The ironic thing was, once all of my classmates had left, I was finally able to get working. It wasn't that they were purposefully hindering our work (though some of them had been there for who knows how long before me, and were clearly so over it). But just having everyone crammed into one small room, working with only three paint trays and two ladders between us all.... it just couldn't work. I have my fair share of painting experience (growing up I would always inexplicably ask to help with painting rooms, shelves, and any other project around the house, and I've painted many a friend's room as well. Not to mention my time painting for summer in the city, and my work in AP art senior year...)
I filled in every corner that still gaped with white. I tried to get a second coat where the walls needed one. I fixed the edges that had been painted "close enough" with a roller but didn't meet up to the ceiling. It was hard to explain the burst of motivation, but I this sudden sense of responsibility- like we owed it to Mitzy to make her walls look great. It was the moment I shifted, the moment I let myself start to care.
By the time I was finishing up, we were all smiles. I had exchanged a dozen giggly "excuse me"s with people squeezing by my ladder, which had often ended up in a doorway. Mitzy was showing me all their other projects- the color blocked shelves, the cartoons painted on the wall of the children's room. Suddenly I was excited for people I had only just met and a cause I hadn't heard of until the week before. The paintings of Pooh and Curious George on the walls reminded me of the bears I had painted in a Detroit classroom during Summer in the City, and that striking connection reminded me why we do this. Yes, sometimes we need volunteer hours for school or as an outside obligation. But the reason people first started giving back- the root of philanthropy- is seeing the difference you can make in someone's life, and the feeling you get from knowing you helped make that happen.
Call it cliche, I don't care. It's the truth.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Monday, March 18, 2013
A Helping Hand [Part Un]
I'm not a stranger to volunteer work. I can easily remember times throughout my life when my mom would come home with some random new volunteer assignment for us. We're going to start re-shelving books at the library! I signed up for a bake sale at work so let's make some cookies! Have you ever heard of Queen for a day? Well, we're going to start participating in their fund-raisers! In fact, I'm pretty sure that every time I've volunteered for any cause, it was either because my mom dragged me along, or because school mandated it (rather than earning pay as a camp counselor this past summer, I spent 70 hours volunteering at a day care- which I loved doing, but getting paid would have been nice, had it been possible).
So when we when were told as a class that we were going to be doing some community service... well, I didn't exactly jump out of my seat. Helping people is all well and good, and I'm all for the golden rule, but I'm a really busy girl. I just don't always have time to give back. My philosophy is always airline 101- put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others. It can sound callus when I try to explain it, but it's something I've always stood firmly by. I would love to help others, but I'm not going to be able to do much for them if I can't help myself first. (This isn't just about myself, you can apply this theory to whole countries even- but I won't get into that now!)
But yeah, I was just going to have to go along with it. It was for a grade after all.
When I got to the clothes closet of the Baldwin Center I was surprised to say the least- and already thrown off by passing the place three times. I was kind of shocked to see how many people had come so early. It was about 10:30 when I got there, because I didn't have class in the afternoon and had that time to my leisure, so I figured I may as well get a tiny bit more sleep. But when I arrived, the majority of the class was there, all crammed into one little room, slathering mint green paint over everything in sight.
As someone who actually has quite a lot of experience painting walls, it was appalling. There were neglected corners, blotchy edges, areas where the paint had been applied too liberally and was now forming semi-permanent drips... there were way too many people and not enough ladders or walls. Still, I jumped in as best I could, knowing that once some of my classmates began clearing out I would be better able to do the task.
And that was where my experience began.
So when we when were told as a class that we were going to be doing some community service... well, I didn't exactly jump out of my seat. Helping people is all well and good, and I'm all for the golden rule, but I'm a really busy girl. I just don't always have time to give back. My philosophy is always airline 101- put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others. It can sound callus when I try to explain it, but it's something I've always stood firmly by. I would love to help others, but I'm not going to be able to do much for them if I can't help myself first. (This isn't just about myself, you can apply this theory to whole countries even- but I won't get into that now!)
But yeah, I was just going to have to go along with it. It was for a grade after all.
When I got to the clothes closet of the Baldwin Center I was surprised to say the least- and already thrown off by passing the place three times. I was kind of shocked to see how many people had come so early. It was about 10:30 when I got there, because I didn't have class in the afternoon and had that time to my leisure, so I figured I may as well get a tiny bit more sleep. But when I arrived, the majority of the class was there, all crammed into one little room, slathering mint green paint over everything in sight.
