about it, then not.

Besides, who wouldn't want one these beauties?



I know you're interested ...

Well you have 11 months to prepare for the next one! :)

I am writing ...

It's just not very fun.

Instead, I am writing papers - lots of them. One for secured transactions asking the hypothetical argumentative person on my shoulder: What does it mean, in a legal sense, to use intellectual property as collateral? (So far, nothing good). A Copyright paper on the new bill being pushed through the Canadian House of Commons (I will post about that soon - with links!). An essay on international law and the Basque Country (Yeah, my professor didn't know where the Basque Country was either ... sigh), and some other things that include hyptotheticals where Mary Jane and Peter Parker have legal issues pertaining to the purchase of the Wayne Mansion, etc.

Anyways, this is all to say that: I have no abandoned writing!

It's just the not-fun bit of it right now.

Though I am NANOWRIMOing it up! And nearly at the finish line - the problem is, how to get inspired when all your brain thinks about are things like liens and lines of credit and the CISG?

So, yours until Dec!

Ammy

Short Story Contest Entry

So I entered a Contest - and my favourite kind, too! I got to write a super short story with only a headline for inspiration - my oh my, though, what inspiration it was!

Below is my entry - what do you think? :P

*Disclaimer: I suck at Shorts. *

Human hearts with couples’ photos pinned to them found in Colma cemetry.

________________________________________________________________

She read the caption with mixed feelings, and scanned the rest of the page. Santeria. They thought it was a practitioner of Santeria? She scoffed and her eyes narrowed, her thoughts suddenly angry and tired all at once. Angry for the assumption and tired with the realization that she would have to continue her work all over again - once her clients found out that their jars had been removed.

Shifting her rotund figure to her feet, she waddled towards the door of the cafe, her skirt swishing softly against her bare ankles. The air was sticky with sweat and heat, and she knew this brought out the crazies. Moving into the night air, she absorbed the sounds around her, the chatter of people on the patios with their beers, the whispers of lovers, shrouded in the shade of the alley while the world spun around them.

She grunted and pushed open the door of her shop, the jingling of the bell above her eerie in the silence of the interior. Flipping on a light, she glanced around, made sure everything was in its proper place, and made her way to the back, where the magic happened.

How many hearts were buried there? She thought as she counted in her mind. 6? No ... more. Her old mind faded in and out of her own memories and she became lost in her own musings, her hands on a jar of salt, the room closed around her.

Of a sudden there was a wind where no wind should be - the gale bursting forward from the center of the room to tickle her greying scalp and carry the aroma of dirt to her. Her skin prickled and her eyes widened, her fingers clutching to jar for protection. Holding her breath, the smell of the earth overpowering her, she whirled to face whatever threat manifested itself.

But there was nothing.

She studied the room, the stillness of it and reviewed the sensations she had felt: no longer was there a wind, no longer was the smell of earth in her nostrils.

She shook her head, willing herself to believe she had imagined it all, and brought the jar of salt to the table. Opening it, she scooped out the grainy chunks of sea salt and stared at it. The mound felt heavy in her palm - a heaviness that came from something sure and protected. All was still for a moment more, then just as she brought her hand up to throw the salt at the four corners of the earth, the wind came again, knocking her to the floor with its strength.

She yelped and scrambled to her knees, her eyes searching the room for whatever force had pushed her - but the world stayed calm. She stared at the spilled salt on the floor with dread. How was she supposed to protect herself when her shield from danger lay vulnerable on the ground?

Quickly, with sudden choppy movements her stubbed fingers gathered the salt grinds, her lips whispering the prayers of her ancestors, prayers of protection - no longer could she convince herself that nothing was amiss - they were after her; the hearts. They knew they had been disturbed and now they were after her.

She felt the wind again a moment before the smell of earth pressed in on her. She bent her head down against the wind, her fingers busy gathering, her lips praying, until a shadow slanted across her. She stilled and watched the shadow as it was joined by other shadows. She caught her breath, her whole body tense and unmoving, feeling the wind at her back, the smell of earth - the pressure of the glares of the Hearts as they penetrated her.

Slowly, she raised her head, her eyes wanting to close but kept stubbornly open all the way until she met the unseeing eyes of the Dead around her. They stared back with empty sockets, their corpses swaying in the wind of their own arrival. ribs and bones poked through insect eaten clothes and clumps of dirt and she bit back a strangled cry as she realized what they wanted from her.

Her, who sought to help - her who tried to ease the pain of the ones left behind by burying the hearts of the Dead in jars with recipes for freedom and letting go. Now, she would pay for her own actions.

She thought of the work she had performed and the life she had lived, and slowly stood, their stench overwhelming, the saliva filling her mouth. "I am ready." she whispered.

And they reached for her.