Adventures of the Hatter and the Hare

A couple of days ago, my dad drove up to my grandmother's house to empty it of all the furniture in preparation for selling it. My two younger siblings accompanied him. Margaret was tasked with packing all of Grandma's delicate dishes and porcelain cups. Soon, she called me and promised me a "surprise" when she returned.
So, the day they come home, Margaret spilled her secret upon moments of arriving: Grandma's beautiful china. She lifted and staggered under the weight of a hefty box, and set it on the table. Eagerly, impatiently, face shining with excitement, she began to unwrap each piece from newspaper and align it in rows on the table. Dutifully, I "oooed" and "ahhhed" as each dish appeared--but I admit there was true admiration behind my encouragement. It was lovely china, I had to admit. An intricately patterned gravy boat and a cut-crystal sugar bowl were promptly followed by three tiny teacups. Then, I do believe, my eyes grew round as each cup's accompanying saucer. 
The teacups were delicate, exquisite, and each possessed a sort of charm that hinted of tea-parties in times gone by.
This, as it turned out, was precisely what Margaret had in mind. So, I made the tea while Margaret gathered the sugar and milk in matching crystal dishes, and assembled blueberries on a mismatched china plate.
When the tea finished, I brought it over and beheld the charming sight before me. Margaret had everything ready--from napkins to sugar spoons to miniature forks with which to skewer blueberries one at a time. At my place was a pale green tea cup and plate painted with a single dark flower on the inside; at my sister's place there was a scarlet cup with brilliant designs of flowers and leaves along the outside.
So the tea was poured, and we sat down. Everything seemed to be in place for a perfectly ideal tea-party amongst sisters to help relieve the chaos and stress of the day. Everything was laid out for a perfect snack.
But, alas! It was not to be so.

The trouble began first with dad's idea to include Grandma in on the tea-party. Now, do not mistake my hesitation in her being included for petty snobbishness. I think it would have been a rather heart-warming sight to see Grandma drinking from her old tea-cups (which, she did not recognize). However, on that particular morning, she was very out of sorts, and confused and refused to eat much at all.
Dad took the third and last (intact) tea cup, a simple white and gold one, filled it with tea and plopped (okay, gently placed) it before Grandma.
Margaret and I cringed as she began protesting loudly. She doesn't want anymore food. But as it was bound tea-party for three, we made the best of it, and continued sipping tea as pleasantly as we could, despite glancing every so once and while over at Grandma to ensure she was being careful with her cup.
For about five minutes all was splendid. We were dashing, beautiful, witty, congenial, remarkable, civil, amiable, accomplished and admirable ladies of high English society! Within that category, we were anybody we wished to be.
 But very soon, we narrowed down and chose who to imitate. We decided we were suddenly characters from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, perfectly ladylike in both manner and conversation, and utterly polite. Indeed Margaret adopted the role of adventurous, romantic Marianne Dashwood, whilst I became her level-headed, sensible (ha!) sister, Elinor. Margaret was embodying Marianne's character brilliantly in both word and deed, and I had no trouble (English accent and all) pretending to be the elder Miss Dashwood, who, if real, no doubt I could relate to extremely well. Yes, Elinor and I would get along, I think.
Then it happened. In one sudden, prolonged moment, Grandma muttered something, grabbed the tea cup in front of her, brought it to her lips. . .and spat out her upper dentures into her priceless porcelain container!
Horrified, we jumped up, washed out the tea cup frantically, cleaned the teeth, and tidied up from breakfast. To think! Poor Grandma! With her limited eyesight, and the fact that she is extremely short of both hearing and, I daresay, temper, she could not see the agony of both her granddaughters at the enormity that she accidentally committed.
From that point, our humble tea-party went only downhill. The sacredness and beauty of the tea cups had been compromised irrevocably by that one incident and we now saw them as breakable, impractical, fragile containers for holding liquid. Our views were very suddenly dimmed and, though pretty, they appeared no longer to posses such charm and elegance as before. Grandma retired the table for the couch, now in a good humor (bless her heart!), and Margaret and I returned dolefully to our seats. Despite our best efforts, we failed to rouse ourselves once again to talk as Marianne and Elinor, and could no longer converse with all the wit and charm expected from members of high English society. We were simply two modern sisters, and were, under no circumstances, fond of rejoicing in the ill use of such a lovely tea cup. So we sat in brooding silence, and drank tea. And drank tea. And drank tea.
I believe it was on my fifth cup (or so) that Margaret and I both looked simultaneously at the plate of ripe and juicy blueberries. We each grabbed a tiny plastic fork and began eating the blueberries solemnly, one by one. Suddenly, there were only three left and they were providing most useful in keeping our gloominess at bay. Margaret's appetite for them seemed to be as insatiable as mine. At once, she forked one, I skewered another, we popped them in our mouths and eyed the lone blueberry, sitting there on a plate. Our eyes met and conveyed an unspoken challenge.
Get that blueberry.
It's hard to say who moved first--but we both did soon--and in a flurry of motion an epic fight ensued: we were sparring with forks to win the last blueberry. We stabbed, jabbed, twirled, and swatted (playfully and very dramatically, I might mention). In the chaotic flying of our hands, my unfortunate, clumsy elbow was the one that knocks over the little bowl of creamer. All at once, both our feet and the carpet were soaked in cold milk.
A second mess to clean.
After it was all wiped and blotted and hasty apologies were made to the carpet and the priceless milk-bowl and each other, we sat again.
At this point however, we were full of tea, and harbored feelings of both disappointment and amusement. We washed the tea set meticulously, and carefully repacked each piece in the newspaper again. Our tea party had ended in disaster, but we had full bellies, and memories to last a lifetime.

