Back to Blogging; also, Books

Hello world! Today I finished my last day of school for the semester, so now I should have the time and mental energy to return to regular blogging. I've missed my blog and these little tidbits and musings I have shared with the world over the past few months.

I don't have anything truly exciting to share today, but I did want to show off my new acquisitions that I received for my birthday. I got several wonderful books to add to my ever-growing collection.

First up to bat: a signed copy of The Boneman's Daughters by Ted Dekker. Dekker is one of my favorite authors, and I'm in the process of collecting all of his novels to add to my library. I currently have about a dozen. I already own two signed by both him and Tosca Lee which I acquired when I met them last summer.

I received two more books which I've been eyeing for awhile. They are Wrecked by Jeff Goins and On Writing by Stephen King. I started Wrecked the evening I got it and will probably blog about both books once I finish them.


Finally, my brother +Aaron gifted me with a few more lovely books. I was thrilled to open my gift bag and spy two Hobbit-themed journals, one of which is leather-bound and one is a Moleskine. They have beautiful covers inscribed with the artwork from the map in the novel. I plan on taking one with me on my upcoming trip to Europe to fill as a travel notebook.

The last addition to my library is this absolutely gorgeous leather-bound, gold-edged edition of The Hobbit. Isn't it a little beauty? Tolkien was the author who sparked within me a love for fantasy and writing, and I vividly remember my first foray into the realm of Middle-earth through the pages of The Hobbit. To this day it remains one of my favorite books. Up to this point, I didn't own any of Tolkien's works - I'm glad that has changed!


Books are some of my best friends, and I love the potential of the empty page of an open journal, so these tomes will all be cherished additions to my collection. Even now I'm looking forward to perusing through the pages of my new treasures.


There is no friend as loyal as a book. 
 - Ernest Hemingway

Dream On

Have you ever woken up and felt like you managed to live three or four lifetimes since the last time you were conscious? Has it all felt so real to you that you had to take the time to sort through your memories and determine was is real and what is just imaginings?

That was me yesterday morning. I remember waking up the instant my alarm went off, but it took six more seconds for me to regain my wits enough to turn it off.

It took a shower, a cinnamon roll, and some music by Barcelona before I figured out what was and wasn't real. It had all been so vivid. And it had all been so intense. 

I remember dreaming about traveling. Road-trip to Arizona, I believe. I remember wrangling two beautiful horses - a bay and a palomino  I remember meeting a couple of celebrities - and that's all I'm saying on that.

These dreams remind me of the time I woke up and honestly thought I was a character from a TV show - yeah, that time. I've never been so totally and utterly confused in my life. It took a few minutes to come to terms with the fact that reality was my bedroom, my snoring sister, and my blurry vision.

I dream a lot, about a wide variety of things. Through the years I've had a tendency to dream in black and white, although I've noticed that inclination diminishing recently. However, my dreams are still silent - there's never any sound. I'm not exactly sure how that works - telepathy? - but it all makes perfect sense while I'm dreaming it.

I guess that last sentence says it all. It's all so real and fantastic while dreaming it, and you never want it to end (except for those horrible dreams about deadlines and bad grades and such). And then suddenly you're snapped back to reality.

But you know what? That's okay. Because dreams give us something to aspire to. They prompt us to live a better life. They motive us to make the dream become reality. So here's to the magic of dreams, and the ways in which they move us.

You Can't Go Back

"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold." - Frodo Baggins, The Return of the King

Change. Irrevocable change. Transformation. Drastic alteration. Inability to return to the way it was.

This is an important criteria for a good story. When the last page is turned, when the final credits have rolled, I want to know that the characters have been permanently changed. I want to see that there is no possible way for life to go back to the way it was. 

This new state of existence may be better or worse. It may be an improvement on the situation at the beginning - Cinderella marrying her Prince Henry and living happily ever after. It may be heart-wrenching - Sherlock Holmes facing death while battling his mortal enemy. It may be bittersweet - Bilbo and Frodo forever changed by the Ring, leaving Middle-earth to stay in the Undying Lands. 

Of course, being the lovely human being I am, I tend to prefer the latter two types of change. I find the heart-wrenching, gut-punching, tear-jerking forms of change to leave the strongest memory, to have the greatest effect. 

But in the end, no matter what form it takes, change must come.

Staticity is boring, mundane. If characters go through an adventure only to settle back into the same dull routine in the end, what was the point? Why does it matter if nothing changes? 

The same holds true in real life. Living life in a changeless, passive, stagnant manner is meaningless. A life of adventure, exploration, and learning - that is a life that leads to growth. And growth leads to purpose and understanding.

This whole post just took an unintended tumble down the rabbit-hole. But that's okay. In what started out as an analysis of fictional elements led me to realize why I crave adventure in my own life. See? Growth just through typing out a blog-post. It can slip in anywhere if we're open to it.

Where can you grow in your life?


