I See the Room Where my Mother Will Be

I see the room where my mother will be
Clean and yellow-white
Clean enough to wipe a tear away, as if she'll die on impact.

I see the room where my mother will be
It smells like flowers
Like that in powder to clot the surgical drip as if it will keep her bound.

I see the room where my mother will be
It's as if she'll die there
As if she'll waste away.

I hear the room where the gossip will be
I'm sitting on her linens. 
A shrill laugh erupts over Doritos, as if she'll waste away.

I see the room where my mother will be
I'll channel the waste
And without haste
I'll leave let her sleep.

September Portfolio Project: Process of Editing

cellar_door_films on Flickr

As I title my posts, I imply that each passing "day" is a day of actually doing things. There was one day before the first post where I got my ideas, and I've procrastinated most of the week after the first post. As a refresher, my September Portfolio Project is for the common case of people asking what I write. I have also decided to enter my story in the Bainbridge Student Writing Contest under a realer name (Cos, you know, there is a realer life when you power down the computer.).
Yesterday, I finished my zero draft. Being a teenage writer, the very thought of going through an entire draft and ripping it up sounded (and still sounds) horrendous, but I have powered through 1/4 of the three-page "zero draft".

...okay, so that means about 3/4 of a page, but that doesn't mean that's all I did! I drew a TARDIS on my desk, too.

At this point, to cater to contest rules, I have greatly shortened my plot and draft length to three pages. Condensing it all was probably one of the hardest things I've done. Still, I got to the point where all the characters were introduced after the first page, tension rose, and action ensued. There is still quite a bit that I am working on (as in the rising action - so hard in short pieces) and that I'm refining. (Are those things on butterflies' wings...scales?) I'll be sure to get some more to you guys later. However, there's no excerpt today...now that I've edited, everything sounds horrible...

Fitting in as a College Kid (and Doing Alright)

I can only pray that nobody peers over a certain shoulder - that of the short Asian girl who never says a word and sips cautiously at the school food that nobody else seems to be eating - and sees this post being written at the same time. However, with one comes the others, and I don't know any of these people. As I employ my skills of single-handed typing (from a few too many sprained wrists), I find myself in the almost-lively cafeteria of Bellevue College.
As a teen, I'm generally social. I'm happy to start conversation with people at my school who I don't really know and hope for the best. Frankly, though, it's a little intimidating when the people around you are all much taller than you are and know maths beyond even your advanced classes. I look around and see faces of people taking a break from biochem 160 or taking data for the statistics class. In fact, when those students come around I am forced to reveal my identity as not from here.
Don't get me wrong - I love BC. The campus is very pretty and the people seem alright to be around - at least from my observations - if not friendly in general. I find art everywhere, whether in the form of a statue in the courtyard or this wonderful sun-speckled mural on the cafeteria window. I haven't yet gained the confidence to talk to too many people, though; I ordered some soup and asked for directions but barely spoke audibly. However, the atmosphere is lively and friendly. I'm only intimidated by my own standards of peers. I actually hope to meet a few people and be able to chat, since I'll be here most of the week.
My mother's taking a class in the science building - biochem 160, as I said - and I've spent most of my time there or in the cafeteria. There's a wall-sized window that looks right out at the courtyard, and the chairs near there are marvelous for my back. Mom says that I would fit in well as a college student mind that I would have needed to finish my high school education. After taking summer classes this year, I was feeling pretty big-headed as I hadn't many to talk with. Now that I'm at the college and around folks speaking humbly about their algebra work, I feel a little smaller in ego, too. I'm thinking that this has prevented me from talking to many, though I'm sure I'll find an acquaintance at one point or another.
In comparison to my last post, BC is very diverse. Wherever I go, a new language is added to the fluency list of the student population. Because it's finals week for many, groups of students (many of the same ethnicity as their peers) chatter about course coverage and testing, at least from what I can see when papers and passed around. Many of these people are excited for the end of their courses, though I can pry a few anxious faces from the crowd. I feel pretty bad for them, and I often mentally with others luck.
With that said, I'm not going to look at anyone. As a growing teen, I've become more immersed in social problems revolving around older teens and young adults. Colleges seem to be hotspots for all sorts of danger, and I'm keeping a careful eye out for anyone following me too fast. From my careful writerly observations, though, I've been introduced to a medley of characters through the people there. For instance, there's this one guy who has worn a top hat and schmancy clothing for the past few days. He seems alright. TopHat hung out at a table near mine yesterday and was pretty nice to the others. (Drat, I feel like a primary teacher...) I'll probably be running into him again some time.