We set the tea set back the box almost with dispositions of reverence.

At first, upon beholding it, I had mused of all of possibly lovely tea parties and meals the delicate china had been used for. Though I still like to think what wonderful memories had been made with that self-same tea set, I now can proudly say, myself and Margaret (someday, perhaps, to be Marianne again) have added one very unique tea-party to the record. Perhaps an unusual, teeth-filled, blueberry stained tea-party does rival even the most polite ones of times gone by.
We get points for originality, at least. It was a jolly day, and one I am sure not to forget for a long while. In all truth, though we had begun as beautiful, proper English ladies from a novel, the chaotic circumstances transformed us into characters more worthy of Wonderland than England.
And now, a toast. From one Mad Hatter to the best March Hare in the world, Margaret.

Summer and Stars and Suns...Oh My!

I have but one word to share.
Summer!
What a lovely season! The sweet smell of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass float through the air, the vivid colors of wildflowers spring out through the weeds, the rains and nights are warm, the sunsets superb, thousands of fireflies flit through the trees, trees and gardens are laden down with growing fruit...in short, there is so much going on, I cannot possibly describe everything that I love about summer.
We've been grilling dinner nearly every evening, eating on the back porch at twilight, and then sitting back for half an hour after we're finished to simply soak in the beauty of God's creation. Did I mention I love this season?
I think God is amazing. May I say that again? I think He is AMAZING! I think sometimes He is up in heaven simply thinking up ways to prove His love for me. Sometimes the tiniest things: a single flower, a gentle rain, a sudden, cool breeze, an exquisite butterfly resting in a muddy road...they each seem to be a little message from God saying "Hello, my dear. I love you so."
I'd rather say these little tokens of love are working. I am enamored! Such beauty and love! Blessed be God.

