Seventeen Muses

The other day, I was walking with my best friend Allison and she started talking about how she couldn't find the motivation to do anything. She lost focus in class, she didn't want to do homework, her drive was gone. She just couldn't figure out what it was.

Babe, it's second semester of our senior year in high school. You've got Senioritis.

She'll pull through. Her grades are amazing and she's highly intelligent. She'll find her motivation.

As for me, I've somehow stumbled upon an odd, unlikely glimmer of motivation deep within some far-off galactic speckling of stardust in another solar system, perhaps from a different time. This motivation is so completely and utterly foreign that it's encouraged me to not only remain focused but to try.

I think people get the impression that I don't work hard for my grades because I doodle in calculus and I have awesome friends I hang out with but the truth is, I work so hard. I really take pride in my educational career and I'm not afraid to say I'm an intelligent human being, nor do I feel like I'm bragging. Yes, I'm really good at learning but that doesn't mean I don't really try.

Last semester though, I didn't try as much as I could. I acknowledge that and my AP US History (APUSH) grade suffered for it (I got a B+). So this semester, I'm trying again. I think the reason I stopped trying is because I put everything I had into freshman year and I walked away with B's and a C or two.

I'm tired. I'm done with high school. I'm done with the silly social games. I'm done with the boundaries. I'm done with the standards. I'm done with not being able to reach my full potential because their idea of "perfect" is a mold I don't fit into. I'm done.

I'm ready for college.

But I'm going to play their game, one last time. I'm going to put my heart into it and I'm going to bend myself into their ridiculous mold. Why? Because I need to prove it to myself that I can adapt. Also I'm incredibly stubborn and I don't like B's. I don't like B's one bit. I'm aiming for my maximum 4.83 GPA because that's how I want to leave this school. That's their idea of perfect. It is the highest GPA you can achieve and I'm just a couple hundredths of a point away.

I've got something to prove.

To them.
To me.
To everyone.

I've still got some fight left in me. And there's no stopping me now.

No sarcasm, no wit. This is purely me and my inspiration.

Things have been crazy lately. Whenever I get a moment of silence and peace, I take the opportunity to really reflect. These moments have made my life infinitely more pleasant.

It's those mornings when I can kick back in my warm room, drinking hot green tea and working on homework.


These beautiful moments when I realize how fortunate I am to live where I do and have the things I do.


Those evenings when the sun is so vibrant, it lights up the vineyard like a firecracker of red and gold.


Late nights where trees hanging with raindrops create aquatic stars from the golden streetlight.


Moments like these are perfect.

I think I've complained about AP Calculus before but this post is designed to show you exactly what I do in this lovely class. Now, I need to tell you... I get A's in calculus so please don't doubt my integrity as a student when you see the following...

The thing is, I don't really take notes (ever actually, but particularly in calc) and I don't really do homework. I don't even pay attention in class. I read the textbook right before a test and then get an amazing score. It's a really easy class for me. I get math. Hate me. I invite you. Going to class is such a drag. I sit there with nothing to do. So I doodle. These are drawings scanned out of my AP Calculus notebook.

You can click on any of the following to get the full view!


Sketches for AP Art.


Actually really like this one! I'm obsessed with profiles.


Our teacher said "The algebra was intense" so I drew "The algebra" in tents. Get it!


Gen and Simon from Nightingale with notes on inflection points.


Don't ask. I think the bird is supposed to be Allison.


This was the joke that calculus hates us. The drawing looks like a mix between me and my best friend Robyn.


Gen and Simon again. I actually tried to take notes this day... Didn't work...


From yesterday! She's a Mousekateer! Inspiration: Margo from the book Paper Towns. Read it if you're a high school senior.


Christopher told me to draw it.


Originally I said the hood of my hat was like wolf fur but then we decided I was a squirrel somehow so then I said it was hybrid wolf-squirrel fur so I drew what that would look like. There was a dispute over the name.


Basically.


This is the extent of math I do in that class. I calculated my odds of getting into Stanford based on the number of people who applied and the number who they accept. 5% chance of getting in apparently! Woooohoooo!

I'm sure I'll have to do this again!

