Slipper Talk

I made you many and many a song,

Yet never one told all you are --

It was as though a net of words

Were flung to catch a star;

It was as though I curved my hand

And dipped sea-water eagerly,

Only to find it lost the blue

Dark splendor of the sea.

- Sara Teasdale, "The Net"

I always view grocery shopping as an adventure. I love finding a new flavor of potato chips, admiring stunning packaging designs, and rolling my cart as if I were a tulle-trimmed skater along the tile floors. This past weekend had been particularity exciting; I found a pair of Hello Kitty shoes. Now, I like Hello Kitty, but other characters are more appealing to me (I'm not much of a pink person, besides). These shoes were black flats, with Hello Kitty's face sewed on as a patch over the toes.

I stopped the cart, gawked at them, and then check the sizes... children's shoes! Don't worry, dear readers. I was no deterred! The beauty of being short is that I can, on occasion, put my small feet to good use and do impossible things. I found the biggest size - four - and managed to slip them on with no problem. As I looked down at my feet, I was reminded of the Cinderella fairy tale. Her stepsisters tried to fit into her glass slipper but their feet were too big. I believe, in some variants, they even cut off parts of their feet to try to fit them into the slipper. I couldn't imagine cutting off my toes for these Hello Kitty shoes. But still, remembering that fairy tale put me in a bittersweet mood for the rest of the day.

Besides the small feet, I never used to associate myself with Cinderella. I didn't have stepsisters, or a stepmother, and probably did less chores than most children my age. One set of grandparents left the world early, so the remaining set, well, provided me with a grandmother who was better at finding coupons than changing a pumpkin into a coach. I wouldn't expect a stranger to crawl in through the window and change me into a girl ready for the ball. And - this is embarrassing - I never made friends with talking birds or mice.

But now that I'm older, I've found that I can understand Cinderella a little better. And acknowledge that, yes, I've done something that she had done.

Would you believe me if I said I left my glass slipper for the prince?

"She then rose up and fled, as nimble as a deer. The Prince followed, but could not overtake her. She left behind one of her glass slippers, which the Prince took up most carefully." - Cinderella

I've always felt that she left the slipper on purpose. Unless you're wearing flip flops, it's hard to just lost a shoe (without tumbling down the stairs and breaking a nose). She must have realized that, no matter how well of a time she had with the prince, she could never have hope of meeting him again without leaving a piece of her behind. You could say, in effect, that the glass slipper was a piece of her heart.

If you do believe me, then I'll tell you this: I made my slippers. Glass is too fragile, too transparent. Fur is too thick and soft. So when I reached for the materials that, I thought, would surely catch the prince's eye, I turned to paper and ink. I wrote until ink stained my fingers, until the text on the page transformed into a story wild with whale-song, lonely planets, and singing stars. The images shivered in the air like holograms, delicate as smoke, as I fashioned the tiny story-shoes around my feet. As Sara Teasdale writes, I had cast my net as best I could.

Rain drenched the walkways leading to the palace. I knew that if I wore the slippers, they would melt away like abandoned ice cream. So I kept them safe and warm inside my bag and trudged to the castle with sneakers. Water ran down my cheeks, clung to my hair, and when I stepped inside, no one paused to look at me. Unlike Cinderella, I had no gossip to precede me.

"There was immediately a profound silence. They left off dancing, and the violins ceased to play, so attentive was everyone to contemplate the singular beauties of the unknown new-comer." - Cinderella

I didn't dance with the prince either. After all, he was the one making the music. Bodies crowded the ballroom, bringing heat to the chilly, rainy evening. The music flowed into my veins and it felt, sometimes, like his voice whispered into my ears. When the ball ended, I stepped outside into the humid air; the rain passed away, leaving a trail of blurred lights and mirror-puddles. And I made sure, while holding my breath, to leave my slipper outside the castle gates. I kept the other one in my bag. A memento. Something to compare the other by if I woke up one morning the rhythm of a knock on my door.

I slept peacefully that night, awakening with the rags still clinging to my skin. The magical night seemed to be nothing but a dream, replaced my peasant thoughts like finishing homework, making breakfast, and finding quarters for my laundry.