Anyway, besides my summertime reminisces, I have been thinking of yet another subject entirely. It has to do with my book (surprise!) and with my villain's emblem. No, I won't be launching into another story of my villain. I simply wanted to point out the symbolism behind both the emblems of my evil king and my heroic king.
My villain's symbol happens to be an eight-pointed sun set in a purple back round. You may find this odd, because not only is the sun beautiful and providing of light to all, and, moreover, purple is a royal color.
The good king's emblem is one of rebellion however. It stands in stark contrast to the other. It is a four-pointed star, identical to one found in a compass rose. The colors here really have no ulterior meanings (white star, blue back round).
Whereas my villain's sun was not chosen for any particular reason, the good king's star has one important meaning behind it which I will point our here, and possibly even in the book, if I can, without insulting my readers' intelligence.
It is a simple process of nature, but one that is perfect to apply to my plot line.
 A star, as you well know, rises after the sun has gone down. This serves as a perfect symbol for the rebellion, whose goal is to dethrone the evil king and crown the rightful heir. The rebellion's symbol serves not only as motivation, but as a statement of their goal: A star can only rise when the sun has sunk beneath the horizon.
Anyway, it struck me that in the middle of summer, with the sun giving so much vitality and life and cheer to so many things, it seemed appropriate to explain a small aspect of my villain/hero's individual symbols. If you see any other symbolism between a star and a sun, or have an different interpretation of mine, I invite you most whole-heartedly to share it!
Though, perhaps I cannot be quite so subtle in incorporating meaningful, good lessons into my writing as some literary, Christian masterminds, I can't help but try. Hopefully I will improve with time and constructive criticism!
I seem to have gotten slightly off track now, starting off with talk of summer and ending with suns, but no matter. Thank you for your kind tolerance of my random ramblings! I am so very fond of both them, and you! Have a blessed summer.

“May the road rise up to meet you,

may the wind be ever at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields.

 And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.”

--An Irish Blessing

Hobbit Habits

It's dawned on me lately that there is nothing so much I would like better than to be a hobbit.

Yes, I did say hobbit, my friends.

A hobbit! Imagine the possibilities! Yes. In a charming green land called the Shire I would live and dwell in a cozy house tunneling under a hill, perhaps with a green round door, perhaps with a red one (but a round door, nevertheless). Perhaps I'd be considered extremely respectable, because I had lots of money and never dared to do anything extraordinary, as is the way with the hobbits. Perhaps I'd love to wander the forests of Buckland, the hills of the North Moors, or venture into Far Downs, or maybe I'd be simply contented to sip tea and eat scones in my little dwelling until my Eleventy-first birthday.

 Or. . .perhaps I would be one of those notorious Took hobbits, with the adventurous streak in them that made them seem rather bizarre to the other, more quiet folk. Perhaps I'd know many-a-song of lands faraway from the Shire and dream of going there...like a dear little fellow named Bilbo once did. Maybe I'd fight a dragon and earn quite the pretty penny for it or perhaps save Middle Earth altogether.  


Okay, okay. I'll admit. There are several a couple disadvantages to being a hobbit.

• They seem to have an awfully hard time riding large regular-sized horses.
• They tend to have rather round bellies, and wear bright colors, which do not agree with my uber-pale skin tone!
• They have hair on their feet in abundance and have to keep it "neatly combed."
• They shy away from adventure and tend to remain in their holes contentedly.

BUT....the good things about being a hobbit significantly outnumber the bad!!!

• They get to have six (or so) meals a day!
• They keep their pantries and cupboards very well-stocked.
• They love to give parties and socialize with other hobbits.
• Their door-frames wouldn't make me feel so terribly short.
• They are humble folk.
• They enjoy ale and singing and have curly hair atop their heads.
• They have names like Bilbo, Frodo, Samewise, Meriadoc, Belladonna, and Peregrin...I mean come on....who wouldn't want a name like that?!
•  They appreciate a wizard's fireworks.
• They dance merrily.

I have this little, yellowing page from "The Hobbit"  that tore out of the book. I keep it pinned above my desk...for inspiration, I suppose. I mean, I'd much rather be studying subordinate clauses and solving 50 math problems than stare at this paper, dreaming up exactly what a hobbit is, and if it's at all possible for me to become one:   

"Hobbits are little people, smaller than dwarves. They love peace and quiet and good tilled earth. They dislike machines, but they are handy with tools. They are nimble but don't like to hurry. They have sharp ears and eyes. They are inclined to be fat. They wear bright colors but seldom wear shoes. They like to laugh and eat (six meals a day) and drink. They like parties and they like to give gifts and receive presents. They inhabit a land they call the Shire, a place between the River Brandywine the Far Downs."