Dear Janet of Atlanta, Georgia,

I received your Promise in my Dove Chocolate wrapper.

Believe you can - and go for it!

Now, usually I find these Promises wholly cliche and sappy. I just enjoy dark chocolate with crunchy almonds. This one is no exception but I still have to admit, I'm inspired.

You see, I had a pretty bad Monday. I woke up exhausted (despite sleeping for my typical 7 hours of sleep) and was fading in class. I ended up not having homework so I watched Superbad and a chocolate competition on Food Network (and then began craving it, thus eating the delicious snack cloistered beneath your Promise). I ended up going to sleep at 9 because I had a headache and I swear to you my eyelids weighed 50 pounds each!

So this Tuesday (today), things are going to be different. I am going to believe I can stay awake and I'm going to go for it. Unfortunately, I'm not sure how well this will keep in AP calculus after lunch. I mean, it's calculus... No promises.

But today will be different and I will try to keep your Promise present in my mind (and pocket) so that I can try to embody it in all the little things throughout the day. And maybe I can't stay awake through all my classes and maybe I still won't find the motivation for homework, but something will change and that will make all the difference. Thank you Janet from Atlanta, Georgia.

Love,
Angela

PS- In all sincerity, I love these Promises. It always feels like that person has something to tell you and it was meant for only you. Like fortune cookies only less cryptic and without the lottery numbers. Plus, I'd take dark chocolate over a fortune cookie any day.

Found a good one on the web site:


Look within yourself for the power of life

I feel like I should have inspirational quotes at the end of each of my posts.

My dad just brought me this darling Thanksgiving card that I made him when I was 9 and in 4th grade.


FRONT
Gobble, Gobble, Gobble! That's the turkey way to say...


INSIDE
Did I say stupid Peacock!



BACK
'Kill Me! and have a great Thanksgiving day (Feast)!'
Happy Thanksgiving,
Ignor [ignore] the peacock,
To dad,
From (Angela) [my 9-year-old "signature"]

This was the same child who just a couple months before had written a letter to President Bush to "Pretty please with sugar and a cherry on top find and kill the person who broke our towers" on 9-11. No lie.

Oh, I was such a lovely child.

I just finished the Monarch art piece and I started another one. AP Art is intense. We have about three days per art piece because we need to pull off 12 by at least mid-April. I have three now.

I make creepy, dark, morbid art. I do not make happy, cute things. So to say this piece is out of my comfort zone is really saying something. No creepy writing, no grim undertones, no dark themes. This is hardcore romantic.

So here's the idea: a couple at the end of a dock, kissing passionately in the pouring rain. On the water in front of the dock, a red umbrella floats away from them. In the background, a city scape with brilliant lights that reflect of the water hovers like a ghost.

The couple, the umbrella, and the dock are all being done in colored pencil (Prisma) and the city and water are going to be watercolor. The only color is the red umbrella and the gold, red, and green lights of the city. Everything else is black and white.

Thus far, I've done the couple and umbrella. It's taken me about 3 hours and I'm very proud of the couple especially.



What do you think? These guys are about 4-5 inches tall and we taken on my gimpy cell camera (hence, poor quality). I'm pretty proud of it. I can't wait to finish. Next class, I'm transferring class slides so I'll get all my slides on my drive and I can post them.

Until next time, think romantic thoughts.

Quelf n 1 : the greatest game ever invented 2 : a board game that makes you do ridiculous, insane, embarrassing things for no payoff or reward 3 : a wealth of laughter and clean fun that you would be insane not to appreciate

If you've never played this game, I highly suggest you find someone who has and you have a Quelf party. That's exactly what me and seven other friends did Saturday night. And we had a blast. I had only played this game once before but honestly, I could never get bored of it.

Amazingly, the things we did outside of gameplay were just as entertaining. This is me and two of my best friends Christopher and Allison. They make my world complete.


Allison, doing one of hundreds of wacky things you have to do. She couldn't move...


This is Chris, being Chris... The deer in the headlights on the left is me. I had to find and wear something with a chinstrap for the rest of the game.


I was not a happy camper.


Christine... Miming I think. Or doing a funky dance.


