College Learnings

Hey all!  Welcome back!

Taking a pause from my story uploading for today, I'm going to be following up on an old post that I wrote in August about College.  Basically, in the post, I was ranting about various academic writing challenges, specifically college applications, speech essays, and lab reports.  Since then, I've made progress in all three areas to some degree and thought it'd be a good time for an update, along with a few helpful hints, tips, and tricks.

Ready?  Let's go.  :D

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COLLEGE APPLICATION ESSAYS
Contrary to what I was told, writing in an informal and distinctly personal voice is a big no-no in college application essays.  Think of your essay as a pop hit for the masses.  In order for a song to hit the pop radio, it has to have a certain amount of predictability, simply because that's what people expect and that's what they want.  Rather than bringing about appreciation for true creativity, deviations tend to cause negative hesitations.  Of course, within the boundaries of predictability, there will be pop songs that make top 40 and pop songs that are on the radio for just a few months before they're taken off and forgotten forever.  It is quite possible to be predictable and memorable as well as predictable and bad, so don't slack off just because you suddenly don't have to stress selling your personality.

Extra note:
If you score 50%+ Turbulent on the MBTI like me, this whole process becomes infinitely harder because of debilitating self-doubt, but stick with it.  Surround yourself with support and make sure you are very content with your work before you open it up to be edited so you don't prematurely nip your inspiration and creativity in the bud.

SPEECH ESSAYS
A few months ago, I got a notice from my audio-speech essay post administrator that I had passed post-level for my speech essay and am moving onto regionals, which will be judged sometime in February.  Yay!  :D  I guess my ludicrous screaming into a microphone wasn't a complete loss...  (At the time of my recording, I was burdened by an expander, which is basically a big hunk of metal that orthodontists shove on the top of patients' mouths like permanent, torturous peanut butter...  So you can imagine how that went.  :P)

Extra note:
If you're a high-schooler or know any high-schoolers who would be interested, I would highly recommend the Voice of Democracy audio-essay contest.  It's fun, it's very casual, and there are often generous cash prizes at all levels, especially if you live in a sparsely populated town.  According to my administrator, each year, a handful of kids are the only ones who submit at their post, so they are automatically moved to regionals.  Never hurts to give it a shot!  :)

LAB REPORTS
Here, there are three specific rules you MUST follow if you want to survive the dark, creativity-devoid cave that is bland scientific writing:
1.) No personal pronouns.  Ever.  It is not "I" who stirred the pot of boiling gook, but the "scientist".  Or, even better, use the passive voice, e.g. "The pot of boiling gook was stirred."
2.) Each professor will be different.  Stick to their instructions like you're brown and twiggy.
3.) Make sure that you include...
   a.) every detail in the lab process
   b.) numbers that make sense or an explanation as to why the numbers didn't make sense
   and c.) evidence that relates directly to your hypothesis
If you follow those three rules, hopefully, you will make it out alive with minimal scarring.  ;)

Extra tip:
For obvious reasons, science professors don't typically write what you did wrong in your lab report, unlike the way English teachers do.  Talk to your teacher and make sure you know exactly why you were marked off.  Sometimes, I forgot a period or didn't fully correlate my hypothesis with my lab, but, other times, my teacher had no clue why they drew a red X on my lab any more than I did and consequently corrected my grade.

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I hope this helps!

Write on!

Clove

Where The Broken Things Are - Chapter 2

Random ramblings:

1. As an ENTJ, a consistent theme in my writing is the importance of emotions, trust, and other seemingly-irrational elements in mental rationality.  In The Immortals, I sort of dabbled in that theme, but I didn't fully explore it, explain it, or exemplify it as I hope to do in Where The Broken Things Are.  That said, prepare for an intricate combination of philosophy and tragedy with a departure from my previous style, which emphasized action and witty dialogue.  I'm taking a much darker and more intellectual twist on this novel than I ever would have dreamed.  :)

2. As of right now, this story does not end happily in the conventional sense.  I leave some problems unsolved and leave a sense of wanting for closure because, in many cases, such is life.  Unfortunately, many difficulties must be escaped, not confronted, and I hope to digress on the mental courage and personal stability that is required to run away from difficulties in a satisfactory manner.