The most important number in fairy tales is three. I've left paper-and-ink slippers twice. Perhaps the third time will be the charm.

First Photo from We Heart It, Last from SurLaLune.

Rain, Rain, Rain

At this time of year, Florida likes to hoard the world's rain. I dream of the land crying out in greedy thirst, spreading its sticky nets from every corner of the state line to catch unsuspecting clouds. We don't need all this rain. Not really. At least, that's what I think when I jog to my car each morning, covering my head with my hands until I've come close enough to unlock it and slide in. Thunderstorms paint the sky with flashes like spotlights, as if Batman is being called by someone greater than the local police. Sun showers make me smile; the clear drops splatter my windshield like globs of pudding.

Summer rolls on by with her meaty arms and watermelon-breath, refusing to give me the rest I think should come with a few months off from school. Instead, she lifts her armpits and humidity flows into the air. If I were only a little lighter, I bet I could swim up over the rooftops like a fish.

I used to think that rain was beautiful. As a child, I watched the rain drip, drip, drip off the trees and abandoned toys in the backyard. I'd stick my hands in puddles and watch the ripples distort my reflection. I liked when the rain was cold, so I'd come inside with a red nose. This was back when I lived in a world of changing seasons and kinder temperatures.

Today, I sit by the window and watch the rain fill the pool until it overflows. The rubber duck thermometer bobbed bravely and never leaves the deep end. The chair legs shiver when the water spills onto the deck.

"It looks like snow," I say to my cactus. It's been around for years, insisting on growing in an unhealthy shape - ready to dive from its pot.

Sometimes I can't tell the difference between snow and rain. Snow, in many ways, is merely a whispered legend in these parts.

***

So suffice to say, it's been raining a lot. I've been more busy now than I have been all summer, balancing work, future semester prep, and writing furiously to meet my self-imposed deadline for Birdcage Girl. The days pass slowly, and yet, at the same time, I can't believe that summer vacation ends in just a few short weeks. Strange too that I haven't lifted any of my new video games (poor, lonely dears) or made a dent in my pile of unwatched movies. But hopefully I'll have a complete first draft of a novel manuscript. And that just might be worth it all.

Great news! The witty and all-powerful Linna over at sleuthy has interviewed me on my writing (among other things). I'm honored that she asked me. It's my first time being interviewed about writing and the like, so I'm smiling and blushing all over from seeing it up. Linna's words are so kind and it's fun to see her own view on my writing style.

I talk about quirks, not-so-old ambitions, fairy tales, and, of course, writing. For anyone who's read any of my Figment writing, you might find it especially fun to read.

Check it out here

Photo from We Heart It

Tidbits: July Edition

Picture / Photo Find

Something I Did

Sometimes I'm in the mood to watch marathons of wedding shows. I like to marvel about the dresses and shake my fist with the disgruntled wedding consultants who deal with troublesome clients. I gasp at evil brides and, well, gasp again that the amazing displays of expensive parties. And watching those shows can really skew reality when it comes to the real purpose of weddings.

I attended my first wedding this past weekend. Just thinking about it kept my mind buzzing; I fell behind in almost everything, including my blogging, haha. Technically, I've been to weddings before - but I was too young to remember. So when I was invited to a friend's wedding, I jumped at the chance to celebrate with her and find out what it's really like to attend such a happy gathering.

I grinned like a fool when I saw my friend in her lovely wedding dress; the ukulele strummed "The Way I Am" by Ingrid Michaelson, people dabbed at their eyes, and the groom waited with his a smile. They both made faces at each other to ease the tension and the love between them carried on in the air well after the music stopped playing. We listened to poetry during the ceremony (which was fantastic - I'd like that for mine one day) and the vows they wrote themselves gave a precise indication that, yes, these were two creative people in love.