Her thumbs are dueling dragons. We had to take bets on the winner. My thumbdragon, Kimbizzle (right thumb--apparently I got the name wrong), won.


The thing is, if you haven't played it, get your sticky little hands on it. It's very worth it. No one cares who wins or loses (to be honest I think we stopped the game before anyone legally won) but we had a blast anyway. The trick is not to care what people think about it. If you're self conscious, the magic doesn't work. It's wonderful therapy acting like a dork. Really soothes the soul.

This is what teenagers really do at parties when the adults of the house are in Tokyo. We play Quelf, make chocolate chip pancakes with choclate syrup, eat tater tots and carmel pops, wrestle and hug, and splash in puddles without shoes or socks.

What a great way to spend Saturday night.

It's official!

In my room, I have a computer in my room that is older than I care to remember. It used to be the family computer way back when until we upgraded right before the launch of Vista to a 22" widescreen Dell that has more space than we know what to do with. So I got the old, ugly, large, slow computer. I cleaned it up, bought a larger moniter off a friend, and stripped it down to the bare minimum. It has a Desktop, Word Processor, and Windows Media Player. That's it.

In essence, I use that computer for music, writing, and writing with music playing. It's great, it works for me, it's super speedy, and the keyboard is old and broken in. It is the perfect tool for writing (I used to have an old, used laptop which died, taking 50% of my 12-and-under writing with it).

With an old computer comes some really, really stupid problems. And I've taken a couple screenshots to demonstrate what I mean.



This is Nightingale, on Word. For some reason, Word felt the need to put its own say into what I was writing... That's okay. I can ignore that.

This is what really gets me.. I'm trying to install a new device and this is what happens...



Translation for the non-computer savvy: Dear user, the service called "Help and Support" that you've requested is not working. To see if you can fix this problem, please open the service called "Help and Support".

...

My computer hates me.

I love Twilight.
I hate Twilight.

Confused? Great! So am I!

The thing about Twilight is that it is a poorly-written, poorly-constructed, recycled plot about a stereotypical teenage girl, Bella, who is courted by a unrealistic, horribly overprotective vampire, Edward. In the end, Bella falls for Edward instead of the handsome, normal, sane, long-time friend Jacob. She claims everlasting love within about three months of meeting this Edward, marries him at a ridiculously young age, and has a disgusting pregnancy in which the baby grows to the size of a five-year-old before eating its way out of Bella's womb, thus killing her and turning her into a vampire.

Sorry but... no thank you.

At the same time, Twilight is a thrilling love triangle in which a heavy-conflicted Bella (who is greatly improved by Kristen Stewart's image) must choose between the enticing and beautiful Edward who offers a forbidden and mysterious world (which is something that realistically, any girl would fall for) and Jacob, a fairly ordinary boy, albiet a werewolf, (who is played by the gorgeous 17-year-old Tayler Lautner--yum).

And okay, okay, deep down, as a teenage girl, I crave this sort of thing.

Twilight Really Sucks has become one of my favorite fan sites. I read an article about why they don't hate people who like Twilight which I found more enjoyable than any piece of about Twilight that I've ever read. They have a quote from this lady that basically describes Twilight as a Twinkie. It is perfect for how I feel about Twilight. Except I don't like Twinkies...

"... you go and get yourself a Twinkie when you have a very specific kind of craving. If you want gourmet pastry, or even a homemade cake, you know where to get that. If you're eating a Twinkie, you clearly know what you want and why you're eating it, and you know that it's not good to eat very many of them, but... you know... sometimes you just want one..." by Cleolinda

I get too grossed-out reading the books anymore but the movies are great. Watching it is not only enjoyable and satisfies the craving but it only takes a couple hours out of my day. In fact, I really liked New Moon. Taylor Lautner and Edward's absence made that very possible. The movies never fail to live up to everything people expect them to be and that is all I ask for.

I think I'll substitute reading Twilight with watching The Vampire Diaries, the CW's new hit vampire show, for my vampire romance fix. Great acting, great actors, and a way better plot than Twilight.

And that's the thing about Twilight.

I claim here and there that I'm a writer but what evidence do you have? Nightingale is my current novel that I've been working on since the summer of 2008.

