Hehe, I need a moment

So I was catching up on all the Youtube videos that I haven't seen over the last fortnight ('cause, yay, finals time with school), and I found this video by Sam Tsui and Kurt Schneider.  This is totally an author moment, but, legitimately, I never realized how perfectly 'Immortals' and 'Centuries' by Fall Out Boy fits The Immortals (a short story that I wrote that should be published very, very soon), and Entropy (the sequel, which I'm writing now).

"They say we are what we are,

but we don't have to be.

I'm bad behavior, but I do it in the best way."

"I try to picture me without you, but I can't."

"Sometimes, the only pay-off for having any faith

is when it's tested again and again - everyday.

I'm still comparing your past to my future.

It might be your wound, but they're my sutures."

"Just one mistake

is all it will take.

We'll go down in history."

"I never meant for you to fix yourself."

"We've been here forever,

and here's the frozen proof.

I could scream forever.

We are the poisoned youth."

"You're a cherry blossom.

You're about to bloom.

You look so pretty, but you're gone so soon."

Hehe, yeah, uber small personal fangirl moment.  Moment is now over.



Aaanyway, here's an update of my writing life:
1.) I'm, of course, still writing Entropy.  ^.^  Ash and Jewel sometimes have too much fun.
2.) I'm co-writing a story with the lovely and enormously...creative (?) Molly, which has been quite an adventure.  (I thought I was both gory and insane until I let her create a character who basically manipulates and breaks my character's will to live.)  Maybe if she lets me, I'll post a bit of our freakish creation later.  XD
3.) Poetry and lyrics are always a must, scribbled on napkins, notepads, my hand (which is bad because I made a really good line and lost it when I took a shower TT_TT).  *does not advise*
4.) And, lastly, I've been having a lot of fun with this Tumblr blog, which is basically everything I ever wanted to know about any character I'd ever create.  :)  Hip hip hooray for all the obsessive INFJs in this world.  x)

Write on!
Clove

Notepad by NF

"You and I - we've been through a lot together, and I look back and I just, uh, I appreciate all the times that we had together, you know?  I remember just going down in my room, and you know dealing -- trying to deal with some things, and you have always been there for that.  Always.  It's me and you.

You and I been best friends ever since I was a young kid.
Everything we did,
where has time went?
Got a lot of years coming up ahead of us and ever since we met,
I knew we'd get somewhere,
but the fact is I ain't really, I ain't really know when.
I don't really know how either,
but I can feel the goosebumps,
my skin,
writing.
I've been waiting for the moment.
You and I gon' make it happen.
Lot of people thinking we ain't gonna make it rapping.
I ain't got a problem with 'em, though.
They don't even matter.
We ain't looking for the people tryna say that we the baddest.
No, never liked that.
Came a long way; never did it for the money.
We ever make it big; I'm a give it to the family.
Looking back now, everything is lookin' funny.
You and I in the room writing
up late when the moon strikes us.
We don't care if they do like us.
Writing song for the haters we ain't even got yet.
Free-styling somebody turn the mic up.
Talking bout things we don't really understand,
talking bout things we don't really comprehend,
me and you tryna get it.
We ain't quitting 'til the end.
Now I'm standing on stage tryna give it to the fans.

We took that karaoke machine from our room, and, ah, we put it up to the CD player and played the instrumentals.  Man...we've come a long way, a long way.

I made a lot of mistakes.
You've been there for the whole thing,
help me with the drama.
Rapping in the car outside daily,
we don't care if it's the winter; we don't care if it's the summer.
I remember writing raps with the curse words.
I just wanna hear it.
It seems like everybody does it,
did it for a while, wasn't into all the cussing.
Trying to find who I was,
being everything I wasn't,
real life, yeah!
Gotta lot of anger,
you know where I'm at:
put it all over the pages
and wrote in in the raps,
so that we could be amazing
if I give us a chance.
Now I'm looking around like,
yeah, look at where we at,
look at where we at now.
We ain't made it yet, but they can hear us in the background coming.
Some are gonna hate it; some are gonna love it.
I'm a put it in His hands and let God do the judging, yeah.
Remember me and you?
Always had you in the backpack, took you into school,
writing on you like it's nothing.
Lot people in the room see me scribbling on the page,
but they ain't got a clue.
No, they ain't got a clue.
Weird to begin with,
hoping, some day, I can say we made it and we did it.