I read it. And I smile. . .ah, Tolkien. You genuis.  

You see, hobbits seem to have quite the care-free life. They set quite the example of how folks ought to relax and be merry and enjoy life, don't you agree? Therefore, you can't blame me for aspiring to be a hobbit. They're basically the coolest creatures in Middle Earth.

Forget the noble elves. Forget the wealthy dwarves. Forget the cunning wizards.

Hobbits rule.

And though hobbits are shy folk, an occasional, exceptionally brave one comes along every once and a while. . . .

It's probably this rare brave-streak, and general charming personality that makes hobbits so very wonderful. In any case, whether or not I do spend my years in Hobbiton, or just settle to watch the movies a million times and memorize each line, or read and re-read my copy of the trilogy until the pages have all crumbled away in my hands and the ink faded to nearly nothing...I think it's very safe to say, I will forever be a hobbit at heart.  

Unashamed

How amazing God is. I was sent this really beautiful poem, by one of my dear friends, and it is most definitely worth sharing.

The Fellowship of the Unashamed

I AM A PART of the Fellowship of the Unashamed.

The die has been cast. The decision has been made. I have stepped over the line. I won’t look back, let up, slow down, back away or be still.

My past is redeemed, my present makes sense, and my future is in God’s hands. I am finished and done with low living, sight walking, small planning, the bare minimum, smooth knees, colorless dreams, tamed visions, mundane talking, frivolous living, selfish giving, and dwarfed goals.

I no longer need preeminence, prosperity, position, promotions, applause, or popularity. I don’t have to be right, first, the best, recognized, praised, regarded, or rewarded. I now live by faith. I lean on Christ’s presence. I love with patience, live by prayer, and labor with the power of God’s grace.

My face is set. My gait is fast, my goal is heaven. My road is narrow, my way is rough, my companions are few, my Guide is reliable, and my mission is clear.

I cannot be bought, compromised, detoured, lured away, turned back, deluded, or delayed. I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice, hesitate in the presence of adversity, negotiate at the table of the enemy, ponder at the pool of popularity, or meander in the maze of mediocrity.

I won't give up, shut up, let up or slow up until I have stayed up, stored up, prayed up, paid up, and spoken up for the cause of Christ.

I am a disciple of Jesus. I am a Catholic. I must go until He comes, give until I drop, speak out until all know, and work until He stops me. And when He returns for His own, He will have no difficulty recognizing me.

My banner is clear: I am a part of the Fellowship of the Unashamed.

-Adapted from the original (author unknown) by Patrick Madrid-

Isn't it amazing the ways God speaks to our hearts?! This poem...honestly...just blew me away. What a thought. So, instead of me trying to write something profound, and you trying to make sense of it....reread THAT amazing poem, and really let it soak in.

AMDG!

A Poem of Sorts

Let me begin this post by saying, I am not a poet.
I often wish I was. It could enhance the charm and depth of my stories a hundred fold. It could add suspense and mystery. It could pose as riddles and puzzles for the reader to decipher.
But you have to know how to write it, and sadly, I do not.
However, this has not stopped me from trying (unfortunately for you, dear reader).
So, without further ado, I give you a very random poem written when I was feeling rather melancholy:
(sorry for the lame name!)


The Castle Rot


Quiet days pass in these lonely halls,
And the restless maiden longs to see,
What wonders hide beyond the crumbling walls,
Of the barren castle by the sea.


Upon many empty towers hang,
The scarlet flag, the royal crest,
And the walls, from where the clear trumpets sang,
Grow worn from her footsteps of unrest.