The lights dimmed at dinner and we donned our 3D glasses; the candlelight bloomed hearts when we wore them. I had come with a few friends from school, and we sat back and talked about how our summers were going and the deliciousness of the stuffed peppers served with dinner. I felt warm and happy, even surrounded by people I'd never met before. The atmosphere was like nothing I've experienced - perhaps this is why Shakespeare liked to end his comedies with a wedding. And I realized this: More than anything else you could have at a wedding - fancy placeholders, table decorations, fresh flowers - the most important thing is to be surrounded by people who love you. I know that sounds incredibly mushy, but it's how I feel, haha. So, I think, I need to keep making many humorous and heart-warming friends :D

A Quote from a Book I Love

A friend of mine (not the wedding friend, haha) once recommended this book called The Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge. I hadn't gotten to read it right away, but it mysteriously showed up at a bookstore while I wandered one day, and I took the little paperback home with me and devoured it within a day (bad habit of mine, haha). There is a movie based loosely on this book, called The Secret of Moonacre, but I promise you that it's very different from the book. So I suggest you read the book first, and then enjoy the movie, haha.

One of the aspects of the book I thought was lost with the changes into film is the relationship between the heroine, Maria, and her friend named Robin. So, in honor of the two of them, I'll quote from the first time Maria thinks about Robin, upon moving in with her uncle in his mysterious home:

"Wiggins was deeply asleep at once, but Maria lay for some time between sleeping and waking, thinking of the beautiful park through which she had driven to this lovely house and imagining herself running up one of its glades. And then her fancy became a dream and she was in the park, with the scent of flowers about her and spring trees talking to each other over her head.

"But in her dream she was not alone, Robin was with her, running beside her and laughing. And he was just the same - just as he had been when in her childhood she had been sent to play in the Square garden, and had felt lonely, and he had come running through the trees to companion her loneliness. He was just exactly her age - or perhaps a little older, because he was a head taller than she, and much broader.

"There was nothing ethereal about Robin - very much the opposite; which in face proved to Maria that he was a real boy and no mere creation of her imagination..."

Song I Can't Stop Repeating

"Walnut Tree" by Keane

Keane's an old favorite of mine, but I always seem to find more songs by them that I've never heard of. This one is so haunting and gentle. Lyric time!

Once there was a great storm,

Pushed my head beneath the waves,

I was gone.

Underneath the walnut tree,

Where you said you'd wait for me,

And I waited a long, long time

A Writer Thing

Speechlessness. When is it do you find that words fail you? Maybe you see an painting hanging at a museum that makes you pause and stare. Perhaps you found your grandmother's old photo album and leaf through a old black-and-white story. I've been relying on the written word a lot more than I used to, the more immersed I get in my grad school endeavors. Sometimes I dream about words. I have tea with them. We play miniature golf. But sometimes there comes a moment where I open and close my mouth like a fish, trying to summon words and finding them gone as a giant broom has blown by and swept them away.

And when I feel this way about another piece of writing, it often scares me. I want to respond. I want to send out the email, the letter, the postcard that expresses my wonder and excitement in just the right way. Or any way at all. That word-broom is a good one. I might have to replace my vacuum if this keeps up.

On the flip side, I wonder if someone will feel this way about my own writing. I'd feel bad about it, actually, if the gaping fish syndrome were to fall on an enthusiastic reader. I think I've gotten so used to hearing back, and talking with my readers, that it surprises me to have a troll reader now and then (since I'm mainly referencing my Figment.com experience here, I guess it's okay to call them trolls, haha). I have to remember what it's like again, to stare a blinking cursor until my eye's tear up from, well, staring. If only there was some substitute for words, just when you need it, that makes the message clear.

Video I Watched Too Many Times

So, you all already know how much I love silhouettes. Well, here's a vision of magic, haha! I wish I could do something like this, but I think my high school art classes assured me of failing at eyeballing the world realistically (Hmm... that may have something to do with my writing, haha).

Food I'm Craving

New Potatoes, guys. Have you tried them yet? I'll preface here by saying that I'm not a big potato fan. I do eat french fries and love potatoes in soup, but I won't choose a baked potato or mashed potatoes over most sides. However, I'm madly in love with new potatoes. My supermarket doesn't sell them fresh, but I picked up some cans of them to try - and they're delicious. Kind of like the lychee nut of potatoes, haha. The main difference between new potatoes and regular potatoes is that the new ones are picked immaturely. That's it. And someone, there's something mystical in this act of early picking that creates a great taste.