You ain't nothing but a notepad to me.
Who you kidding?

You know what's crazy is this just started as something that was an escape for us, you know?  And now, I look around, and there's a lot of people going through the same things, you know, we been through, and now this music we write is actually making an impact.  It's crazy."

~ ~ ~

Writers aren't merely novelists.  We're poets, lyricists, playwrights.
And THIS.  RESONATES.

Write on,

Clove

P.S. Go support NF.  I got his album Mansion last night, and I gave every single song a 10/10.

Weird Writing Problems #2

Well, since Jace finally kicked my inner writing soldier back into action, I am happily continuing on my journey of creating non-sob stories.  *evil laugh*  However, due to my long author hiatus, I have come back with a strange new writing disease, which I affectionately call: STOP ACTING LIKE YOU'RE AN ENTP.

This disease has affected all of my characters, most of whom aren't even close to ENTPs in nature: INFJs, ESFJs, and the like.  (If you don't know what I'm talking about, then fie - and go look up Myers-Briggs because it's a beautiful system for the 5-10% of us Rationals who actually care [and for our Idealist boyfriends and girlfriends, who get involved in the system to show that they love us].  ;)  [Yeah, okay, that was a lot of stereotypes all at once; take it or leave it.])
Unfortunately, I'm not quite sure there's anything I can do about this sickness since I'm already fully infected.  Recently, I've been watching an anime whose main character is an ENTP (Edward Elric, ENTP | Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood), one of my in-real-life work associates is an ENTP, and I've been scouring every single Youtube video on Vic Mignogna's con panels that exists in the internet world (because he's an epic, voice acting ENXP).  Basically, I'm already pretty "far gone."
(And, yes, I put "far gone" in quotation marks because, as much as I want to get my story done before a certain date [i.e. the day when I become living-challenged], I really just love seeing six or seven ENTPs go at each others' throats with their snarky ingenuity.)


But, seriously, guys, ENTPs are pretty great characters.


They're surprisingly original, not necessarily in the problem-solving realm only (*cough RATIONAL STEREOTYPES cough*), but in how they speak and choose to phrase their mindsets.  They're energetic and determined, relentlessly, passionately, and simultaneously chasing after countless ideas.  And, best of all, they're knowledgable but insensitive/arrogant, which gives them plenty of room for character development.  Here's a standard description of ENTPs (for the SJs), a description of ENTPs in a post-apocalyptic survival environment (for the SPs), and an organized data spread of ENTPs' growth functions (for the NTs).  (Why don't I have a resource for NFs?  Because THEY DON'T NEED ONE, those crazy-amazing, empathetic sponges.)

Lastly, here are three habits that ENTPs tend to frequent that might help you out in your own writing to give an ENTP charrie more depth and description:
1.) Like most Rationals, ENTPs tend to have finger-tic habits.  While INTJs tend to be a bit more fidgety (playing with rings, tugging on a shirt, fiddling with glasses, etc.) and ENTJs tend to be a bit more deliberate (massaging fingers, cracking knuckles, flipping a pen, etc.), ENTPs will often tap their fingers along any available hard surface for this soft, SJ-infuriating "thump thump" sound.
2.) ENTPs also tend to move their eyes quickly when they talk.  This isn't a submissive movement, like shifting the gaze down and then back up; it's more like they're finding something stunningly interesting within the opposite walls of the room every split second, flitting their eyes back and forth and blinking fairly rapidly.
3.) Think about Robert Downey Jr. and how he constantly starts and stops sentences, not in a stuttering manner, but as if he has too many thoughts going on at once and as if all those thoughts are vying for attention so that they all kind of tumble out in a cascade of snipped, incoherent phrases.  Yeah, that's an ENTP thing.


That said, I'm now off to go rip my brain out and clean it in SJ and SP juice until it quits thinking like an NT or an NF so that I can get back to my story.  I'll let you know how my efforts go.  x)


Write on!
Clove

Text From Tonight - Why

     “I've thought about it, Clove; I thought about why.”