3. Quite a flip-flip from the original DWBSN when everything was written from Silvia's (formerly: Deidre's) perspective, I've decided to write Where The Broken Things Are entirely from Skain's perspective because I still know too little about IXFPs as a whole to write in their voice.  Still, my goal in this entire story is to make Silvia as likable as possible, so bear with me.  She still gets her spotlight.

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Chapter 2

- HE MET HER -

Noises and voices.

  Wake up.

I exist again.  In a lot of pain.

Shaking spreads the aching through my body, pushing against the darkness and nudging my numb senses with feeling.  The warm, autumn sun.  Dried blood on my skin.  Every bruise and laceration.  As the rough jolting continues and the pain mounts, I let out a weak noise of protest, unable to find strength to fight against the hands that hold me.

“Mom, careful!  You’re hurting him!”

“Then—”  Unladylike swearing and grunting.  “—here, help me.  Take this arm.”

These voices…

I don’t recognize them.

As I’m hoisted by my armpits off the ground, the aching penetrates through my mental fog.  Every rattle of my heels against the cracked ground sends sharp shivers through my brain.  Moaning loudly, I reach to press down the headache with my hands, but a stronger force stops me.

“Don’t move.  We’re almost to the car.”

“Y-you’re going to the hospital.  It’s going to be all right.  Just hold on; we’re almost there.”

Suddenly, the hands on my shoulders let me down, and, helpless, I hit the pavement with the back of my head, forcing down a reflexive gasp.  That last jar sends the remnants of haze back into the recesses of my mind, and I open my eyes, blinded momentarily by the whitish sky above me.  It’s still early afternoon, so I wasn’t out for very long.

  Above me is a woman who looks like she could be my mother.  Her features are drawn in concerned and stressed lines, and she’s fishing in her pockets for car keys.  Brushing a hand over her eyes, a teenage girl drops to her knees in front of me, saying, “Are you all right?  We’re going to take you to a hospital, okay?  It’ll be all right; I promise you’ll be okay.  Can you stand?”

Considering I can hardly keep my eyes open?

Probably not.

  Pain quakes in my head, and I wince, gritting my teeth as the darkness lines my vision.

  Who are these people?

  Do I…know them?

Why are they helping me?

Suddenly wary of a trap, I struggle up to my elbows, looking around for others who might be around, but there’s no one.

  It’s just her.

  It’s only her.

  She leans forward.  Are her eyes green?  They’re grossly red, swollen, and flooded with tears, though I don’t know why she’s crying at a time like this; it just seems so absurd.  Carefully, she reaches forward and strokes my hair away from my face, and I realize she’s combing out my blood as brownish flakes fall past my line of vision.

  Her hands are shaking.

Her lips are trembling.

She must be very weak.

  And yet, ironically, she’s the one saving me.

  The car beeps as it unlocks.  The older woman opens the backseat door, and, with a lot of pushing and pulling, they somehow manage to get me in.  Dizzy at the exertion and sudden movement, I close my eyes as “Mom” ducks into the driver’s seat and “Daughter” sits next to me, keeping steady vigil over me while quietly apologizing to her mom for her breakdown.

  We start off.

  The darkness is close again.

I’m about to not exist again.

The road and the headache both rattle me from the inside out.  Leaning my head back and swallowing, I curl my hands into fists and try not to think: about the pain, about these two and where I’m going, about Jaiden and her gang, and about the hospital drugs and Dad and his disappointment.  But what else can I do but think and breathe?  I’m trapped again in the world of existence, waiting to vanish again, waiting for escape.

  It all comes so quickly.

  The sluggishness, the gray edges.  Then, soon, I’ll slump unconscious with this as my last memory: the sun on my right side, the cool air-conditioning blowing against my knees, and a rich, relaxing scent that I can’t identify wafting through the car.