"Welcome to Nowhere"


Nightingale is the story about a sarcastic, hardened city girl named Genevieve who is in the foster care system. After her last foster parent died in an incident she blames herself for, she gets moved to Caraville: a nowhere town where the rumors have spread that she's a murderer. Her new foster parent is Muriel, a quirky old lady who never had kids of her own and doesn't know the first thing about parenting. Genevieve has to learn how to cope with her neighbors fearing her and her peers hating her. The story spans the summer in Caraville, a magical time when fireflies are alight and romances can bloom as quickly as the morning glories. It follows Genevieve as she navigates the stormy seas of guilt while trying to rebuild her life.

I can not express how passionate I am about this story.

This is the opening:

A heavy, low-drifting fog was swirling against the window, leaking in through the sliver between the glass and the ruined rubber edge. It smelled of death. Looming ahead, a vast, gray building sat bluntly against the horizon, squandering smoke. Soon the fetid haze was so heavy inside the car, I had to hold my nose shut with my fingers, trying not to breathe in the burning decay of flesh. The entire car smelled of the putrefaction.
The leather moaned under me as I leaned forward in my seat slightly. "How much longer till we get there?" I asked between thinly-parted lips. I held my breath in the palm of my warm hand, feeling as if I might vomit at any moment.
The agent's mane of frizz-curled, brown hair shook slightly like an animal, caged against the head of her seat. It was bursting forth from behind her ears in a violent attempt to engulf her head.
"Half an hour," she answered patiently. She seemed untroubled by the smoke but I imagined her hair fashioned as a filter.
Stifled by the crematory smoke, the Volkswagen Rabbit was scented of cheap cigarettes and sweat. It was a dusty, company car and most of the leather interior was pealing from kids just like me picking at it in anxious anticipation.
My type was the unknown breed of vagrants. We never knew what to expect next in life, constantly being thrown into and out of unknown situations. For once in my life, this glum cycle had seemed to halt—that was, until today. In perhaps the very car that had served as my chariot to Jameson, I was on the road again, driven by a middle-aged woman who's most interesting endeavor in life was kissing a toad in her fourth year of school under the false pretenses that it was a prince.

Here are some of my favorite excerpts that describe characters. They'll give you a sense of what the story is like.

Muriel
"What are those things on the tree?" I asked, sitting to where she gestured.
The branches of the great oak were festooned with groups of paper squares. I couldn't quite make out what they were from the porch.
"Hallmark cards," Muriel replied.
As if this place couldn't get any stranger, let's tie greeting cards on strings and hang them from monstrous trees!

Marie (this character is based on myself)
"Welcome," she said, her voice mimicking the door bell. "I'm Marie Rhoades. Is there anything I can help you find?"
I was too taken aback to respond right away so I shook my head feebly and began shuffling through a rack I picked at random near the door, hoping it would deter her.
"You're looking at men's clothing," Marie said over my shoulder, making me jump. "You're new here, aren't you? I would remember a pretty little face like yours. Almost everyone shops here. Believe me, I know everyone. Oh! I know who you are! You just moved in with Muriel. Welcome to Caraville! I hope you like it here. How's Muriel doing? She doesn't shop here anymore. In fact, I'm fairly certain she doesn't get out much anymore. How long have you been here?"
I waited patiently for her to shut up before deciding to look at her. "Could you help me find some clothes?" I asked, ignoring her tirade.

Simon
He sighed and leapt from the ladder. Straightened to his full height, he was more than six feet tall and towered over me. He wore a long-sleeve shirt under a brown tweed vest and tight jeans. A peculiar pendant secured to a long chain winked against his chest.
"Here," he said, reaching for the book. "I'll give it a look."
He opened the journal and the spine cracked in response. "It's definitely old. We're talking forty, fifty years. The handwriting is decadent, that of a teenage girl's to be sure." He gave me a coy look. "Are you sure these aren't Muriel's from her younger days?"
I rolled my eyes. I couldn't imagine Muriel as a teenage girl, let alone a poet. "Yes," I said.