     Jace approaches me again, a strange dead grief in his black gaze that mirrors my mood.  From where I'm seated on the couch with my laptop in front of me, I can see clearly that our auras are running parallel tracks: neither of us really doing too hot.  Ruffled, unkempt hair, mauve half-moons of exhaustion under our eyes, compliance in our actions - life and its terrible foreshadowing of the future has crushed our wills, kept us both awake late at night, consumed our typical fervent courage.

     Still, I try to hold up, but the effort is weak.

     "So what'd you find?"

     Without responding, Jace sits down next to me and leans forward, resting his face in his hands and exhaling deeply.  I know that exhale: like he's trying to let part of his soul escape freely.  Putting my laptop aside, I lean on his shoulder and wrap my arm protectively over his back, knowing already that we've come across the same conclusion in this period of our lives.

     "What's the point, Clove?"

     His query is tight and muffled, and, when he exhales again, he shakes.  My own body tenses with nausea at the feeling of his trembling.

      "I’m sick of hearing the same words over and over," he says at last, monotone, "I know you wrote Araine and I to never be together again...because, really, I'm just you in a different world, aren't I?  So what's the point?  Until circumstances change for you, they won't change for me.  You simply don't know what it'd be like to meet again with your best friend after you've been separated for so long, so you can't write us back together."

     I don't reply to his accusations.

     I have no defense.

     "Clove," there's new pleading in his voice now, and the room suddenly goes blurry to me, "you haven't written anything in forever, and what you do write is sappy junk.  You always said that writing is a way to convey emotions, so take a good long look at what you've been releasing in the wings of your words.  It's been the same song for months, an indication of emotional stagnancy, an indication that you're giving in to quick surrender."

     My hands tighten into fists, and I bite my lower lip.

    "You weren't given heroine strengths and weaknesses for no reason.  Clove, you have the ability to change yourself, even if you can't change what you're given."  Jace pulls away from me and catches my gaze in his.  "Please.  It always seems pathetic to fight against what neither of us can help, but, if you keep zoning out like this, finding ten thousand ways to write the same dull pain, you're useless.  Get your head back in the game, idiot; I'm done listening to you whine about your lack of will when you refuse to put in the sacrifice required to improve, got it?"

    Those words, threats, demands.

    He's only too right about everything: about me, about him, about why I can't write anything solid anymore.  My hot tears drench my face silently, and I get up, angrily shoving him away and stalking out of the house for a nighttime run.

~ ~ ~

Write on!

Clove

Text From Last Night - Writing for Fun

   "Jace, do you mind?"

   Looking indignant, my dark elf companion pauses mid-stride in the middle of our office and fixes me with a steely gaze.  It's about eleven o'clock at night, and we're both trying to get some last minute work done before bed: me, with The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith (may he rest in peace and stay resting because, I swear, if he writes any more books on economy...) and Jace, with some tattered dark elven document.

   "Is my pacing really that distracting?" Jace snaps.

   "Not your pacing," I retort, "You murmur unconsciously when you read."

   He cocks an eyebrow defensively and then dangles his manuscript, written in ancient, swooping letters and marked with geometric designs, in front of my face.  "This isn't exactly child's play."

   "Yeah, well, neither is Smith."  I put down a few more notes in my outline and ask, "What are you researching anyway?"

   He laughs briefly.  "What I'm not researching is the better question.  I'm looking up communication methods between elven races, but this book seems to include a lot of other junk: creation of life forms, instilling magic into elements, magic deviations...tedious, mathematical stuff."

   "Hrngph, sounds dull."

   Speak of the devil, I think grimly as the next paragraph in my reading includes a flurry of if-then statements with pronouns without clear antecedents.  Disgusted, I push away from my laptop and turn in my swivel chair to face Jace.  "So what do you need the communication for?"

   "--ahhh, well..." Jace closes the book and sits down in the chair opposite me, a dark hue on his cheeks.  "It has been a few years since I last talked to Araine.  She doesn't know that you've put my essence in a new body yet..."