As someone who actually has quite a lot of experience painting walls, it was appalling. There were neglected corners, blotchy edges, areas where the paint had been applied too liberally and was now forming semi-permanent drips... there were way too many people and not enough ladders or walls. Still, I jumped in as best I could, knowing that once some of my classmates began clearing out I would be better able to do the task.
And that was where my experience began.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
The Incident: A Memoir
A quiet girl crushes on the new, popular guy. It makes for an adorable romantic-comedy fit for teenagers, complete with a soundtrack of top 40 hits and a cast of 20-somethings to play the high school students. But it is a real high school, not a fictional one, and no line of dialogue is guaranteed.
She is sweet though, if unassuming. Her best friends can attest, but one in particular understands better than the others. She's not technically as pretty as the quiet one- with oddly proportioned features and acne scars on her cheeks but she does her best to cake on makeup in an attractive facade and she is bold. Ellie can talk to anyone and everyone. She has the superpower, she was once told, of making everyone fall in love with her.
One afternoon, as the quiet girl bounds out the front doors of school, Ellie’s voice prompts her to turn around.
“Hey!” she squeals affectionately at her best friend, the two hugging because they'd hardly seen each other that day. Even a matter of hours is too long for them to be separated, as opposite as they are. They always have to hunt one another down by the end of school to catch up and say farewells until the next day.
Ellie pulls back from the hug to look at her best friend, but keeps her hands latched onto her forearms while speaking. “Hey, I’m so glad I caught you,” she takes a quick glance around that signifies whatever she was about to say will be about Mike.
For girls who were never very surreptitious about our crushing, we like to believe that everything we said was some great secret. We use code names at times, or emphasize our pronouns.
"Did you catch a glimpse of the bald eagle today?" she joked the time Mike buzzed off the curly locks of sandy auburn her friend adored.
"Oh, you should have heard what he said in Econ today." That was the beginning of many a familiar tale.
This day, however, such formalities are bypassed. She goes straight to the point.
“I have a story.”
Stories are synonymous with intel. A girl so modest lets other people do the talking for her, so she relies on such stories, and they rarely disappoint. Something flashes behind her eyes that made it clear that Ellie has her full attention.
“Okay so yesterday at rehearsal, we were like working on this piece of choreography right?" She doesn't wait for a nod of confirmation before continuing. "And so I’m practicing with Ricky and all of a sudden Mike- oh my gosh, he’s so funny- just runs up to me and grabs my face, looks me in the eye like this, and then runs away!” For emphasis she places her hands on either side of her friends head, drawing near so their foreheads are practically touching, and then flinging them apart.
The shy girl's laugh is incredulous, somewhat forced. The good humor in her smile doesn't reach her eyes. “What?” she plays it cool, chuckling out the question. “Oh my god he’s so weird…” she rolls my eyes, like such random acts are just something about him that she has to tolerate. But it doesn't matter to her what he has done. He's a notorious flirt, she knows- it's clear even to people who don't spend as much time observing him as she seemed to. What really bothers her is that Ellie thinks that this would be something she'd want to hear. Her crush singling out her best friend. There's a clenched feeling in her chest that she tries to ignore.
It feels like two of the most important people of her sophomore year of high school are complete idiots and, no matter how annoyed she grows with either, she'll never be able to shake them. Mike and Ellie have become a part of her existence, and she must learn to accept both of them as they are.
She is sweet though, if unassuming. Her best friends can attest, but one in particular understands better than the others. She's not technically as pretty as the quiet one- with oddly proportioned features and acne scars on her cheeks but she does her best to cake on makeup in an attractive facade and she is bold. Ellie can talk to anyone and everyone. She has the superpower, she was once told, of making everyone fall in love with her.
One afternoon, as the quiet girl bounds out the front doors of school, Ellie’s voice prompts her to turn around.
“Hey!” she squeals affectionately at her best friend, the two hugging because they'd hardly seen each other that day. Even a matter of hours is too long for them to be separated, as opposite as they are. They always have to hunt one another down by the end of school to catch up and say farewells until the next day.
