Choose Your Own Adventure!

Rainy days, car rides, or sleepy afternoons are the perfect opportunities for adventure. There were days when I would crawl out of bed with my mother's hand-quilted covers wrapped around me like a cocoon. I would run my fingers along the spines of the few books I had collected in grammar school, already bent and dirty from too much love. I could hear by brother waking up in the next room. Smiling to myself, I plucked a particular book and dashed into his room, most likely to jump on his bed and pummel him (playfully, of course), until he agreed to play a game with me.

Even for my brother, who hated to read, there was a certain type of book he was loath to pass up reading. They're called, I think, Choose You Own Adventure books or simply gamebooks. Are you familiar with them?

These are books you can't read from cover to cover. You, the reader, are the main character of the story - meaning, the whole book is written in second person point of view (incredibly impressive). Your job is to follow the directions at the bottom of each page, telling you which page to turn to next, or, even better, making you decide between two different paths. You're in the forest a night and you hear a twig break behind you. Keep walking to the cabin and ignore the noise? Turn to page 26. Pull your baseball bat out of your backpack and go find out who made the noise? Turn to page 134.

My first exposure to these types of books was through R. L. Stine's Goosebumps series. My brother was the great collector of the series... by default. He hated reading The Boxcar Children, so relatives looking for a great gift would run out and buy Goosebumps books for him instead. He didn't read them, though, unless someone did it for him, haha.

When we did stumble upon the "Give Yourself Goosebumps" series, it was hard to say no to a tantalizingly new way to play with books. The holographic cover, with it's freaky pictures, were as appealing to our eyes as rare Pokemon cards. The two of us would park it on a couch or on one of our beds and take turns reading the pages out loud. We would often argue about what page to turn to when it came time to make a decision - it was always important to choose the right page. Making the wrong decision could result in a "bad ending," meaning that you'd find yourself either transformed, trapped, or most likely dead by unfortunate circumstances. In order to avoid the bad ending, I think everyone has cheated. At least once. Cheating, meaning, holding the pages with your fingers or bookmarks so that, if you get a bad ending, you can go back and choose the right one. I'm so guilty of this. When I opened one of books in order to write this post, I saw I still had post-it notes still stuck inside the front cover flap - at the ready! Haha!

My favorite bad ending ever is from book one of the series called Escape from the Carnival of Horrors. If you somehow end up on that side of the carnival (the one with the rides, not the midway), you may end up facing the Doom Slide. You are given a series of at least five or six choices on this one. You have no choice but to pick a slide - but which one? If you choose the wrong numbered slide, you might end up sliding for all eternity! Ahh! I won't tell you which one is the never ending slide, but I will give you an idea of what happens. This is an excerpt from that page; I typed it up because I really wanted indenting, haha (and I won't cite the page number for obvious reasons):

Whew! *shivers* I was wildly scared of this ending, every time. I couldn't image what it would be like to do anything forever. My grown-up brain is wondering exactly how long it would take for me to burn a hole through my pants, and if, since I'd be sliding all eternity, I would have a butt at all by the time I died. Painful. What would happen if I decided to end it sooner, or see if I could escape somehow by rolling off or propelling myself off the slide? Would the slide just double-back and catch me as I fell, or would I fall forever? If I got bored, could I have a conversation with the voice that told me I'm doomed? This may be why I love this ending so much - it makes me think.

In researching a bit for this post, I'm shocked to discover that Stine wrote forty-two of these books. Oh my gosh. I had always hoped to collect all of these books, but now my dream is dashed against the side of a craggy cliff. I guess I should be happy with what I have:

#1 Escape from the Carnival of Horrors

#2 Tick Tock, You're Dead!

#3 Trapped in Batwing Hall

#4 The Deadly Experiments of Dr. Eek

#15 Please Don't Feed the Vampire

Judging by the numbers, you can see that we must have gotten them around the time they were first being released. Why the jump to #15? Well, I just found Please Don't Feed the Vampire a few weeks ago at a small shop. It was very exciting, haha.

On a less spooky note, I found an old book that works the same way as these Goosebumps books do. It's called The Magic of the Unicorn by Deborah Lerme Goodman. The illustrations are beautiful; I'm looking at it right now, wishing I could read it for the first time. I'm actually two books away from finishing Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events, so I'm banning myself from starting anything new before then (I'm a chronic multi-reader). Because if this delay, I'll type out the blurb for Goodman's book:

"Only a unicorn's horn can purify the water in your medieval village - so you set off to find a unicorn. After a long search you meet a sorceress who promises to help you. She offers you a choice between two spells. One will give you the power to speak to animals. The other will weave you a golden net for catching magical beasts. Which spell will you choose?