I've been chopping up the new potatoes, added onions, and drizzled them with garlic-flavored vinegar. I'm not anything like a chef (Queen of the Microwave), but it's really easy and tasty.

Photos from We Heart It

The Bloody Chamber - Angela Carter

Anyone who knows me in some capacity can tell you, without a doubt, that I love fairy tales. I can't say my parents had willingly reared me to love stories with sneaky spindles, lovelorn mermaids, and enchanted bridegrooms. However, I've been told that those were the stories I'd choose to read over anything else. Perhaps a tiny fairy godmother tapped me with her wand while I slept in my crib; she poured fairy tales into my veins.

That being said, I'm not a big fan of the movement to retell fairy tales in their darkest capacities. Blood, gore, adultery, abuse... this list goes on with common themes that make me cringe. This trend is reaching novels, but for the most part I'm talking about fairy tales short stories that tend to get published in literary magazines these days. I completely understand that most fairy tales were, in fact, vulgar and the symbolism involved in each tale bridged the gap between childhood and adulthood. But all these new pieces of fairy tale lore often make my stomach turn. And I'm not a squeamish person (In fact, I watched three Hellraiser movies in a row last weekend and loved every second of it, haha).

The thing is, I want to read retellings that carry me away with creative imagery and inventive worlds. I want quirky characters, plot twists that make my jaw drop, and a playful exploration of the symbolism each original tale carries with it. I don't want to fall down into the cracks of a day-less cave and wonder how many tears I'll shed before finding my way to the end of the book.

These feelings have prevented me from purchasing a copy of Angela Carter's fairy tale collection called The Bloody Chamber. Carter is a heavy-hitter in the literary world, but her writing has always been known to reach the very bottom of darkness and sensuality. I had read her stories over the years from different anthologies and loved them - but I had been worried that I was only seeing some of the more tame stories in the collection. I wondered what I was missing and if reading through the collection would be worth trudging through the trenches of the inner soul. Well, I was ready for it now.

After reading The Bloody Chamber, I can say, with absolute satisfaction, that Carter's retellings were amazing. Each one has its own creative spin and language, and the stories in the collection are arranged to that each one, in some way, naturally leads to the next one. That's expert structuring. Unlike some of the writers whose retelling work makes me shudder in horror and boredom, Carter used these darker themes to create unfettered worlds and character that make you think they have sprung from beautiful, jewel-tone paintings.

But the most wonderful part of The Bloody Chamber is the language. So from some of my favorite stories in the collection, I've plucked sentences that may not explain the plot, but show how intricately crafted each story is, even down to the word choice.

The Bloody Chamber

"I should have liked, best of all, a novel in yellow paper; I wanted to curl up on the rug before the blazing fire, lose myself in a cheap novel, munch sticky liquor chocolates. If I rang for them, a maid would bring me chocolates."

The Courtship of Mr. Lyon

"Before, however, he could announce his presence, the door swung silently inward on well-oiled hinges and he saw a white hall where the candles of a great chandelier cast their benign light upon so many, many flowers in great, free-standing jars of crystal that it seemed the whole of spring drew him into its warmth with a profound intake of breath. Yet there was no living person in the hall."

The Tiger's Bride

"A knocking and clattering behind the door of the cupboard; the door swings open and out glides a soubrette from an operetta, with glossy, nut-brown curls, rosy cheeks, blue, rolling eyes; it takes me a moment to recognize her, in her little cap, her white stockings, her frilled petticoats. She carries a looking glass in one hand and a powder puff in the other and there is a musical box where her heart should be; she tinkles as she rolls toward me on her tiny wheels."

The Erl-King

"The woods enclose and then enclose again, like a system of Chinese boxes opening one into another; the intimate perspectives of the wood changed endlessly around the interloper; the imaginary traveler walking towards an inventive distance that perpetually receded before me. It is easy to lose yourself in these woods."

The Lady in the House of Love

"The Countess stood behind a low table, beside a pretty, silly, gilt-and-wire birdcage, hands outstretched in a distracted attitude that was almost one of flight; she looked as startled by their entry as if she had not requested it. With her stark white face, her lovely death's head surrounded by long dark hair that fell down as straight as if it were soaking wet, she looked like a shipwrecked bride."

