RoboPope: The Prequel (Part One)

The day started out normal enough. I got up, brushed my teeth with my Jesus toothbrush, and went to the Vatican to see if I could get a glimpse of my hero, the Pope. I had all of his posters, and a special bobble-head doll that I managed to find just outside of Vatican City. I kissed it, as always, on my way out.

I whistled as I walked, clutching my folded poster under my arm. I chuckled at all the people around me, busy either working or going to work. Poor things. I was lucky. By the Grace of God, and the international market for frozen pizzas, I never had to work a day in my life. I was free to spend all my time devoted to the Pope, and praying to Jesus. Oh, that reminded me. I had a poker game later that afternoon. I would have to cut my adoring admiration short that day.

Approaching the massive construction of the Vatican, I entered the courtyard, and felt positively giddy. My heart started racing, as it always did when I got there, and I found myself suppressing giggles of excitement when I saw the guards in their fabulous attire. I had a hard time keeping myself from running the rest of the way. Finally, I got into the chapel. I took my customary place by Jesus' disintegrating foot, and held up my sign.

Every hour or so, I have to take a break and stretch. However, I make sure to only do the most holy of stretches there. Squats are, of course, expressly forbidden.

As I was going through my third hour lunges, I heard something strange. After a moment, I recognized it as laughter. I stood up from my lunge, and put my hands on my hips. Something was definitely wrong here. I picked up my sign, and started following the sound. I came to a door, hidden expertly within the church (though I, of course, was able to discern it) and discovered the laughter was coming from behind it.

My hair stood up on end, as it only did every other day, and I knew I had to do something. Counting to three, I threw my shoulder against the door and yelled. It had been quite painful, but the door hadn't budged. I counted to three again, but took a few steps back first. I ran toward the door with all my might, but, just as I was about to shatter it to pieces, it opened. My shoulder connected, instead, with the surprised face of a guard. Having achieved amazing momentum, both my shoulder and myself followed him to the ground.

Looking up, I saw a group of shocked guards standing in a semi-circle around a card table, quickly becoming quite angry. I stood up, and before I could eloquently explain the courageous reason for my intrusion, I strangely found myself fleeing the scene, my poster still tightly clutched in my hand.

Naturally, they followed. I took as many doors and turns that I could, and soon found myself in a completely unfamiliar part of the Vatican. I sneakily managed to trick the guards into running past me while I hid in a doorway. I sighed with relief. I though about it, and chuckled quietly to myself.

The hallway was long and quite unadorned for the Vatican. There must have been only two or three priceless treasures there, and only the ceiling was gilded. I put my hands on my hips and pursed my lips. Now how would I get out of there? I wandered around for a while, opening various doors (slowly, I had learned), trying to find a familiar area. However, I just seemed to get more and more lost. Honestly, that was all right with me--I was getting into the Inner Sanctum of the Vatican. How cool was that!

Finally, I opened one door, and saw some people inside.

"Oops!" I said. "Sorry!" And closed the door.

I stood there a moment, my hand on the doorknob, as my brain processed what it had just seen. I blinked. And blinked again. Then I slowly opened the door back up, and peaked my head in. The door opened the rest of the way almost of its own accord.

"Wow," I breathed. "Your Majesty!" I yelled, and bowed down to the Almighty, the Pope Himself! I heard a grumble, so I stood back up. "I'm so sorry to bother you, Mr. Pope sir! I'm just--I'm such a big fan! I love what you do!"

Then I noticed the fire burning in the old-fashioned wood-burning stove beside him, which was covered in diamonds and rubies, and the man seated halfway across the room from him. He was tied to a rather plain chair, and gagged. He was clothed in a white dress and looked remarkably similar to the Pope.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, seeing the desperate look on the man's face. "I didn't realize you were busy. Sorry."

I closed the door again. Then a thought came to me. I couldn't just walk away. I had to do something, consequences be damned. I flung the door back open.