If you choose to speak with animals, turn to page 44. If you choose the golden net, turn to page 49. Take heed! The realm of the unicorn is perilous. You may be burned to a cinder in a dragon's fire or turned into a tree by an evil wood-witch. Or you may find the unicorn and bring it home in triumph!"

Take heed! These books are addicting! I wish I could say I've grown out of them, or that I've put these books up for sale or sent them to another loving family in a donation bin. I would be lying. I have plans for these books, most involving sitting down with friends and traversing the scary, quirky worlds these authors have created. Now this, ladies and gents, is a worthy adventure.

Tea and Finger Sandwiches (Fingers Not Included)

This post is more or less about food. Food blogging is popular, isn't it? It's one of those extremely fruitful blogging trends, much like the ever-popular fashion blogs. At least, that's what my peek at Bloglovin' has revealed. It's disheartening to see that the most blogs under "literature" have an average of three followers. That's where I am - huzzah! Representin' in the lit category, haha.

I can understand why food is so popular. I actually watch way too much of the Food Network. Whenever a competition or some behind-the-scenes food history show comes on, I just can't look away. It's so fascinating. It must be the joyful atmosphere that naturally comes when people flock together to enjoy a good ice cream sundae that is so attractive.

I've been drinking a lot of tea lately. We have way too many in the closet, so my mom's plan is to make giant glasses of them to stick in the fridge. She's even been combining different teas to make some rather pleasant concoctions. The last one was a raspberry and chamomile tea combo. Delicious.

This is very important. My top three favorite flavors of tea:

Cinnamon Plum

Almond

Strawberry

My mom and I had some cinnamon plum tea the other day. We sat together, drinking from our very plain blue mugs in silence. Well, she was. I was grading and staring longingly at my steaming cup. She had asked me what I was waiting for, and I merely shrugged and said, "Well, I might as well finish one more paper. It's probably still too hot for me."

"But it's been sitting there for fifteen minutes already."

"I can't drink hot stuff too well. I always burn my tongue," I said. I jabbed my finger in her direction. "It still surprises me that you can just drink it right away. It's way too hot. I bet you could drink fire if you wanted to."

And I strongly believe she could. I can picture her as a female Dustfinger from Funke's Inkheart, playing with fire like no one's business. I comfort myself my knowing that I can down very, very cold drinks with a lot more enthusiasm that she can.

I've been ruminating on tea. It's a beautiful type of drink, for many reasons. It prompts thoughtfulness and relaxation. I found some great quotes I wanted to share that capture that softer spirit:

The mere chink of cups and saucers tunes the mind to happy repose. ~George Gissing, The Private Papers of Henry Ryecrof

We had a kettle; we let it leak: Our not repairing made it worse. We haven't had any tea for a week... The bottom is out of the Universe. ~Rudyard Kipling

Never trust a man who, when left alone in a room with a tea cozy, doesn't try it on. ~Billy Connolly

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me. ~C.S. Lewis

And, of course, where would we be without special cups to drink tea out of? There are so many, and it's hard to say which ones are the best. For no reason other than being proud to have the knowledge, I want to be able to memorize popular brands of tea cups like Wedgewood of Ginori (hahaha, not Corelle). I feel like the knowledge might come in handy someday. And how? Well, I don't know. But it's got to be exciting. Here are some cups I wish I had to drink my tea out of (from We Heart It, again):

Pretty, eh? And they have humor to them. I confess I don't have any fancy tea cups. I just have some plain mugs I grab from the cabinets. I just dunk a tea bag in water and heat it up in the microwave. Hardly romantic, but at least I admit it. And have to have sugar. A lot of it, haha.

What teas do you like? How do you enjoy it? I haven't had a tea party in a while, I could go for some chicken salad sandwiches on a croissant, or cucumbers with cream cheese. Yum! Sounds like a plan.

Publication News: Pure Francis

Oh hi! The weather's been awfully nice since the storm passed. The wind is cool and the sun is blazing; the usual duality. I've had a busy day full of smiles and handshakes and a lot of hamming it up; the reason is that the day has come when my flash fiction piece, "Polar Bear," has been published.

Check it out here!