The great rooms with floors of glass and gold,
Filled with treasures of splendour and might,
Now remain nothing but dust to behold,
And lay in shadows, devoid of light.


The tapestries each, bearing a tale,
Begin to darken and fade to grey,
With each touch of the maiden's fingers, pale,
As she wanders the halls, going her way.


The song she sings is sad and sweet,
Recalling the drums before the war,
The tears, farewells, then the marching of feet,
Of soldiers who left for distant shores.

Long years passed and when they ne'er returned,
All but she rose, to search for the lost,
And though to join them in their search, she yearned,
They gave her a task, of greatest cost.

A key of gold, to their castle, dear,

They entrusted to the maiden, fair,

T'was this same gold key, she would keep near,

Until they brought the soldiers back there.

But with the key did come a curse, dark,

Binding the maiden to her fair youth,

Never would wrinkle of age, her face mark,

Never could she leave, without the truth.

They never came home, and still, do not,

Each passing day steals a memory,

Of the maiden, young, in the Castle Rot,

Where, likely, she'll wander eternally.

Slightly Lost...

Well, it seems, as I get caught up in all the things of late, that I've forgotten that this blog is dually serving as both a place to be profound (if I can) and a place to write random stuff on occasion.

So, my mood this evening: sullen, strangely nervous, and slightly cynical.
If you wanted to know, that is...

Anyway, just some things happening in life right now...
I realize I'm not growing any younger. Hmm. And my siblings are growing up too fast for me to try to keep track...I'll be going off to college in two years. My parents, the wonderful, hard-working people that they are, are sometimes a little more tired in the evenings now than they were when I was little. Grandma's dementia gets worse day-by-day...we are trying a new medicine on her now, to see if it will help her depression...though I'm doubting it will do anything for the language that seems to spew so naturally from her mouth. I miss my older siblings terribly. I miss my little nephews, and my niece whom I haven't gotten the pleasure to meet yet. I miss seeing the beauty in their innocent, smiling faces, and laughing with them.
I wish I could find an amazing book series to plunge into right now...and just totally lose myself in a fictional world....any suggestions, friends?

Additionally, school, basketball and social things are taking up so much of my time I feel rather like there is little or no time for God...
One week I focus on basketball, yet it tips the scales of my life out of balance, and suddenly...I'm not seeing my friends often enough, or I don't accomplish hardly anything in school. It goes all three ways: the moment I focus on one thing, there is never time for anything else. There is hardly any time for a lot of things I used to do...like....knit, for example. I used to knit and crochet and quilt. I used to read at least six chapter books a month, and practice the piano. I used to....actually...write. Several times a week. And have fun doing it.
But it seems I never can do these things any more.
Am I simply not prioritizing, or scheduling well? Or does this perhaps indicate that I need to take up some of my old hobbies again?
I really don't know.
In any case, I'm not trying to sound pathetic. I'm just being honest.
I would really, really just love to go on some sort of retreat or something for teens. Maybe up in Steubenville. I don't know. I just feel like when I pray, it's a rushed, quick little night-prayer before bed...a Hail Mary, an Our Father, the Angel of God prayer...I don't understand what's wrong with me. I love God. I love my Catholic Faith. I love learning about the saints and angels. Yet sometimes I can be so....numb. Complacent. Selfish. I can't grow closer to Christ acting like that. So, my friends, I guess I'm asking, will you please pray for me?
And I, in turn, will pray for you.
Here's my hope though: we never know how God works in the hearts of men. Maybe He has something amazing planned for me that He is revealing slowly.
But I will not be pulled away from Him by stupid and pointless things. I refuse to be.

So, God. Work in me. Do with me whatever You will.

And I will be patient...I will have to be.

Heroes, Villains, and Me

     Well, hello again, world! It's been, what, an entire month? And what a month it's been! I've done so many things, accomplished a considerable amount in school, started basketball, celebrated Christmas and now we've begun an entire new year: 2011...          