   I smile grimly and close my laptop.  "You're wasting your time, you know.  Even if you could find a way to talk to her, what good would it do you?  Your legend with her goes unwritten and unsung, not to mention you put her through some pretty intense pain.  Who's to say she'll even care anymore?"

   "Oh, please."  Jace meets my smile with an irrationally dogged seriousness that I've seen burn continually in my own eyes for too long.  "You of all people don't need me to tell you why I want to talk to her again."

   "M'yeah, maybe.  It'd be nice if you could pinpoint specifically why you want what you want, though.  Instinctive desire is dangerous desire."  I get up and stretch.  "Anyway, if you don't discover anything on your own, I'm open to writing you and her together.  I did always enjoy your relationship's dynamic."

   Jace chokes on his laughter.  "No way, darling.  I don't need your so-called help.  If I let you touch my fate again, Araine and I would end up stranded with a bunch of loco killers on a tiger-infested island that catches fire and happens to be the attack point of a massive government infiltration.  No thanks.  I'm good."

   I snort and feign incredulousness.  "Why would you assume such a mean thing about me, Jace?  I'm not that cruel of an author."
   "Hah.  Hah.  You killed me with an undeveloped dead-ringer-poison plot arc and missile shrapnel--"
   "INCORRECT.  The missile shrapnel wasn't my idea, elf.  Get your story correct."
   Jace just pushes his palm against his forehead and sighs loudly.  At his defeat, I crack up and add more kindly, "Anyway, whatever.  Just make sure you piece together your motives before you do anything reckless.  Once you find a way to contact her, it'll be harder for you to think clearly."
   "Sure."  My elf companion glances at the wall clock and mutters, "But I'll do that tomorrow.  It's late, and I'm behind on sleep, no thanks to this thing."  He waves the book and then yawns, getting out of his seat and moving upstairs.

   "Sleep well, Jace."
   "Yeah, 'night."

To be continued...

~ ~ ~

Write on!
Clove

A Second Excerpt from DWBSN Reworked

Give a year of merry thanks for new Christmas, all~

...

e_e

...

Anyway, I'm back with another excerpt from my DWBSN reworked story, only, this one, I think will probably make it into my book.

(***SORT OF SPOILERS***)
In the old version of DWBSN, Skain was forced to a sort of "gang initiation" when he joined a government rebel group (and, yes, I used a "government rebel group" instead of a straight-up bloody "gang" because everything that I wrote when I was twelve was a rip-off of the Hunger Games, wooo~ so much fangirling~!  >.<).  Throughout the whole ordeal, he was obligated to fake affection for a girl named Iris in order to save the life of his older sister and the girl he really liked (the latter of whom he was ordered to kill in his initiation, the former of whom would be killed if he failed his initiation).  However, 1.) the threat that forced him to make such a bizarre plan was really plot-holish and 2.) I didn't really flesh out the agony that he went through because I only wrote from Silvia's perspective.  ...so...in this reworked version, I wanted to do both.
(***END SORT OF SPOILERS***)

Oh, also, for those of you into MBTI who are looking at Silvia in the below and thinking, "What even, Clove, that's totally not ISTP behavior."  Yes, you're absolutely right.  After trying desperately to get Silvia ISTP and Skain ENTJ to behave, they overruled me and made Silvia into a hot-headed ENFP, which, for all intents and purposes, works better for the sake of normality and is still compatible.  (Plus, I'm pretty sure no one wants to read about how a non-emotional ISTP and a heartless ENTJ interact romantically, even if I find that particular type pairing as entertaining as a Chinese circus, which is to say: a wordy lot.)

...so, without further ado, please enjoy my new writing from Skain's perspective~  ^_^

~ ~ ~

     I shouldn’t move her.
     I shouldn’t wake her up.