Ellie pulls back from the hug to look at her best friend, but keeps her hands latched onto her forearms while speaking. “Hey, I’m so glad I caught you,” she takes a quick glance around that signifies whatever she was about to say will be about Mike.
For girls who were never very surreptitious about our crushing, we like to believe that everything we said was some great secret. We use code names at times, or emphasize our pronouns.
"Did you catch a glimpse of the bald eagle today?" she joked the time Mike buzzed off the curly locks of sandy auburn her friend adored.
"Oh, you should have heard what he said in Econ today." That was the beginning of many a familiar tale.
This day, however, such formalities are bypassed. She goes straight to the point.
“I have a story.”
Stories are synonymous with intel. A girl so modest lets other people do the talking for her, so she relies on such stories, and they rarely disappoint. Something flashes behind her eyes that made it clear that Ellie has her full attention.
“Okay so yesterday at rehearsal, we were like working on this piece of choreography right?" She doesn't wait for a nod of confirmation before continuing. "And so I’m practicing with Ricky and all of a sudden Mike- oh my gosh, he’s so funny- just runs up to me and grabs my face, looks me in the eye like this, and then runs away!” For emphasis she places her hands on either side of her friends head, drawing near so their foreheads are practically touching, and then flinging them apart.
The shy girl's laugh is incredulous, somewhat forced. The good humor in her smile doesn't reach her eyes. “What?” she plays it cool, chuckling out the question. “Oh my god he’s so weird…” she rolls my eyes, like such random acts are just something about him that she has to tolerate. But it doesn't matter to her what he has done. He's a notorious flirt, she knows- it's clear even to people who don't spend as much time observing him as she seemed to. What really bothers her is that Ellie thinks that this would be something she'd want to hear. Her crush singling out her best friend. There's a clenched feeling in her chest that she tries to ignore.
It feels like two of the most important people of her sophomore year of high school are complete idiots and, no matter how annoyed she grows with either, she'll never be able to shake them. Mike and Ellie have become a part of her existence, and she must learn to accept both of them as they are.
Monday, February 4, 2013
The Idea and the Verb
I find motivation a funny thing. Sometimes I want to write more than anything- I feel like the words are spilling out of me, racing to see who can be the first to reach the page. Words dance through my mind, organizing themselves into an aesthetically pleasing arrangement, finding the balance between clarity and poetry. They're acrobatic, and do the work for me.
Sometimes I don't even have the phrasing yet, just wonderful ideas that I verbalize to anyone whose ear I can catch. I know exactly what I intend to write, and I'm proud already.
The trouble comes in the act of writing.
Why is it I can find myself with so much inspiration, with topics or plots I'd love to explore, and yet want to do anything but sit down and actually type or write it out? The action seems like it'd be the easiest part, and yet I avoid it.
Sometimes I don't even have the phrasing yet, just wonderful ideas that I verbalize to anyone whose ear I can catch. I know exactly what I intend to write, and I'm proud already.
The trouble comes in the act of writing.
Why is it I can find myself with so much inspiration, with topics or plots I'd love to explore, and yet want to do anything but sit down and actually type or write it out? The action seems like it'd be the easiest part, and yet I avoid it.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Internet Grammar 101
The popularity of the internet has, without a doubt, altered grammar as we know it. What is deemed acceptable and unacceptable depends greatly on the medium I'm writing in. For example, even though I'm making a conscious effort to include proper punctuation and capitalization, this is my own blog. no one could reasonably judge me if i started typing my posts like this. because it's the internet.
Personally what I deem as having more relevancy that the actual proper rule-following is the consistency- if you're not going to capitalize I on the internet, that's fine, just don't only do it every other time. Honestly that fluctuation would seem much more unreliable to myself as a reader than "bad" grammar in general.
Now of course there is a large difference between dropping the capitalization of some proper nouns and leaving out a few commas and entirely forgetting how to speak the English langauge.
Tumblr is the reigning master of such babble, which at first seems idiotic but becomes oddly familiar and almost endearing. Many bloggers there are so full of feelings (or feels, as they prefer to call them) that they're reduced to simply shouting things like "I CAN'T", implying that they can't handle all the emotion they're feeling. Even better than that is when they elaborate, such as "omg i can't even, i've lost the ability to can."