As for my NaNoWriMo and other projects, my NaNo file was corrupt and refused to open yesterday morning, resulting in a loss of 6,000 words. I decided to join my mom here so I could get more work done...yeah, that's going pretty well, considering that I spent the past fifteen minutes blogging...

All the best and more soon,

Ruby

Update (minutes later): Okay, I'm back in the science building. Someone just sat down across from me. She looks alright. Lady just walked by walking her pet dog, doesn't give a crud. I wish my dog were here and wouldn't chew everything up.

The Realer Life in Building B

I live nestled in downtown Woodinville, just a walk away from the movie theater and TCBY. Here in the apartment building, children run helter-skelter in the parking lot every afternoon, playing soccer or tag. They don't necessarily annoy me, but my dog ends up barking at them.

Sometimes, as a younger teen, I look to the children and see faces perhaps just one year younger than I, or the same age. I can see them from my window on the ground floor, and they can't see me. It's almost as if I am transparent or invisible behind the window, watching life unfold around me. In fact, I'm finding it sort of interesting to observe what the others are doing. Could it be just a writerly thing? Upstairs, much stomping, banging, screaming, and bass can be heard throughout the day and night. After a little observation, I found the apartment to house a family with small children, thus explaining much of the stomping and screaming.

After growing up in the suburbs for most of my life, being in the apartment on the weekends is invigorating. It wakes up a part of my awareness that wouldn't have been alive otherwise. All my life, I was taught that people were quiet and kept to themselves, that the kids playing with one another were only found in movies. On our culdesac, even though it was full of children, each family didn't interact much with the others, having their children do their own things. This, however, didn't lead to much bad - we all rode our bikes around the sewer cover, and I shot arrows and BB pellets in the backyard. However, knowing what "realer" life was through my time here shows what things truly are like.

A small dream of mine is to interact and play with the children myself. Inside of me, there is a small child who still wants to get out and play. I feel as if I'm still too soft for it, though. As a teenager, I'd call it "awkwarded-out". Simply, what do I do with a bunch of children? I don't know any of them or their families. Plus, I tend to keep to myself on the ground story, blogging and writing most of the day. That and the fact that my Spanish is new and very little. Many of this building's occupants are Hispanics and other Spanish-speaking cultures. My dad speaks Spanish, as he was once a professor of the language, but none of us are Hispanic. I aim to learn to speak Spanish and be able to interact with so much more of my world.

I know people - and I see these people every day, at times - who are scared or too proud to interact with the Hispanic population of our city. It sickens me, this pompous pride. Where I go to school, racial variety is very little, and I have been discriminated against for looking Hispanic. I'm Asian, which leads to more. Every day, I hear jokes tossed around degrading Hispanics, and I've seen them to be genuine, nice people through my screen door. I hear people around me say that Hispanic children are stupid when they live in such a beautiful city that houses much of the wealthier population of the east side. These children are just being who they are, and my peers would shut them out of their streams of consciousness in an instant. Why teenagers and children will turn their backs to what's only real is the part that sickens me. I can't say, "Please change!" as much as I'm apt to punch someone in the face one of these days.

Then, there's the fact that I'm young. My peers are young. Their peers are young, and they all think the same of other races. They think less of city children, of country children, of anybody but themselves, and they'll deny it every day. Frankly, I don't know what I'm thinking. By paying attention to this issue, am I denying mental separation? It's a problem that simply will not subside, no matter what we do about it. There will be no change. Since people have categorized each other, they have started a problem that cannot be stopped.

Whether it's for the greater ("They are pointing guns at people, thus, they are dangerous."), mere observation (This little girl has very small clothes, looks malnourished, and lives in a poor place where education is limited. She may not know how to read."), or for the worse ("He is wearing a hood and hasn't talked to anybody. He will kill someone in the next ten minutes if I don't intervene.), this problem won't subside. Ever.

The lack of having a grip on "realer" life is going to be tough. In none of these ten months of living here on the weekends, I have found no neighborly connections, and for that I feel some shame. If the children play with one another like they do in the movies, then shouldn't the neighbors know one another?

What defines this realer life, anyways?