     After all, even though we’re safe and alone for once, she’s sleeping remarkably lightly in my lap, her head cradled against my shoulder.  But I’m tired too, and, if I drift off, I’ll release her and probably startle her awake in the process.  Smiling weakly, I lean my face against her hair, inhale her scent, and caress her breath with my lips.  I’ve always wanted to hold her like this, and I hate myself for feeling so exhausted, but it’s been weeks since I’ve had proper rest, and that lack has started to show.
     After nearly dropping off for the nth time, I cautiously push my legs under the covers of our bed and gently lower myself to a lying position, letting Silvia slide onto the mattress next to me, the arch of her neck over my arm.  She stirs at the movement, and I turn to her warily, hoping for her own good that she stays asleep, but, much to my personal angst, her eyes flutter open after another second.
     With a massive yawn, she glances at me - and then at the clock next to me - and gives a little start.  “Oh, Skain, I’m sorry; I must’ve fallen asleep when we were talking…”
     I close my eyes and pull her closer to me.  “No, it was my mistake for gabbing for so long…”  A few seconds of peaceful silence blankets us before I add, “You’re so…fascinating to me, Silvia; I could talk to you for days and forget to eat just to hear your voice…”
     She laughs and swats me playfully.  “My voice is so great now, is it?  Don’t try to throw that one over me, silly; you’re still just a silver-tongued, rich-kid playboy.”
     “Playboy?”  I open an eye.  “You know, it’s not flattery if it’s true.”
      Smirking mischievously at her, I find myself caught between the numbing grip of sleep deprivation and the stimulating fingers of beauty.  Silvia leans over me, her hand on my sternum and in my hair, and I gaze back up at her with overwhelming affection as she tilts her chin forward and positions her mouth over mine.

     Too soon, she pulls away, and I close my eyes, drained completely of energy, as our breathing rates slow together.  Right before I drift off, though, it suddenly seems so important for me to tell her that I love her, that I love her more than I’ve ever loved a human, and that I need her.  It seems vital - I can’t lose her - and yet I can’t find the strength or will to say so before I’ve fallen asleep.

- - -

     …and, before I can dream, I’m awake.

     Warmth has spread through my whole body over the night, and, for once, I don’t feel an endless chain of exhaustion winding around me and binding me.  I’m happy here, I realize, and happiness is rare, so I savor it, reaching out slowly for Silvia.  Concerned when my hand finds only air though, I open my eyes and feel my forehead tighten when I realize the other side of my bed is made.  Quickly, I observe my surroundings: the late afternoon sun, my phone with new, emotionally abusive texts from Ice, and…

     Iris?!

     Reality crushes me swiftly.

     I turn so that she doesn’t see me and grip my mouth tightly with both hands, nauseous from grief and frustration, both of which hit me exponentially harder when stemmed from my dreams.  Sensing that something’s wrong, Iris puts down the schoolbook she was reading and walks over to me.

     “Are you all right, Skain?”

     My arm hides my tears, and I reply evenly in a muffled voice, “Yeah.  I’m fine.”
     “Okay.  It’s almost five o’clock.  Do you want to leave soon?”

     Leave soon.
     To dinner.
     On a date.

     Because I’m trying to save Silvia.
     Because I love her, and, right now, she thinks that I’m heartless…
     …and, to an extent, certainly I have to be to do this to her.

     Iris sits at the edge of my bed and runs her fingers over my back; I struggle to not lash out at her or shove her away from me, but there’s nothing I want more than that.  Instead, I take a deep, shaking breath and reply, “Yeah…” My head is still down, and I wipe the dampness away from my eyes as I get up, my body still sore from all the work I’ve done recently.  “Let me get cleaned up really quick, and then we can go.”
     Iris nods, and I smile weakly at her, grabbing my phone and heading to the relative privacy of the bathroom.

     As soon as I lock the door and throw on the sink water, I’m back on the ground, gripping the toilet and trying desperately to conquer the waves of sickness that keep sweeping me.  Only sheer willpower keeps me from heaving, and, when the urge has left, I lean back with sweat soaking my shirt and glance at my phone, quickly reading through the texts from Ice:

     Sent 4:15 P.M.: What a heartbreaker you are.  Already taking on a new girl?
     Sent 4:16 P.M.: I guess this means Silvia didn’t teach you a THING about love if you’re still relying on romance as an emotional crutch.
     Sent 4:16 P.M.: Dad will be so disappointed, little bro.
     Sent 4:16 P.M.: …but that’s your life, isn’t it?  Just don’t do anything you’ll regret later.