Beyond this they have a habit of randomly stARTING TO GET EXCITED IN THE MIDDLE OF A SENTENCE. I'm honestly not sure who began that practice, but it is sort of oddly helpful to be able to read how they would be speaking the words they typed (for me, at least, since I'm very obsessive about things being read as they would be said- see previous post about my punctuation abuse and writing voice).
But even these weird little internet quirks don't bother me. I can handle a little bit of funky grammar, and even a few wonky sentence structures. Where I draw the line is at made up words, which make you seems like an uneducated person trying to sound smart. If you say supposably instead of supposedly or expecially instead of especially, you've lost all credibility in my eyes and I will probably not continue to read a word you have written, unless it's to make fun of you. Harsh but true.
Personally what I deem as having more relevancy that the actual proper rule-following is the consistency- if you're not going to capitalize I on the internet, that's fine, just don't only do it every other time. Honestly that fluctuation would seem much more unreliable to myself as a reader than "bad" grammar in general.
Now of course there is a large difference between dropping the capitalization of some proper nouns and leaving out a few commas and entirely forgetting how to speak the English langauge.
Tumblr is the reigning master of such babble, which at first seems idiotic but becomes oddly familiar and almost endearing. Many bloggers there are so full of feelings (or feels, as they prefer to call them) that they're reduced to simply shouting things like "I CAN'T", implying that they can't handle all the emotion they're feeling. Even better than that is when they elaborate, such as "omg i can't even, i've lost the ability to can."
Beyond this they have a habit of randomly stARTING TO GET EXCITED IN THE MIDDLE OF A SENTENCE. I'm honestly not sure who began that practice, but it is sort of oddly helpful to be able to read how they would be speaking the words they typed (for me, at least, since I'm very obsessive about things being read as they would be said- see previous post about my punctuation abuse and writing voice).
But even these weird little internet quirks don't bother me. I can handle a little bit of funky grammar, and even a few wonky sentence structures. Where I draw the line is at made up words, which make you seems like an uneducated person trying to sound smart. If you say supposably instead of supposedly or expecially instead of especially, you've lost all credibility in my eyes and I will probably not continue to read a word you have written, unless it's to make fun of you. Harsh but true.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Fact vs Fiction
Nobody wants to be boring.
It's easy, outwardly, to say that you'd prefer a quiet, discrete life to a dramatic one, but I believe that there's a part of all of us that wishes for drama and adventure (both the ups and the downs). After all, that's what makes your story worth being told. If you have a healthy relationship with your family, live safely in the same town your entire life, get decent grades and get a steady career, etc. well... that's just great, but it's certainly not the making of a bestseller.
Why bother documenting all that, when there's no conflict? Even if your intention is to keep your journal only for yourself, perhaps eventually your children and grandchildren, what's the point in documenting all these events if nothing exciting or abnormal ever happens to you? How memorable are we, as individuals, anyways? Some names last through the centuries, but those are the people who conquered and created and mystified. The ones who stole the heart of nations or tried to destroy them. They aren't the everyday, they are the extraordinary.
When I think about who may think of me in 200 years... maybe my great-great-grandchildren? If they're so inquisitive as to spare a fleeting thought for me, that is. I know my own curiosities toward my ancestors are minimal. But why should I be so concerned with who remembers me beyond my lifetime? I'm not curing polio I'm just living my life... and I'm really not in the mood for waxing philosophical, so I'll just get down to the point.
Nobody wants to admit to living a dull life, and it's turning the literary world mad. Remember when James Frey's bestselling memoir A Million Little Pieces was debunked for half of it never even happening? It's not the only fabricated and embellished work of "nonfiction" that has popped up within the last decade. It seems that the more people will do anything to spice up their life (even if it means lying, which to me just seems pointless because he could have published such a book as fiction and had just as much critical and popular success, I'm sure).
People lie to make themselves seem more interesting. People plagiarize to appear to be better writers than they are. It's not a nice reality, but it's the one we live with.
It's easy, outwardly, to say that you'd prefer a quiet, discrete life to a dramatic one, but I believe that there's a part of all of us that wishes for drama and adventure (both the ups and the downs). After all, that's what makes your story worth being told. If you have a healthy relationship with your family, live safely in the same town your entire life, get decent grades and get a steady career, etc. well... that's just great, but it's certainly not the making of a bestseller.