"Mr. Pope sir?" I began, and swallowed hard as I noticed his eyes beginning to smolder. "I'm really sorry, but I just..." I took a deep breath, looked at the tied-up man, then looked back at the Pope. "Would you please sign my poster?" I grinned and held it out. I unfolded it and showed it to him, doing my best to look adorable and forgivable at the same time.

He stared down at my I LOVE U, POPE! sign, and then he emitted a deep, grinding, grating sound. My heart froze with fear.

"Right," I said, as beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. The man in the chair was wildly trying to gesture at me for some strange reason, his eyes wide and wild. He jutted his chin up in my direction, then in the direction of the Pope, and seemed to be trying to say something. I squinted at him, unable to make out any of the words. Then I turned back to the Pope. "Maybe this isn't the best time," I said. I began to close the door, then opened it again as I added, "Sorry again." Once again, I started pulling the door shut, then remembered what I had always wanted to say to him.

"I love your hat, by the way." Then, the Pope growled: a huge, monstrous roar. I slammed the door and walked away. I guess he has a sore spot about the hat. Go figure. I'd always thought he liked it.

Oh, my God, I thought. I just met the Pope! I squealed with delight, and continued on down the corridor, trying my best to keep my skipping to a minimum.

End of NaNoWriMo, End of An Era...

Okay, so the era only lasted one month, but it felt like a long time! Actually, it felt incredibly short, but it DID feel epic, like any worthy era should.

And guess what?

I DID IT!!!!

Despite never having even attempted to write a novel before, having no idea what I was going to write about, and having virtually no ability to write a comprehensive outline for my fiction writing, I won!

I started late, was in a play, got the flu, dealt with life crises, but I did it.

I am so proud.

Now, the next questions are...is the novel any good? What now? And what's it about?

Interestingly enough, I find all of those questions pretty equally difficult to answer.

So, for now, I shall try to read back over my novel (my NOVEL!) and do some editing. Then I'll try to determine if it's worth anything.

Who knows? I may even take a wild, boyish fling at writing (short fiction again, that is, to post on this). Confused why I said "boyish"?

Watch Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Nanowrimo!

Sorry for the extremely long silence here. I was dealing with sickness and death (not mine, obviously) for quite a while, and wasn't able to get myself to write anything.

Now, however, though there are definitely no guarantees that I'll be posting a lot here, I am doing Nanowrimo, which for those who don't know, is the National Novel Writing Month, in which writers join an online community, and do their best to write a 50,000 word novel, all in the month of November. I got started a little late, and am currently up to 8,000 words. *Phew* I hope I can do it. Maybe I'll keep this updated with how that is progressing, and what it's like for me, considering I've never done this before. In fact, outside of college papers, I can't remember the last time I strung 8,000 words or more together. So, it's a test to see if I can write long-form fiction. Weee! Here we go! Let me know if you want to hear updates about this..

A Painful Discovery

She discovered, for the first time, what it means when someone says, "I already miss you." She never took it seriously, and scoffed at those around her who used it, who told her. "But how can you miss me, I'm still right here," she would retort brusquely; she never paid much attention to how they reacted, once she had handed down her sentence.

And now, she can understand. She can feel it, though she can't explain it. He shrinks, she can see, ever so much a day, a week, a month--and life is filled with hills and valleys: some improvement today, a dip tomorrow--but she slowly understands what it means; what it always must mean.

"I miss you," she says to herself, though she cannot bear to put it into words, afraid that they'll become too real, too true, and that she might risk hurrying things up by forming them in the air. "I already miss you, even though you're still here."

She is starting to understand--too much. She wishes she didn't. She thinks about how it'll be, without his things around. She imagines the cleaning-up process of his medicines, his food, his IV. Will they do it right away, or will they wait, not wanting to face that kind of elimination immediately? What will it be like, without him around?

She cries. She cries, knowing there is not much she can do; not knowing what else she can do; not knowing, barely hoping but secretly, deep down, wishing...maybe he will last, maybe he can get better, if she just does the right things, the right amount, the right amount of love, of medicine, of food, of water. Maybe, contrary to everything she's known and seen, maybe there are miracles. But she doesn't dare to really believe.