Inspired by my black hole knowledge of folklore, a pinch of winter weather, and a strong love for apple cider, "Polar Bear" comes to you via the fantastic online literary magazine called Pure Francis. I'm happy that my piece has found a home there, and I recommend you read a few other pieces that have been printed (I quite enjoyed "Physicians' Ball" by Doug Lane and "Sunflower" by Chris Brown).

So I had to go out and celebrate this momentous occasion by doing something silly and, if I do say so myself, ham-tastic:

I'll have you know that my family and I wandered around with this button for half the day with no one commenting about it - an easy way to simmer down the ego, if you think about it. But, really, Disney cast members are only obligated to smile and wish people a happy birthday when they wear the "Happy Birthday" buttons. Oh. Nice to know the "I'm Celebrating" pin isn't worth much, haha!

I'm grinning as I'm sitting here, typing this post out, and feeling giddy and energetic. No amount of lesson planning can slow me down (I hope). I'm excited and glowing about this publication and I hope you enjoy it when you see it.

So after reading my story, I have one question to ask you (accompanied by inspiring images found on We Heart It):

Which bear do you prefer: the white bear or the brown bear?

The Eye of the Storm or "Her Morning Elegance"

I can't believe there's a tornado warning right now. As much as the Weather Channel keeps alarming us about it (and, of course the tell-tale warning beeps), I find it hard to believe. Surreal, almost. I'd sooner believe that a unicorn has been eating the flowers in the backyard. Well, I'm being stubborn. One thing Florida's not famous for is having tornadoes.

I've never experienced a tornado. It would actually be nice, if I ever got caught in one, to be transported to a different world like Dorothy (however, I really, really don't want to go to Oz). I'm tucking some graded papers back into my bag for tomorrow and wondering if they'll go flying into the atmosphere in a matter of hours. Probably not. But getting such a rare warning makes people nervous.

Only minutes ago, my mother talked about how she heard from a friend that you should put all your valuables in the dishwasher so that they don't get destroyed. Apparently, it's like hiding out in a time capsule. Or something.

Tornadoes have eyes. In the eye of the storm, there is nothing but peace. I'm trying to find that mental state as I listen to my parents flit around the house in a frenzy. So here it is for me, in a nice package: Oren Lavie. His voice is calming, the lyrics magical. His crooning puts a smile on my face and keeps my brain from nervously shaking. Please enjoy, and I'll see you all when the storm passes!

Escape Route

After two weeks of being back at school, I was chomping at the bit to go to Disney. I was doing well for a while, seeing my grad buddies again and plotting with them to sneak off during the day to a certain delicious French cafe. I greedily ate up the first two books of The Mysterious Benedict Society and found a new character to gush annoyingly about (Milligan, you're the man!).

Milligan, the man. You have no idea.

But even in spite of this, a familiar weariness set into my bones as I stayed awake for the fourth night in a row working on PowerPoints and lesson plans for my pupils. It's a tired ache that's stronger than any you'd feel on the fifth week of slaving over a research paper - trust me. It makes you long for some kind of escape; usually a quick trip into my head rectifies the situation, but when you're going to school to put your creative thoughts on paper, the imagination does not have the same magic it always used to. So real life has to come to the rescue.

Real life is Disney (Oh, haha. That's good).

Disney's Boardwalk was the exact place I had in mind ease my agitated spirits. A wild wind travels off the water that whips your hair until you run inside the stores, only to find yourself looking like a Wishnik troll. An abandoned night club that advertises dueling pianos looks rather lonely, but there's always a family kicking along by in a four-passenger Surrey bike. There's a tiny pearl shack, a lighthouse, and oh! Did I mention the shops? Only briefly. While you're furiously combing your hair back down, you might find some treasures not yet sent to the Disney Parks. This happened to me once in a glorious way. I found a t-shirt with Prince Phillip on it, and he had his arms crossed and looking proud. The shirt said, "Sorry ladies, I'm taken." How cool is that? I would have bought it immediately, except that I'm a girl (haha). The decorations in the shops are intricate and lovely. The last time I went, I noticed a painting or a carousel (and a literal carousel horse in one of the front windows) and a vintage illustration of hot air balloons. Wow.