P.S. I've been neglecting this little blog of mine recently; apologies for that. Writing research papers, lab reports, and a novel have hungrily consumed much of my writing energies. As I move into the last six weeks of classes, I hope to find more time for my creative endeavours.

Addendum as of 11:30pm: I decided to throw a little explanation on here as to why I penned this post.

Earlier today I was browsing spoilers for the upcoming season 3 of BBC's Sherlock, which, for those of you who don't know, is an incredible show I adore. It finally hit me - Season 3 is going to be different. Very different. Sherlock's return, the imperative trust issues between him and John, the new character addition - all of these things will necessitate change in this upcoming season. At first I was uncomfortable with this. The show is such a good thing, I hate to see major changes after just six episodes. But the insightful words of Frodo quoted above along with this dialogue popped into my head:

Bilbo: Can you promise that I will come back? 
Gandalf: No... and if you do, you will not be the same.

Bring it, I say. Let's bravely face what changes come our way... both in fiction and in reality. 

A Day on My Bike

This afternoon I spent some time on a story I fully intended to post, but that story kept growing longer and longer until I realized there was no way I could finish it this afternoon. So instead I drew up this little snapshot from my bike ride earlier this morning.


I leaned to one side as I rounded the corner, shoes firmly pressed to the peddles. A border collie came bounding out across the lawn, barking at the stranger flying down his street, and I threw him a smile. The gray clouds hovering overhead blocked the rays of sunlight and kept me cool as I traveled my regular route.

I whipped my gaze forward as the sound of tires on gravel alerted me to an approaching vehicle. With the wind roaring across my face, it was difficult to tell exactly how close the car was until I saw it. I slowed slightly and hugged the side of the road as the silver pick-up truck sped by, then began to pick up the pace.

As I crested the hill, I peddled my hardest. I rolled over the slope and stood, legs straight, neck craning forward. My bike coasted down the hill, gliding faster and faster as the momentum sped it on. The wind whipped into my face and through my hair. A laugh bubbled up from my chest. And as I sped into the wind, I could touch the sky.

The Sweet Longing of Adventure

Another note I just wrote. It was inspired while I was doing yoga. I wrote this for a dear friend - you'll know who you are.

I inhale deeply. The scent of pines mingled with the damp freshness of the fog filles my lungs. From my vantage point on the veranda I can make out the tips of the nearest mountains before they vanish in the blanket of fog. A shrill cry wings its way to my ear, and I watch a flash of brown and white as the hawk soars across my sight before disappearing from view. The hazy valley resumes its stillness and silence as the fog muffles and encases everything in its grasp.

I allow my gaze to lazily drift across the mountain peaks, ignoring the feelings of longing swelling up from my gut. Those giants were calling to me, beckoning me to come to them, to scale their highest peaks and learn their deepest secrets. Soon. Soon I would venture into those dark ranges and explore all they have to offer. But not today.

The Ocean

This idea sprang into being when I was in Galveston last week, and tonight it spilled onto the page, unbidden. This is the first time I've shared anything unedited - and honestly, it's a freeing and glorious feeling.

The ocean is alive. The white-crested waves that move upwards before crashing back down are full of life. There is no stagnation there. There is a rhythm to the way the waves beat against the rocks, yet that rhythm is ever-changing. The roar of the waves fills my ears, pulsating, causing my soul to swell with their every rise and fall. The water surges across my feet, a living thing, renewing my spirit, filling me with life.
In the ocean, I see life and motion. I see passion and restlessness. In the ocean, I find myself.

The Story of Our Lives

I'm not typically a fan of love songs, so I was surprised when I first heard and promptly fell in love with Sleeping at Last's song "Turning Pages." One particular line from this piece always tugs at my heart every time I hear it:

"We're tethered to the story we must tell."

The poetical nature of this phrase is simply beautiful. It reminds me that we were all placed on this earth to tell a story. This story is our very own. It's personal, it's intimate, and no one else can share it. This story is told throughout our lives in the way which we touch the lives of those around us.

As a writer, this line has a similar secondary meaning to me. I have a story to tell, a story I am bound to write and destined to share. I know this story is meant to be told by the way it is constantly present in my mind, begging to be written, nagging to be shared. I only hope that I can do justice to this tale and present it as it is meant to be told.

This line of lyrics reminds me of a phrase spoken by the Eleventh Doctor in the BBC's long-running show Doctor Who.

"We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one."

As one who believes in the Divine Creator, I believe that we are more than just stories when it's all over. Yet when we pass to the next life, we are stories to those left behind - stories and legacies. The question is, what sort of story will we leave behind? Is it one our descendants will be glad to share? Will we leave a heritage our grandchildren will proud to call their own? Or will they be ashamed of what we've left behind? Will they want to deny us and who we were? We have the choice to decide how we express our story.

We all have a story to tell - how will you tell yours?