Wolf-Alice

"Although she could not run so fast on two legs in petticoats, she trotted out in her new dress to investigate the odorous October hedgerows, like a debutante from the castle, delighted with herself but still, now and then, singing to the wolves with a kind of wistful triumph, because now she knew how to wear clothes and so had put on the visible sign of her difference from them."

Dear...

The living room fills with the tiny click-clicks of a keyboard. I haven't bothered to put my ear buds in or even glance at the lovely stack of books on the coffee table that have tried to tempt me with their gleaming, paperback covers. Vanilla Turkish Taffy twists like a sticky ribbon in my fingers as I fiddle with it and squint at the text on my laptop screen.

It's not right.

If my sentences could dance, they'd jerk and jive like someone threw ice down their backs. "Too awkward," I mumble. I separate paragraphs and stare each sentence down. I make a list on my miniature legal pad of what, exactly, I'm trying to accomplish by writing this letter. There's an art to letter-writing, I think. And I'm not sure I've mastered it.

I won't compare letters to telephone calls or even emails. I won't pretend that I, like many people in Jane Austen's time, can read or even write a criss-cross letter. But there's something about composing a letter that will never change: the privacy of it. And nothing says "microcosm" than opening up a page full of handwriting. But here's a confession. I haven't handwritten a letter in a long time. I actually tried to do it recently, but my handwriting isn't that great and, well, I write a lot. I'm one of those rambling writers. I feel like I have too much to say, and I get excited, and, being a writer, I feel that if I have just one more paragraph, I can make you feel as if you were right there with me. Or that's what I'd like to do one day.

I have made this letter longer than usual, only because I have not had the time to make it shorter - Blaise Pascal

So if you receive a letter from me that's only a page long, you'll know I've labored over it, haha. Whether I'm handwriting a letter or typing it, I often feel like the air around me disappears. I try to imagine the person I'm writing to. Would my words make her smile? Can that joke sound funny without a "just kidding" directly after? Will he understand what I'm saying when I try to relate?

This is why people are paid to write greeting cards, right? When I browse the card aisles, I can't help but admire even the cheesiest of lines. The point comes across. The message is clear. This is why people will buy expensive cards with golden, swirly words and only sign their names on the inside.

No matter how much trouble a letter can be, it's one of the best feelings in the world to send it on its way. I feel warm and happy, knowing that my letter is changing hands, hitching rides in people's pockets, flying overhead, or sailing across the sea. And very soon, the seal will be broken and the letter unfolded. There's magic in that.

Photo from We Heart It

The Wandering Apple

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say. But this apple rolled down the hill and left her sisters behind. Her father had called her a Pink Lady, but she knew in her heart that her heritage was strictly Empire. She wanted to go sailing on the aquamarine whale-roads and eat chocolate-filled croissants on rainy days. Staying in the shade of her mother-tree could offer her none of these experiences. So the apple had packed her bags and went away.

Dogs lapped at her shiny skin when she hitched a ride in the back of a dog-catcher's truck. Red-headed children used her as a ball while she waited for a neighborhood bus. An evil queen with a haughty mirror wanted to make her into a gift, but the noble apple refused.

The apple couldn't stay still. The world was too big to stay put. Every cloud, wildflower, and garbage receptacle passed through her head faster than film tape through a projector. Maybe apples were meant to sit under trees because they couldn't hold onto their own memories.

The apple could only carry her one desire with her: to see the world. And since she couldn't remember, the world, to her, remained entirely endless.

Okay, I swear I'm not hungry. Actually, I'm thinking about a tiny, curious memory I've kept with me, even though it happened a few weeks ago. Waiting for my family to gather fruits and veggies for the week, I wandered over to the small section of apples in the grocery store. As if in a trance, I picked some of them up and turned them in my hands so I could read their names.

It seems to me that there are so many types of apples in the world. When I think about it, I'm in awe. And the names can be very beautiful. I like to imagine that each apple has its own name, but I confess I've never asked one. I don't eat them as much as I should.