The family and I spent most of the day exploring the hotels littered around the Boardwalk. One of my favorite things to do is wander around Disney hotels and just hang out there, sitting on the comfy couches or exploring the little shops and eateries inside. And if there's a theme to the hotel - ohmygosh. Then that's even better. I won't go into the specifics in this post, but the range of decorations spanned from vintage nautical to high-end Las Vegas style. We explored four of the hotels and waddled back on sore feet to the bakery for a bite and a good sit-down. I carried a giant (really) strawberry cupcake out to red high top table overlooking the water.

As we ate our respected desserts, I looked around me and enjoyed being still. The wind played with my bangs and threatened to make me swallow my own hair as the strands got caught in fluffy icing and red sprinkles. We were right by the ESPN Zone, complete with an ever-present line of men waiting to go inside; they clapped and cheered and stood on their toes as if celebrities were only just waiting for them inside the door. A woman sat at a table nearby (probably the wife of one of these men) with a stack of magazines and a novel. She glared at the seagull that continued to insist on occupying the table space. I grinned at the bird but forgot to offer him something.

The birds started to gather. Sparrows danced below our feet like tiny dancers on stage. Seagulls clung to the railing and surveyed the scene with proud eyes. One seagull had a feather stuck to his beak. He lowly approached our table and just stared up at me. Not begging, really, but trying to threaten me. But by then the cupcake was gone. Normally considerate of such things, I didn't drop any crumbs for the sparrows or seagulls. My parents were thankful about this, but they still teased me later on. "Yeah, why didn't you?" My mom said. "Didn't we teach you any manners?" I merely grumbled and tickled her sides. Revenge. Haha.

I breathed deeply, closed my eyes. I couldn't feel that ache anymore. It was as if someone stripped that heaviness off my bones so that I could float freely into the sky. I felt so happy. I wanted to sit at that table for another few hours. Maybe buy another cupcake but share all of it. I wanted to stay as far away from the computer and PowerPoint as I could.

But we all must return eventually. And I had to admit, as we got in the car to drive home, that I did feel refreshed enough to try again.

Possibility

Young Sally: " He will hear my call a mile away. He will whistle my favorite song. He can ride a pony backwards."

Young Gillian: "What are you doing?"

Young Sally: "Summoning up a true love spell. called Amas Veritas. He can flip pancakes in the air. He'll be marvelously kind. And his favorite shape will be a star. And he'll have one green eye and one blue."

Young Gillian: "I thought you never wanted to fall in love."

Young Sally: "That's the point. The guy I dreamed of doesn't exist. And if he doesn't exist, I'll never die of a broken heart."

- Practical Magic

After returning to school, there are some things I can’t help but think about. It must be the dense atmosphere of young adults scurrying from building to building with textbooks and bicycles. I can see trails in the grass where students made their own paths to beat the evil threat of tardiness. Yes, even in college. And then sometimes you pass the couple happily strolling along with their hands entwined like they were dolls – their fingers sewn together as they slept in plastic cocoons inside the box. You can’t help but murmur, “Well, wow. How’s that going to feel when it’s my turn?”

You can both cast a dreamy grin and adjust your bag strap, looking up the sky and wiggling your fingers as if someone was touching them back. Or you could pout and wish that Ben & Jerry’s was in your immediate, general direction.

I actually wrote something concerning this (or maybe echoing it) in one of the online novels I’m writing. Here is a full chapter from my serial novel, Birdcage Girl, where my main character Ashlyn faces her own desires head on. The chapter is called “The Prince List.”

At the age of ten, Ashlyn decided she had five qualities she expected for any man who would become her husband. She sat on her knees inside the birdcage and flattened a piece of her mother’s sketch paper. Her little face screwed up in concentration as she slowly dragged out the list with a salmon-colored crayon:

1. I have to be able to hear him approaching.

2. He should have one crooked pinky.

3. He can make homemade marshmallows.

4. He can't sing better than me, but he can play the piano from memory.

5. He must like birds.

She saved it in her scrap drawer. Over the years it got buried under other lists and other doodles. But Ashlyn still remembers it. She figures that one day, when she unearths it, she’ll either:

1. Laugh at the absurdity of the list.

2. Wonder how her ten-year-old self knew.

Before Figment decided to limit the genre boxes (ah, another kind of list), I had Birdcage Girl ticked off as a romance. And it is. It just hasn't happened yet. Ashlyn has a lot of other things on her mind than finding a boyfriend, certainly, but it doesn't mean she’s not thinking about it. Those gauzy thoughts flutter in her head – way in the back, where they’re practically abandoned. But they are there. And I can say, with every assurance, that someone will step up soon to draw that fragile gauze out and into the light.