Lucy (based on my best friend Allison)
"What are those?" she asked, pointing to the tally marks I had engraved in my wall. I had placed the seventh one in that morning.
"Days I've been here. Sort of like a homemade calendar," I explained.
"I'm sure Muriel appreciates that," she said sarcastically. "Have you gotten out much since you've been here?"
"Once. I have an irrational fear of getting pummeled by rocks. Not sure why." My voice was dry.
"I can see how a hermit would be prone to ridiculous phobias," Lucy shot back, mirroring my nature.
"Romantic literature, huh?" I said, raising an eyebrow. She had proved herself worthy of my time. Any person who could hold their own against my mockery was good enough for me. "Don't they bore you?"
"Never," she said. "I love trying to find the hidden meaning in everything."
"And your charming friends," I said, nodding to the broken window. "They can't be too into that stuff I imagine."
"Oh, of course not," Lucy said laughing. "They don't really read books."
After that, we got to talking about our favorite authors, debating the meaning of specific symbolic events in our favorite books, and laughing. Lucy laughed all the time. She seemed to find everything funny and when I mentioned this to her, she just laughed some more. By the end of the afternoon, my sides and cheeks hurt from smiling so much. She was able to rebuke any attempt at derision I threw at her, coming up with equally witty insults. As the afternoon moved into the evening, we made our way back down to the kitchen where Muriel was doing a crossword in a newspaper dated twenty years in the past.

Jesper
"Genevieve, right?" he asked, still smiling. "You're the sixteen-year-old, female killer."
He was mocking me but it affirmed that everyone knew I killed someone after all. I didn't know what to say. I didn't appreciate being made fun of or underestimated.
He paused, as if waiting for a reply before continuing. "So tell me, are the rumors true?"
I took a deep breath, quickly getting impatient with him. "What rumors?" I asked, knowing exactly what he was talking about.
"Did you really kill someone?"
Even after all the police reports, all the questions, not a soul had asked me that question. I stopped and looked at my reflection in the other window that gazed out at the giant, moonlit oak.
"Decide for yourself." It seemed like a good, truthful answer without convicting myself.
"I'm sorry." His words made me cringe.

Gus (and Muriel, Lucy, and Gen)
"The pleasure is mine," Gus said softly before dropping my hand. "Joanna has already told me so much about you."
"Joanna?" I asked, shooting a loaded look at Muriel.
"My middle name," she explained with a fake smile. "I used to go by it, way back in the day. Mr. Swain is an old friend."
"Mr. Swain, we've met before," Lucy said sweetly. "I'm Lucy Engles."
"Oh yes, the Engles girl," Gus said, smiling broadly. He took Lucy's hand to kiss as well and did the same to Muriel as she guided him inside.
I shot a playful look at Lucy, raising my eyebrows briefly. She giggled in response. We were thinking the same thing: Muriel and Gus were old lovers.
We made our way out to the backyard and I took a seat across the table from Gus, staring intently at him. "An old friend, huh?" I asked, thinking I could uncover something about their past.
"Yes, Gen," Muriel said, flashing another forced smile. "We've established this."
Lucy sat beside me, across from Muriel, smiling happily like she knew a deep, dark secret.
"It is just so nice of you, Gus, to bring Muriel groceries every week," I said, nodding my head sensationally.
"Gen!" Muriel said loudly. I looked at her with my eyebrows raised. "Don't be rude; pass the green beans around."
I smiled politely and passed the dish to Lucy who took it sniggering. She was overwhelmed with the giggles, acquiring strange looks from Gus.
"She likes to laugh," I told him, winking.
"Genevieve, darling," Muriel said, her voice sickly sweet. "Why don't you tell us all about… your… times… here in Caraville!" Her voice was choppy like she was improvising, grasping for straws.
"Oh yes, wonderful dinner conversation. Filled with shattered windows, rocks, and being a hermit," I said, smiling as big as I could. I must have looked ridiculous. The sarcasm in the air was thick.

Well thanks for reading. I hope you've enjoyed what you've read so far. I plan on finishing the story by May (I kind of have to seeing as it's my senior project and that's when it's due officially). After that, I'll probably spend a few months editing the heck out of it and then I'm going to move into the publication process. That's the plan. Who knows? You could be purchasing Nightingale in book stores a year from now. Who knows?