She melts. After he has been yelling and crying while they give him what his body needs, her knees turn to jelly, and that same weakness travels up, down, throughout her body, until she collapses, without a strong bone left anywhere inside of her. She melts and stares ahead, until her strength leaks, pouring, out of her eyes.

She is strong and in charge, taking care of his medicines, his appointments, dictating what needs to be done, what he is currently liking, what he is currently needing and life continues, day by day. Life is normal, medicines and IVs become routine; she, even, feels stable. Until another one falls, or somebody trips. They walk away unharmed, but she has collapsed into a puddle, and will not rise again for a while.

"I miss him. I miss him, he's still here, but I miss him. He could live longer, he's strong, he could gain weight back, he could do it. I miss him and I love him and I want him to be okay. Please, be okay. He's dying and I can't stop it. There's only so much I can do. Why can't I do more?"

She tries and tries and doesn't know how much of her is given over to this, to him, to fear, to sadness, to pain, to loss. She doesn't know and can't know and almost doesn't care. As long as she can do something for him, it doesn't matter what she feels. She is young, she reasons, and healthy, so it doesn't matter how much of her is being consumed.

Why the 10 Days Exercise Failed

Well, it was a random assignment for myself, and I was hoping that it would inspire me (force me, rather) to write a little every day, without getting overwhelmed or intimidated by the word count. One of the biggest problems was that I didn't give enough thought to my first day's writing. I figured that it would develop, day by day, and change (which it did), and become interesting (which it didn't). And there's the problem...I quite simply got bored. I was happy to be occupied with other things, because it didn't seem to be leading anywhere, and, frankly, it was getting cheesier by the day.

I was (am always) horrified to start writing like I did in middle school and high school again. Basically, aside from the stories which I call "shy girl fantasies," (stories in which the cute, possibly popular boy sees the quiet girl and starts to like and think about her, because she is mysterious, interesting, and attractive), and the stereotypical dark and morbid poems, I wrote "inspirational" poems and stories with horribly obvious morals and supposedly uplifting messages of hope, etc. They're really quite dreadful. So, I was worried that this exercise was starting to turn into THAT kind of writing.

Don't get me wrong: one of my ultimate life goals is to write things that inspire people, that help promote change in the world, that makes the world a better place (and there's the cheesiness!). However, I believe that in order to do any of that, the writing itself must be beautiful and inspiring. Blatant moral messages can be seen anywhere, and tends to effect few, if any, people. It's too easy to acknowledge, then ignore, if not downright mock. In truly wonderful writing, though, the message doesn't have to be obvious. A masterpiece must present the ideas, then let the reader make the decision on her own, as the ideas, the passion to do something, blooms inside her, moving her, as a result of her own thoughts, to action.

Grand ideas indeed, especially for someone who is only occasionally moved to action, then slows down; often stops. That's why I'm hoping I can achieve this through my writing: combining my passions of writing and...how to phrase it? changing things, helping people, helping silent voices be heard.

Perhaps that is why I have such a difficult time getting myself to write, to finish stories. I know that I am not there yet (indeed I'm terribly afraid I never will be), and that I have so much to learn. And, of course, the biggest, most terrifying, and probably most common question:

Can I Do It?

Can I be a writer, am I any good? Will I ever be?

I suppose the moral here (haha) is that I think too much. But there you have it, the first insightful into-my-life-and-head blog post.

10 Words for 10 Days: Days 7-10

Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show me how they think this world should work, before I dive headlong into life, and follow my own direction. A look into the past, and then I'll jump, breath held, arms out, praying that I have the courage to look at what I face, and smile. The wind whips through the desert, where I have been sent to face my worst fears, to see if I can come through on what I have proclaimed. My guide will be here soon, and then I discover what I am capable of doing.

10 Words for 10 Days: Day 6

Here I stand, waiting for someone to come and show me how they think this world should work, before I dive headlong into life, and follow my own direction. A look into the past, and then I'll jump, breath held, arms out, praying that I have the courage to look at what I face, and smile. The wind whips through