September Portfolio Project: Day Two

As an aspiring writer, I have always loved sharing my creations with friends and family. However, it's when I'm prompted for a sample that I cannot provide. With school just around the corner, I have decided to make myself prepared for such a situation by writing a short story of my own to present. This is one of the first pieces that I will "pour my heart into" as I attempt to draft, edit, and finalize all ten thousand words of it. To make sure that I don't dawdle in the process of this piece, I have decided to post its entirety here as I work on it, as well as show off any other bits of it that I have on hand. Today is the plot and about 450 words. Tomorrow, I'm hoping for another update and some analysis on my work.

Scene 01

I dared myself to close my eyes for the slightest moment, as if in attempt to feel the breeze which had slipped into the halls when I had walked inside. In the hilarity of it all, it was almost fun to pretend that I couldn't hear the sound of the moth's antennae browsing the creases in Terrence's face. Just outside of the sound of my pounding heart, I could barely make out the smallest moan escape Terrence's lips, winding its way into my ears and bouncing off of my skull from the inside. 

"Shh," I said quietly, feeling the soft sh send shivers down my own spine. Terrence's fingers stuck together like glue, bending at the tips in the way that only he was capable of. I could see them quivering. I repeated my note of calm, unable to move my own self. The memories of the horrid moths crawling up my neck, their unmistakeale hissing at one another, but more importantly the feeling of letting go – I knew that all I could do for Terrence was watch and wait my turn. 

"Ashley, we have to go." In her ever-Valerie mocking tone, the trickster who had come to be my best friend poked her head around the corner, unphased by the monster dominating Terrence's entire being. 

"Val," I started, not sure what to do with my words  next, "Val, can't we-" 

"No, Ash," Val said insistently, her tone growing harsher, "We have to get out of here." I stared back at Terrence, watching his pink lips quiveer. 

"Gabriel's here, Terrence," Valerie whispered, "Gabriel's here, we're going to get him out, alright?" Valerie kept silent for a moment, as if she knew how long an echo of her words would last in the increasngly mothed-up mind. "Goodbye, Terrence." 

"Bye," Terrence whispered, using his hand to gesture us out the door, "Ash, you looked beautiful in those jeans. Can't say the same now,  Ash. Everything is brown. It's all brown, Ashley. You've got to help me. It's all brown." Valerie clasped my hand and started to pull me away. 

"Terrence!" I yelled out one last time before the doors slid to a close.As Valerie folded one arm protectively over my gut, I began my unique style of thrashing, that infamous for escaping even the most buff of the street-crawling pedophiles . Valerie was strong, though – stronger than I had recollected – and held me fast. It took one uncontrolled spasm, though, to tear me out of her grasp. I thought about beating my hands on the doors and screaming, but the grave gaze on Valerie's face kept me from running into the corner. Sighing away a tear, I bolted in the opposite direction.  

I wanted to extend a warm thank-you to Oliver, owner of Overville, for the kind words on Sunday's post. Thanks for stopping by! 

Winning NaNoWriMo at Third Place Books

brewbooks on Flickr

I'll admit it - sometimes, when I'm alone, I delight in calling myself a writer. It makes me giggle in joy, the visualization of my name on covers lining the "New Arrivals" shelf at the Barnes and Noble or whatever's hot  when it comes to book-buying. Of course, this little dream of mine led to signing up for a creative endeavor that has changed who I am entirely: National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. Sponsored by the Office of Letters and Light, NaNoWriMo is held thrice a year - one "main" event and two camp-themed sub events. As of yet, I have participated in - and won - three of them, one main and two camps.
In November, I stumbled upon this wonderful book store connected to a mall complete with a food court and RiteAid - Third Place Books on Lake City Way. There in it was a group of writers who all met one another through this program. I soon joined in and was accepted right away. Since then, I've met them every other Sunday for a good time and a lot of writing.
What I love about the TPB on Lake City is the crowd it attracts. On any busy summer Sunday, the farmers' market will be up in the parking lot, locking the writers and other heat-vulnerable beings inside the store. People playing cards, Scrabble, and tabletop RPGs will take the tables around our normal spot while one of the group comes in early to save the spot. Outlets line the walls near delicious-smelling restaurants - there's always something for everyone. Whether it's chicken soup, nachos, sushi, or even frozen yogurt, I've found absolutely bliss in having nights at Third Place. Children often come through for books or get-togethers, and the table occasionally gets to snicker at whichever munchkins have taken over the giant chess set. Every so often, we find a lost sci-fi writer who sits down and talks over their plot until their particular writer group finds them. All in all, I found TPB to be just the right place for me.
Then there was the time that the power went out. It was November 2012 on a very dark and stormy evening. In a flicker, the lights went out. The group of writers, working by screen brightness, didn't notice for at least ten seconds before the strobes above began flashing. After migrating under the awning and writing in the shade, I had to call it quits for the night.
Whether you're a writer, reader, foodie, person-watcher, or anything else of the sort, Third Place Books will prove its worth as a prime hangout spot.