     The messages end there, and I let the phone drop out of my trembling hands.

     Somehow, I’m going to do this.
     Somehow, I’m going to get through today.

     I just don’t see how when my legs won’t even support me.

     Grabbing the countertop for support, I throw off my shirt - my bruises are still visible, so Silvia’s must be too - and wash my face and neck with cold water, trying to stop sweating.  Eventually, my body returns to a normal temperature - though the marks of true, extended fatigue are still present - and I grab a towel, wiping myself off and opening the door.  Iris starts at the sight of me, and I get a new shirt out of the dresser next to my bed with decided neutrality.

     “All right.”  I duck into my new shirt, and Iris’ face morphs from light pink to dark red when I grab her hand and kiss her lightly on the cheek.  “Shall we go, beautiful?”

     Shall we go and convince Ice that you’re my sacrificial lamb?

~ ~ ~

Write on!
Clove

Text From Today - Frame of Mind

Today, I was challenged by my older brother to make a character bio based off of this song, but, because I'm so psyched to have my best friend back from college for the holidays, I came up with two sketches.  BOOM.  ;D  Thus, here's my best attempt at song translation and correlating story crafting.  Feel free to take either of the below ideas and run with them, mildly cliché and uncut as they are.

For now, you can stay.

Right here, we will play

until, somehow, you can find

a slightly different Frame of Mind.

Right here in my arms,

away from all harm,

you'll be safe from all the flares,

although I know you don't care.

You can lift your head up to the sky,

take a deeper breath, and give it time.

You can walk the path among the lines

with your shattered Frame of Mind.

Instead, you could always stay.

We can wait right here and play

until, somehow, you can find

a slightly better Frame of Mind.

When they say you will fall,

you can reach nothing at all.

Hide your tracks

beneath the rind

of a different Frame of Mind.

Is that what you heard?

Broken words in the dirt,

yelling out into the Sun,

"Here we come!

Here we come!"

You can lift your head up to the sky,

take a deeper breath, and give it time.

You can walk the path among the lines

with your shattered Frame of Mind.

I wish that you could always stay.

We can wait right here and play

until somehow you can find

a slightly better Frame of Mind.

You can lift your head up to the sky,

take a deeper breath, and give it time.

You can walk the path among the lines

with your shattered Frame of Mind.

Instead, you could always stay.

We can wait right here and play

until somehow you can find

a slightly better Frame of Mind

And when daylight comes through,

when the day is anew,

then it will be time

for a new Frame of Mind.

When all eyes are on you,

you will know what to do

since you will have found

your new Frame of Mind.

When you lift your head up to the sky,

take a deeper breath, and give it time.

You can walk the path among the lines,

but always know that you'll be safe.

I'll be here throughout your days.

Come find me and we will play.

~ ~ ~

MODERN DAY AMERICA SETTING

   This is the theme of an aged father whose young, ambitious son was enlisted into the Air Force.  During the holidays when the son comes back home - now feeble and indecisive - the father realizes that his son has post-traumatic-stress-disorder and can't often sleep for more than a few hours at a time, but the son brushes off each nightmare with a weak smile.

   Still concerned, the father takes his son on several outings - from the park where they played football so many years ago to the local burger place where they often shared a milkshake - and tries to instill in his son a reason for fighting: to protect those that he loves, to preserve the memories, to create a better future for progeny.

   By the time the son must be deployed again, he has a new Frame of Mind: of courage, patriotism, and overwhelming love for his family.

MEDIEVAL AGES SETTING

   This is the theme of a brother pair whose parents were murdered by a villainous force.  While the younger brother grieves, the older brother cultivates hatred until, when the mourning is over, he is restlessly preparing to take revenge.  Soon, the younger brother finds out about his older brother's plans and attempts to stop him from taking such drastic action with such twisted motives.

   "If you think murder will help you heal grief," the younger brother pleads, "you'll end up just like them."

   However, the older brother is resolute, and, on the day of his departure, the younger brother sadly reminds his older brother - who he know he will lose just as he lost his parents - that safety will always be at home.

Write on!

Clove