Like Ashlyn, I’m sure there has been a time in everyone’s life where we’ve made such a list (though right now I’ll speak specifically to the girls).

You’ve heard they’re bad for you. You watch these lists burn on television in fire pits or just with the flick of a lighter’s delicate tongue.

But there’s something more to them, or to any action involving dreaming up that wonderful person.

Whether you hope your significant other has webbed feet or can make a good ham sandwich, I think it’s important to have fun with these thoughts. Don’t carry the list around with you in your purse, taking it out whenever you see a cute guy in line at the coffee shop or while waiting for your car to be repaired. Rolling it up in a tube and using it as a spyglass is much more useful than meticulously checking off the boxes.

For anyone still wanting for that special someone to walk in the door… well, there are ways to make the interval easier:

A School Morning

Ahhh. There's nothing like waking up in the morning by the sounds of three alarm clocks. I slowly opened my eyes and fumbled for each one, feeling calmer with each button I found to turn them off. Alarm clocks scare me. They always do. And if their alarms don't frighten me, I end up sleeping through them. Alas, that is why I must keep giving myself heart attacks when I need to wake up at a certain time.

My trusty cell phone is always the first to off. It's pretty scary because it vibrates at the same time, so it makes really loud buzzing noises when it skitters across the side table. The last thing I do is force myself to sit up and touch my lamp three times - tap, tap, tap - to turn it on to it's brightest lights. It's a terribly old touch lamp, but I love it because I feel like a magician when I turn it on and off.

These actions have turned into almost a set of loose rituals because without them, I'd probably just flop back onto my pillow, pull the covers up to my chin, and indulge in a little more shut eye - which can't happen, since I have to go to school.

School.

It's a pretty word, isn't it? There's something very soft about the c and the o sounds. But it carries such weight with its meaning. Who else had to get up early for school in these past few days? Okay. And then I ask: who has to get up before the sun rises?

It's funny to think that, because of the time changes, the sky is so dark in the mornings now. If I leave for school at just the right time, I drive mostly in darkness and watch the colors slowly light the sky with through the hazy lens of my windshield. The stars wave "Good Morning," and pack their glittering lights for another part of the Earth, for another planet that watches their beauty while we go to work or walk our dogs. The moon turns spidery silver and high-fives the sun. Another day and another night accomplished.

I leave early because I teach early, and I teach early because I like to be done with it. As hard as it is to wake up, I believe it is harder to troll around for a near impossible parking space and then worry about making it to the classroom in time. I'd rather rub my eyes and yawn while presenting a PowerPoint. The long days crawl by in my cubicle and my legs, unused to staying in the same attitude (they just don't remember last semester), turn to legs of pins and needles. I tap my feet so fast that even Sonic would be jealous. But when night comes again I'm in another classroom - this time as the student - whispering secrets about writing craft, and, for this semester, studying the most delicate and archaic forms of romantic comedy storytelling.

Yesterday I turned the key and opened the door to the large room full of orange cubicles (we affectionately call it the Pumpkin Patch) and stumbled past the old couch to turn on the lights. In the back, near the corner, I peeked into my own private scholarly haven for the first time since winter break began. The scraps of poems and story excepts pinned to the walls still hung next to posters of faraway landscapes and a rather large Tangled poster I had put up behind my old computer. That poster, as pretty as it is, caused me a lot of pain in my knees and hands from balancing on the table to get it successfully tacked up. Totally worth it. And, lastly, the blow-up doll of The Scream, the painting by Evard Munch, still gaped its mouth next to the computer. My home away from home. My den. I dropped my bags into the table space and plopped into the chair. I rocked back, stared at the ceiling. Another semester.

I thought about how I'll probably get antsy and need to walk up and down the stairs a few times to check my mailbox - not because there is anything in there, but because I don't know how else I'll get exercise. I imagined all the trips I'll be taking to the library, right next door to my building, and how I'll show off the treasures but never get to them under the piles of red inked papers. The last and most important thing I thought of was how I'll be continuing to write.

I can't yet see where and when new stories will come to me this semester, but I'm excited and waiting for them. To the stories I've already been writing: I'll finish you all. Some faster than others. And to others more, who might still be collecting dust until the time comes to unearth them, I will one day yet add those bows and sparkles to you.

I wish you all, who are still in school, no matter what form, a very happy and productive semester. Let's do this!