Just as I’m about to fade out, a small, quivering hand wraps softly around my left fist.

  Is she scared?  Anxious?  Shocked?

  “Whatever,” I mumble to myself, “She’s weak, and that’s all that matters here.”

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Write on!

Clove

Where The Broken Things Are - Chapter 1

Catch-up update:
What happened to my November novel?  Sickness.  Lots and lots of sickness.  For the first week, I wrote a few pages of fun stuff, but then I spent the next three weeks in survival mode with the flu that was followed immediately by what we guessed is strep (they ran out of strep tests at the doctor's office) followed by an antibiotic that didn't work followed by an antibiotic that did work but made me painfully lethargic.  Thanksgiving break was school catch-up, and then it was the finals crunch right after that into December.

Life never ends, does it?
Let's all agree to forget I ever attempted such a silly writing stunt.  :P

Regardless, I still come bearing good news.  I was recently up at 2 AM one night (morning?) talking to my genius ESTJ older brother about the stories that we keep saying we're going to write but never really do, and that conversation gave me an epiphany about Where The Broken Things Are (which is my new name for my DWBSN rework) so that I have now been marching forward with happy ease.  Yay for no more complications!  :D
Also, more good news.  This rad Cali chick also advised me to focus more on production and leave editing for later and for others, which means that I'm going to be flinging all of my raw junk up here as I produce it.  As always, edits are quite welcome, but please remember that this is my prematurely-delivered firstborn and its mother is far less confident than she acts on a regular basis.  ;)

Without further ado...

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Chapter 1

- ON THE BRINK OF TARTARUS -

Suffocating…

If I say that I was born suffocating, then I have never known air for the nineteen years I have existed in my mind.  But, if I have never had breath, then how do I know that this is actually suffocating?

Maybe everyone else is just that much better at hiding their suffocation than I am.

  Or maybe I have always been afloat.

Maybe being afloat is just this miserable.

Maybe everyone goes through life like this: struggling, writhing, begging for it to all be over.

But when I compare myself to them, I feel like there is no way we could all be suffocating.  They  seem to always find the time to inhale and exhale in their ups and downs.  They ride life, floating atop it and occasionally collapsing beneath the foam, but always surfacing again.  I can tell what I look like to them.  Their eyes spark; they laugh; they get together and celebrate life, even amidst the busyness.  To them, I must be a vague unknown with permanent marks of darkness under my eyes and more depth in my shadow.

  “Why does he always look tired?”

“I heard he works in the Rawks…”

“That’s so gross.  Look at how pale his skin is.”

I’ve heard them.

And I can’t blame them.

  How would they know what’s going on in my life if I hadn’t told them?

  How would I know what’s going on in their lives unless if they told me?

But, at my core, I’m scared to ask, I guess.  If I plucked up the courage to question if they drown the same way I do - what if they so no?  What if this is just me?  What if I am alone in this muffled ocean?  How could I bear to go on then, knowing that I have been entirely defeated and that I am distanced from everyone else?

I can’t ask.

That would be suicide.

  Inhaling slowly, my eyes open as my mind staggers from the black.  I still haven’t been moved; they haven’t moved either.  Like always, they leave blows that I’ll feel later so I can remember that it’s not over merely when I fade out.

They keep telling me that: I don’t exist only when my mind is awake.

I keep refusing to believe it.

  Jaiden’s booted feet are before me, gliding atop shards of sparkling granite set into asphalt.  The same fragments that hold her up leave cold imprints in the side of my face, and I watch, fitted and snug with the ground, as Jaiden slowly pulls her foot up, revealing the blood on her heel.  Instinctively, my eyes close again, and my nails dig into my palms.  There’s a ringing in my ears, like the rush of a waterfall and a clear, high bell.

  Then I feel the impact against my head, and the philosophical musing of today is over.

  I exist no longer.

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Write on!

Clove