I am a senior in high school. This means a lot of things, none of which include any sworn statement that I don't make mistakes. It does mean that I...
(a) am almost of adult age
(b) am nearly done with public education
(c) have the option to pursue venues of higher learning.

I am excited for all of the aforementioned. However, I am learning that in order to achieve these things, you have to go through hell first. And I am.

On Sunday (the 3rd), I was working my college application for Stanford University, a very, very, very prestigious school. It is the long-shot of all my colleges choices but I love the campus, I love the idea of it, and I would be honored to be able to go there.

I had the whole application done except for three little essays which I was ready to plug in and submit. No big deal. I planned ahead and did much of my application a long while back. I was ready to be done with it.

I log into my application (everything is electronic now) and to my horror, discovered I had missed the Stanford deadline by two days. I originally had another college on my list and had gotten their deadlines mixed up.

My reaction was... extreme.

I have lived and breathed the idea of applying to Stanford since I was a sophomore in high school and my parents told me Stanford would pay for my tuition. From that moment on, I pushed myself to the brink to do well in school and I've pulled virtually straight A's since. I have dragged myself through hell to be good enough for Stanford. I have sacrificed time, energy, and a brilliant social life for this. I wear my Stanford shirt every day I have an important test at school to remind myself that I can't slip. I cried today because we had to turn in a Calculus assignment that I didn't fully understand. I have nightmares where everyone in my class gets accepted by them except for me. When I think about me going to college, I see myself at Stanford. And I had just killed my chances on a simple error.

There were tears. There were a lot of tears. I cried out to my dad who read the deadline at least five times over before realizing that yes, I had just done one of the stupidest things in my life. He urged me to finish my application anyway and submit it, just in case. I spent the next hour typing my essays into the application (just to torture me more, the application wouldn't let me Copy+Paste my essays in so I had to retype them). I then sent a very sincere email to the admissions staff explaining that I had made a simple mistake and if there was anything they could do to make sure my application would be reviewed, I would be eternally grateful. They emphasize the fact on their web site that they do not under any circumstance accept applications that come in after the deadline. The screen was blurry from my crying.

There was talk of taking a year off school and reapplying next year. There was talk of transferring after two years at another university. Looking back, those were a couple of very scary hours.

A couple hours later and more sobbing, crying, moping, brooding, and chocolate-eating than I care to discuss, I received this email from Stanford's Admission staff:

"Because of Common Application credit card payment and application submission issues, we have extended the deadline to submit both the Common Application and the Stanford Supplement to 11:59 PM (Pacific Time), Sunday, January 3."

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!?!

There was much screaming, laughing, and look-at-the-screen-right-this-instant dancing. Alright, so they're going to review me after all. My chances of being accepted are pretty slim but at least now, I will get my fair opportunity.

I'll let you know come March what happens. Whichever way they decide to go, I will be happy knowing that I did everything I could. Throughout the whole thing, my mom kept trying to tell me that everything happens for a reason. Maybe they do.

You know, I've been thinking about creating my own blog for a while but I never imagined how I would start it. I've had ideas buzzing around in my head on what it could be about, things I could share, posts I'm going to write eventually, pictures I'm going to share with the world. Somehow, I never anticipated how hard it would be to put in that first post.

I could start by explaining who I am but honestly, I feel like the first step is just to breathe. Writing has never been difficult for me. When I get a pen in my hand or my fingers on the keyboard, it just flows. Writer's block is something I've never really experienced. Usually when I get stuck on a story, I can simply move on to another. This isn't quite the same. I can't just move on to another blog and skip over this one for a while. However, I'm finding that if I just breathe, the words come to me.

Here's what you need to know: I'm a 17-year-old girl from California who feels like she has something to share with the world. I need that release and maybe you need to be reminded what it's like to be a teenager or that you're not alone with how you're feeling. I think that if you stick with me, you'll get to know me pretty well without more of an introduction.

Oh yeah, and I have the coolest cat on the planet.

So here it is, the first post. I guess that wasn't so hard after all.