writing

It's been a while since I've posted here. There just hasn't been much to say-my summers are filled with boredom, not inspiration for posts about feminsim. I have a lack of contact with the outside world at the moment.

I have not budged in my political stance. If anything, I've grown stronger in it.

Celebrity culture pisses me off. What pisses me off even more is people who try to treat the symptoms of sexism, not sexism itself. What really gets me going is something like this.

A girl and boy (I don't remember the names) were two different sects of Muslim. They were in a relationship, and these sects hated each other.

The girl was stripped and beaten to death. And I cannot begin to define just how ill it makes me to hear about this utter crap. That girl was a human being, a 17 year old girl with feelings for a boy of a different religion.

Believe what you will as long as your beliefs don't infringe on another human being's right to live their life their way.

When I was reading the post about this-over at absynthemuse.com, a great website for young writers-I also found this:

Unlaced: the literary ezine dedicated to celebrating the power of young women and blotting out violence against women

[Submit your artwork and stories!]

I realize I haven't posted many blogs here lately on political or social issues. I apologize for that. I really do have ideas, and every so often I find the time to jot them down on a piece of paper (which I always seem to promptly lose), but I've just been so busy lately that I can't even get a word in edgewise in my own thoughts.

If I sat down and listed everything that I've been doing that's kept me so busy you wouldn't understand why it's keeping me so busy, at least not every moment of free time that I have.

In between everything I have to do and trying to catch up on some desperately needed sleep that work has deprived me of, cleaning the house that I haven't been present in long enough to make a mess, trying to get in a balanced meal in between cleaning and work and other menial tasks assigned by the parental units I have been using my free time to RELAX. And when I say relax I mean I try not to think of anything that requires an immense amount of brain power. And since I'm having laptop problems and finding internet access off of it hard to locate I can't really write down what I'm thinking when I think of it.

I recently told my mom that she's not gettting me a birthday gift for my eighteenth. She's helping me move out.

Why? I decided two years ago that I wanted to move out, and become independant, the moment I turn eighteen. Since then I've done a little bit of saving money, and a lot of hard work.

Since we moved, my grades have actually gone down. Now I have a few friends, and waaay more distractions; I don't have a reason to spend all my lunches indoors anymore, I have nothing to fear. And so my grades have slipped, and while I know I have four years to get them back up, and above what they were (I think to get into Ryerson w.scholarship I'll need something like 95% GPA) but I feel kind of guilty.

I'm going to try and write a little more before November, but I honestly don't know how much-or how little-I'll be able to get out.

Next month is NaNoWriMo. The one month a year a bunch of crazies (yay!) get together and write. (Almost) every day we write. Our goal? 50 thousand (some aim higher) in a month. Words, of fiction, that is.

I always do this, every year. For those of you who are interested, it's at nanowrimo.org. It's an interesting time of year, fun and amazing-and extremely productive.

This year I'm going to take some stuff from AGA into my writing. I've never written anything vaguely feminist, unless you count that 90% of my characters are female, and my male characters tend to be poor temple kids and slaves, er...

I am a writer; I write poetry about my feelings. About my despair, and about my hate. About who I am, and how I've pulled off the foolishness of falling in love. About what, exactly, I have become.

I write short stories about travellers, I write short stories about time-travel and education. I write novellas about war, novellas about killers and those who stand against them; I write novellas about the after life, and the end of the world.

But I don't write about feminism. I don't write from a feminist point of view. I write about men and women, priests and priestesses. I write about women who are tall and thin, who have seen, and caused, death.