Why bother documenting all that, when there's no conflict? Even if your intention is to keep your journal only for yourself, perhaps eventually your children and grandchildren, what's the point in documenting all these events if nothing exciting or abnormal ever happens to you? How memorable are we, as individuals, anyways? Some names last through the centuries, but those are the people who conquered and created and mystified. The ones who stole the heart of nations or tried to destroy them. They aren't the everyday, they are the extraordinary.
When I think about who may think of me in 200 years... maybe my great-great-grandchildren? If they're so inquisitive as to spare a fleeting thought for me, that is. I know my own curiosities toward my ancestors are minimal. But why should I be so concerned with who remembers me beyond my lifetime? I'm not curing polio I'm just living my life... and I'm really not in the mood for waxing philosophical, so I'll just get down to the point.
Nobody wants to admit to living a dull life, and it's turning the literary world mad. Remember when James Frey's bestselling memoir A Million Little Pieces was debunked for half of it never even happening? It's not the only fabricated and embellished work of "nonfiction" that has popped up within the last decade. It seems that the more people will do anything to spice up their life (even if it means lying, which to me just seems pointless because he could have published such a book as fiction and had just as much critical and popular success, I'm sure).
People lie to make themselves seem more interesting. People plagiarize to appear to be better writers than they are. It's not a nice reality, but it's the one we live with.
Monday, January 21, 2013
A Question of Originality
I remember being told once by a high school English teacher that nothing was original anymore. Not that people have become lazier, or less creative- just that everything was inspired by or copied from something else (even if it was unintentional). The class around me seemed a bit startled and sullen about the fact, but I my own reaction was a resounding "duh!" I mean, I had never before articulated that thought, but it made total sense to me that everything we've seen in our lives became an influence for all that we make and do.
But it is a little scary to ponder. Could we really have used up every idea- every plot concept, every twist, each character and personality and dialogue? It's not a reality that I'd like to have, but it very well may be the case.
Even the thoughts that sound original can be categorized and proven otherwise (something I've done my fair share of). For example- have you ever walked through the young adult section of a bookstore? There are only about four genres that every book falls under, and each only has so many plotlines.
If I may:
Now I'm sorry for ranting (really, I am!) but I think this is just a major issue in the world of writing today, and young adult literature is the best way to exemplify it. (Note: honestly, I could probably write a different tirade altogether about the lack of books targeted at teenage boys/with male main characters, which is another huge issue altogether. And maybe I will....)
But this has been something running through my head for a long time. If I'm so easily able to mentally categorize all of my favorite (and not-so-favorite) books into such categories, I think it says a lot about the state of writing and originality in today's world.
Even if there aren't many unused ideas left, I strive to write with creativity, with passion, and with unpredictability. I would want someone to look at a novel I've written and struggle to find it's place amongst this list. Even if the ideas aren't new, the way you implement them can be.
But it is a little scary to ponder. Could we really have used up every idea- every plot concept, every twist, each character and personality and dialogue? It's not a reality that I'd like to have, but it very well may be the case.
Even the thoughts that sound original can be categorized and proven otherwise (something I've done my fair share of). For example- have you ever walked through the young adult section of a bookstore? There are only about four genres that every book falls under, and each only has so many plotlines.
If I may:
The "Realistic" Fiction
- The first type of realistic fiction novel is the literary answer to Mean Girls- cliques of girls at some kind of prep school. They are concerned with boys, and fashion, and shallow things, and though the setting is generally at school you won't hear them discuss grades once. There will be one brunette, one blonde, maybe even a redhead, but the majority of the characters will be white. The one main character who isn't will have skin that the author compares to a Starbucks drink, or will have the word "exotic" abused as an adjective for her. The plots are never particularly longitudinal, which is why each series can go on for 10+ books without boring their audience.
- Less offensive than this first category is the real life tragedy. Chances are your main character or someone close to them (or bonus points for both!) has a terminal illness. If not, it's likely that the person close to them has already died. This book is about struggle, and hope, and adapting to change, sometimes funny but guaranteed to make you cry (either from the beauty of it's message or the sheer awfulness of the writing). John Green's The Fault in Our Stars is the most (perhaps only) successful book I've ever come across in this category.
The "Classic with a Twist"
- This genre is very hit or miss- the books that fall in this category are either genius or worthless heaps of paper and ink. The first section of this sort are the fairy tales. Typically more importance is placed on historical details, greater character depth, or expanding on the plot... half of them will take place in the point of view of the villain. Either the ending is the same as the original or the exact opposite, and either way it's predictable by the time you've hit the story's climax.