Tidbits: June Edition

Picture / Photo Find

Something I Did

May 30th was my twenty-third birthday. Hooray! Considering this post is supposed to represent June, this statement may be a little off. But I couldn't bring myself to post about my birthday on its own. It didn't seem right. So I waited for June. It's strange to be twenty-three. I don't feel much different, but I know that I've crossed a line of some sort. Twenty-three. How grown up am I supposed to be now?

Not much, by the looks of things. I celebrated by seeking out macrons. As I've said in previous posts, bakeries don't exist where I live. If they do, they close within months because of lack of patrons and high rent. And even if they do stay, they never carry macarons. They were mythical desserts. So the family and I took an hour's ride to track down some of those unicorn-rare treats, in a bakery far, far away. And I felt like a pirate when I opened the box and found them all smiling up at me like gold doubloons:

From left to right: chocolate, pistachio, raspberry, banana, and orange. Surprisingly, pistachio tasted the best. I'm happy to report that they were delicious.

A Quote from a Book I Love

Thanks to MJ over at The Woodland Library, I found out about a wonderful book called The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente. For anyone who loves a good fairy tale - complete with strange, heart-warming characters, exciting adventure, and a lot of mystery, this is the book for you. The voice of the book is witty and old-world sounding; this is the type of book you might discover hidden away in the back rooms of a secret bookstore. It actually started out online, so you can read the first few chapters and see if you like it (and don't forget to listen to the song).

I had the hardest time choosing just one excerpt, but here it is:

"The Leopard of Little Breezes yawned up and further off from the rooftops of Omaha, Nebraska, to which September did not even wave good-bye. One ought not to judge her: all children are Heartless. They have not grown a heart yet, which is why they can climb high trees and say shocking things and leap so very high grown-up hearts flutter in terror. Hearts weigh quite a lot. That is why it takes so long to grow one. But, as in their reading and arithmetic and drawing, different children proceed at different speeds. (It is well known that reading quickens the growth of a heart like nothing else.) Some small ones are terrible and fey, Utterly Heartless. Some are dear and sweet and Hardly Heartless At All. September stood very generally in the middle on the day the Green Wind took her, Somewhat Heartless, and Somewhat Grown."

Song I Can't Stop Repeating

"The Engine Driver" by The Decemberists

This song puts me in a quiet, pensive mood. With foot-tapping. And the lyrics are wonderful:

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones

A Writer Thing

Lately I've been writing like something is chasing me. I can't say that what's coming out onto my Word documents are lousy because of this speed, but I'm astonished at how fast the words flow. I made a promise to myself that I would finish my manuscript (for that is what it is) for Birdcage Girl by the end of the summer. So perhaps my fingers have caught up with my head. Chapters are pouring out of me like a flood.

Many writers feel sad to see a novel end, to reach that very last page and know - besides revisions - that they are done. You have to say goodbye to your characters and tip your hat to the world that you've been exploring through every late night, every snatched moment. I'm not near the end of Birdcage Girl - I think I'm almost at the middle of the book (experimentally short chapters means a novel will take a lot longer to finish than one would think, haha). It's strange, even in the middle, to think that it will end.

I attended another summer workshop yesterday, and this is what we talked about after finishing for the day. My two fellow writer-friends have already finished manuscripts; one has an agent and the other must begin revising his first draft. They know what it's like to finish. It was fun picking their brains and enjoying a nice mango smoothie while I was at it.

So I'm trying to ride the wave of writing while I can. I feel like I'm on a roller coaster with my characters strapped in next to me. They're ready to go. I just, somehow, need to send us all flying down the first drop.

Video I Watched Too Many Times

Because I love stop motion.

Food I'm Craving

I want marmalade! You know, I've never had it before.

What sparked this desire is that I'm working with a terribly annoying character who is still, to this day, withholding his true name. I think I've found-and-replaced his name numerous times already, and I'm still not happy with what's there. He started out as Ruari, and now he's Buell. But I don't really like either. And I don't have much trouble with character names in general. There's always a rebel.

So when I was reworking this character's description, I described his hair was being the color of bottled marmalade. And so I feel like, if I eat some marmalade, perhaps his real name will pop into my head. What do you think? And what's good to put marmalade on?

Marmalade photo found here

Photo finds from We Heart It