...oh, you wanted a snippet of the novel? Is that why you came?

"“Eli,” Elias opened his eyes to see a lock of Cole's growing hair in his face. Cole pushed it back. “Elias, up.” Elias staggered to sit up, groaning and rubbing the crud from his eyes.
“Wh-what?” Elias mumbled, not excited to be up so early.
“It's Matt,” he whispered, “You've got to see this.” Ollie and Bennett were sitting on their knees around Matthias' mattress. Zinnia stood in the corner, watching. Elias locked eyes with her first. She raised her eyebrows, a dash of yellow reflecting off of her green pupils. Elias turned immediately. Romy sat on her own bed, flipping through a book. It had been hand-bound, just like Jocelyn's.
“Well,” Romy mumbled, writing a note in the book with a lit penlight, “Rumors seem to be true.” Elias stuck his head right over Ollie's and took a long look at Matthias. He was breathing through his mouth, sweat dripping down his forehead. Saya appeared at the entrance to the room, holding a rag soaked in cold water and wrapped around an ice cube. Elias placed it on Matthias' forehead. Matthias' eyes snapped open immediately.
“What?” he stammered, “That-that's cold.” Elias sighed.
“It is, isn't it?” he said regretfully, “It'll bring down your fever.” Matthias nodded a little and stared at the ceiling. A murky gray covered his eyes, almost like a film from Elias' angle. He looked to Romy, waving his hand over his eyes. She nodded, closing her eyes for a moment, then placing her index finger on her lips. Elias nodded. Bennett tapped Elias and mimicked the gesture.
“They were blue,” he said, kneeling closer to Elias, “Like an indigo.” Bennett's voice was raspy and filled with tears and cracks in his tone. Elias nodded and hugged his knees, shifting to sit on his rear. Ollie sat back on a mattress, rubbing his eyes.
“Headache?” Brandt asked, “Me, too.” Saya sat next to Brandt, looking towards him with a rare pang of fear in her gaze. Elias kept a straight face. "

Leap, by Ruby Maxwell (Pages 76/77) 

Sammamish River Trail Biking (South to Wine District)

Hello! Sorry for no post last night (when I should have) - I was too tuckered out from the bike ride yesterday. It's been a long time since I took a trip on the Sammamish River trail.
The Sammamish River trail, named for the iconic Sammamish River (or the Sammamish Slough) is a ten-mile-long paved trail stretching from Bothell to Marymoor park. Equestrian access is available through a softer dirt shoulder on the side, though no motorized vehicles are allowed for use. From my experience, the trail is a very popular place for bicycle training and jogging. With beautiful views of the lake and access to prime fishing spots and the Gold Creek Tennis and Sports Club, the trail is used by many.
I normally start my trips at the Wilmot Gateway Park in Woodinville and go either north to Bothell or south to the Tourist District. In order to get used to riding my bicycle again, I headed south. It's a shorter ride by quite a bit, though very worth the leisurely twenty-minute ride.
The wine district (or tourist district) is home to wineries and breweries that draw in a lot of tourism and have grown to be Woodinville's greatest assets. I'm not one to take a drink, but I've always loved walking through the Chateau Ste. Michelle and maybe grabbing a bite with friends at the Redhook Brewery. However, all three locations seemed to be closed to the public last night due to concerts and events. I wrapped up at the Columbia Winery and took a small paved decline towards an abandoned railroad along the 202. I walked it for a little while, stepping over blackberry vines and around tall foxgloves.
Overall, the ride there and back was very smooth. Unlike what I remember on my way to Bothell from Wilmot Gateway, the trail was very smooth. It's a long trip for kiddos but a nice way to get a day out started for just about everybody. I suggest you take a look at the Sammamish River Trail - I might be on it again today!


Sammamish River
Sammamish River Trail
Woodinville Wine District
City of Woodinville
Chateau Ste. Michelle
Redhook Brewery
Columbia Winery