- Another take on this is what gives this category it's namesake- a twist on a classic novel (nine out of ten times it'll be Jane Austen or a Bronte). Usually the same tale is told from a different perspective (either a pre-existing character or an original one, and if it's not someone from the original novel then there's almost a hundred percent guarantee that they're from the future). Sometimes this crosses over into the sci-fi/fantasy genre, either by having one of the characters we know and love revealed to secretly be some kind of vampire, werewolf, etc, or by incorporating an entire "species" into the novel (see Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, the 2009 bestseller that is exactly what it sounds like.
The Supernatural Novel
- Twilight, The Vampire Diaires, Marked, Vampire Academy, Blue Bloods... it only took one vampire book to start a trend, and the rest came naturally. (Though, actually, the vampire trend was probably actually started by the Sookie Stackhouse novels and the hit HBO show they inspired, True Blood). Still, each series seems virtually never-ending- the House of Night series, with it's cliched cast of students and it's pretentious, ancient spelling of vampyre, is going on it's 11th novel. But soon vampires became old hat. We needed werewolves, witches, ghosts, zombies, aliens... the young adult section of bookstores had turned into a Halloween party. As fun as this tread was at first, it quickly got old thanks to the predictable plotlines.
- The "I'm in love with a monster" novel, which is exactly what it sounds like. Our human protagonist falls in love with someone who turns out to be some kind of monster, but eventually figures out that A) They aren't dangerous the way everyone thinks they are, B) they can try to restore their humanity, or C) they just want to be turned into the same kind of creature as well.
- The other most popular variation is the monster hunter- someone who has either been chosen or has taken it upon him/herself to rid the world of insert-monster-type-here, and are really good at it. They'll either meet someone else of their kind and fall in love with them, or fall for one of their targets. Either way, you won't get through the book without romance.
The Dystopian/Utopian World
- While doubtlessly the most interesting of all of the genres above and certainly the most varied, the only variation is in characters and setting and perhaps pacing of the plot.
There is a girl in a future society (you can bet a large sum of money that she is sixteen years old). She is not exceptionally pretty, but don’t worry because the guy who is secretly in love with her doesn’t care about that/sees her as beautiful anyways (plus at some point a greater power will come in and make her over to a varying extent). Now this girl just wishes for happiness and something beyond the life she has now. However, the world that she lives in probably doesn’t allow for that, because it is divided into hierarchical groupings of people that probably don’t come in contact with one another. And- hint- she's not at the top. But luckily/unluckily this society also has some kind of dramatic ritual or rite of passage that can instantly alter her life, during which something will go wrong or she will be outstanding for some reason. She garners some attention or becomes notorious in some way because of her abnormality. She has to be secretive, because she probably figures out some powerful, dangerous information. The government gets wind of her and she’s suddenly public enemy #1, except to all of the little people who see her (originally unintentional) rebellion as brave. At some point the guy reveals his love for her and she doesn't understand what he could see in her. They kiss and then she’s okay with it. They team up, along with a few others, but the government will definitely use their love against them (our protagonist’s biggest weakness is her attachment to someone, most likely the boy and/or family member[s]). Lots of battle scenes. Lots of torn emotions. Things probably end up seemingly alright but the government is still in power and will have to be defeated within the next 2-3 books.
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And the best part is that I can effortlessly name multiple YA series off the top of my head that fit that description perfectly and, despite how well-written and interesting each of them is, you boil them down and we end up with the exact same synopsis.
Now I'm sorry for ranting (really, I am!) but I think this is just a major issue in the world of writing today, and young adult literature is the best way to exemplify it. (Note: honestly, I could probably write a different tirade altogether about the lack of books targeted at teenage boys/with male main characters, which is another huge issue altogether. And maybe I will....)
But this has been something running through my head for a long time. If I'm so easily able to mentally categorize all of my favorite (and not-so-favorite) books into such categories, I think it says a lot about the state of writing and originality in today's world.
Even if there aren't many unused ideas left, I strive to write with creativity, with passion, and with unpredictability. I would want someone to look at a novel I've written and struggle to find it's place amongst this list. Even if the ideas aren't new, the way you implement them can be.
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