The Magic of the Mundane

Mundane. Dull. Boring. Ordinary. Not words usually coupled with the sparkle and flash of magic. Yet I am convinced that it is the average, the conventional, the humdrum moments that lend the most to life. It is the regular that can give birth to the incredible, and the normal that can lead to the exceptional.

Yesterday I stood on the cold tile floor in the kitchen, rapping my fingertips against the counter as I waited for my bread to toast. It was an average Tuesday. The house was quiet and as soon as I finished my lunch I would be leaving. My gaze flitted across the crumbs and utensils scattered across the counter-top as an imaginary conversation between fictional characters played itself out in my head. As I mechanically moved through the process of making my sandwich - slicing the cheese that precise width I love so much, slathering mayonnaise across the crispy bread - an idea tumbled into my mind. The very idea I had been waiting on to kick-start a short story that has been lurking on the dusty upper bookshelves of my brain. I immediately knew I had stumbled on a gold mine. I just hope the editors I submit it to think so as well.

It was a banal, everyday process that led me to this clever idea, and the more I write, the more value I find in similar moments. I find inspiration in the little things. Yesterday it was sandwiches and imaginary conversations. Today it was tennis shoes. What will it be tomorrow, I wonder?

Don’t get me wrong – as someone with a vivid imagination, I love the grandiose, the magnificent, and the incredible. I find great delight in reading tales of fantastical adventures in far-off worlds. In truth, I have always found every day, ordinary life to be a boring undertaking. I find it hard to involve myself with my daily dealings when I would rather be in exciting, new places, seeing and experiencing wonders never before discovered. Yet I am beginning to realize that the ordinary moments have a function and a purpose. When I open my eyes, my heart, and my mind to the things around me, they become so much more than mundane, so much more than ordinary. They become catalysts for the truly extraordinary. 

Why I Write: Part 1 - To Feel Alive

"Why do you write?" I get this question sometimes from curious individuals who wonder why I don't have a normal hobby like sports or crafts or reading. Well, I do love to read, but it isn't my only pastime. Although I have never asked myself this question in such a straightforward fashion, I have always known why I write. But I decided that perhaps it was time to answer these questions in a succinct manner for those who ask. This will be a series with several parts to be posted over the next few weeks - starting today with Why I Write: Part 1.

Reason 1: I Write to Feel Alive

The arts especially address the idea of aesthetic experience. An aesthetic experience is one in which your senses are operating at their peak; when you’re present in the current moment; when you’re resonating with the excitement of this thing that you’re experiencing; when you are fully alive. - Sir Ken Robinson

Writing is an art, like drawing or painting. An artist sees the world around him with eyes that notice the intricate details. He sees every petal of each daisy in that field full of wild-flowers and the ever-changing colors of the sky as the sun sets. He is involved in the moment, drawn into the subtle shadings of the world surrounding him. The artist understands that it is these little moments that make up the whole - these little details that make the picture worth painting.

Writing is similar to this. As a writer, I feel the crisp bite of the winter air that invigorates and inspires me. I hear the swish of the wind as it dances and twirls like a child through the needles of the tall, watchful pine. I smell the musty pages of that favorite old book as its pages rustle under my fingers, willing to share its story once again. I notice the small things in life, and then place my pen to the paper so others may notice them as well.

This connectivity applies to people as well. The eyebrow raised as you listen with skepticism, the glistening tears you try to hold back as hateful words cut to your very core, the crinkling around your eyes and twitch of your lips as you try to suppress an unexpected laugh that swells up during an inopportune moment. I see these moments and can describe them in a way that allows you to see and experience them as well.

I write to feel alive. I write to fully enter the moment, to touch everything and everyone around me. I write to make the ordinary extraordinary.

A Sudden Realization

So here I was, listening to Imagine Dragons and browsing The Write Practice when I stumbled across a statement that was like an arrow streaking into my very soul. It hit home so hard it took my breath away. In an article discussing five lies that can distract you from your purpose as a writer (namely skepticism, vanity, pride, fear, and doubt), the author makes this comment:

"Slowly, that original desire became distorted until you actually believe your main goal was just to be a bestselling author, when in reality, you wanted so much more. You wanted to change the world."

How did I fall so far? How did I become so afraid of what other people might think, so concerned with writing that elusive, perfect book that I completely lost sight of my original goal? Because I did want to change the world. And maybe that sounds like naive idealism. Maybe that sounds like the dream of a child who hasn't experienced the darkness, the coldness of the real world. Yet it's true. I never wanted fame, I never craved popularity for me or my writings. I wrote because I had dreams to share. I wrote because my characters needed a voice. I wrote because I had stories to tell that could change the world, one reader at a time. 

Today I realized that unless I find my way back to that original hope and desire, I can never tell my story the way it's meant to be written. Unless I get rid of that nagging "but what will they think?" I can never be myself. So goodbye, self-doubt. Goodbye, foolish dreams of fame and fortune. This is me, making my way back to who I genuinely am and the stories I truly have to share.