So you might logically assume that 30 days is plenty time for me to get something written for my book, right?
     Well, not quite.
Writing this month has been slow, drudging work. I suppose, though, if I were to say something about every month that's past since I started writing, at least a day out of every one would have been slow too.
It must be, then, that slowness is a part of my writing process. At least, that's what I'm hoping is the case, and the finished results will be worth the long wait.
     We'll see.
This month, though, I've been blessed with ample time to really think about some things in writing (mine and that of others). I've though extensively on some matters, and very briefly on others. Even though all this thinking may not yield dozens of pages of my book, I had some in-depth thoughts on villains and heroes that I thought I'd share. 
     So first, I feel it is not only fair, but also prudent, that the author of a story spend a proper amount of time thinking about the villain of the tale.
The villain?
I know.
It's not a pleasant topic to think about. I can understand if you are immediately disgusted by the thought of thinking about it, too. I mean, it's the bad guy. Rightly, we've been taught to hate injustice, cruelty, evil...all qualities which are manifested by villains. I'll admit, it often makes be uncomfortable to spend time thinking about evil, even searching to find ways to understand and perhaps, if possible, justify it.
But I must be fair.
With all this thinking I've been doing lately, I have come to a couple of broad conclusions which may be, I believe, applied to most every villain (and by this, I mean the human kind of villain, not the unfeeling, alien overlord).
Villainy, treachery, tyranny (take your pick) appear to problems which stem from a deeper one, an age-old vice of humanity: the desire for power.
Now, I know what you're thinking...mostly because I raised the same question: that there are many other notable things (greed, hatred, envy etc.) that would certainly be cause for evil acts.
But here, let us look to the stories...Did Rumpelstiltskin take the queen's child because he thought he'd be a great dad, or because he wanted to be able to control the only heir to the throne? Did Sauron seek to destroy the Fellowship because he was jealous of Gimli's beard, or because they threatened to vanquish his grip on Middle Earth, once and for all? Did the White Witch assemble an army to fight Aslan because she was in the mood to wipe out some of the satyr population, or because she saw that the rightful king had returned and could reclaim Narnia?
Their thirst for power is not only the weakness, but also the downfall of these villains.
However, we must admit that a villain is not born evil. No one is. If it were so, villainy could be passed off as a genetic defect in a person, some kind of weakness of will one is born with.
But villainy is not born. It is learned. It is acquired. It slows eats at the hearts of men.
And all because of power.
These conclusions, though hard to dwell upon for long, have given me a keener understanding of my villain himself. I'm sure, when I attempt to explain the (faulty) reasoning behind my villain's evil ways (instead of merely handing him a mace to swing, giving him a tattoo and telling him to walk into the scene to some dramatic organ music), he'll be very grateful.

 And now, having covered both myself and villains, it's high time I give some attention to the heroes.
These fair folk require very few soul-searching, thought-provoking questions to understand them like the villains. For every man is expected to be moral, to do good, to act virtuously, and if he must, save a couple of damsels in distress. The people who live up to this expectation are to be commended, as it is a much rarer feat to accomplish, than, say, becoming a villain.
Heroes=some serious writing fun. Okay, I'll admit, writing about a villain is an occasional thrill...but at least for heroes I don't have worry about thinking who they're going to betray or murder next...
Thus, heroes are a little easier for me to discuss. They set the moral standard for the world, leading by example and serving as a model of good behavior.
But because I thoroughly examined the villains, I must do as much to the heroes as well.
So, what makes a hero?
If power makes a villain, or at least, contributes to their evilness, then wouldn't it only be logical that humility make a hero?
In a ways, yes. A hero goes above and beyond to love, to save, to sacrifice...
For me, the character of a hero is a joy to write about for a couple reasons. First, when I am writing about one, I'd like to imagine that, when faced with the same problems as that character, I'd also make the right choice. Second, I've found, in rereading my writing, that not only do I pour an immense amount of myself into some characters, but their actions, words, thoughts all reflect my desires to be good, moral, lovely, wise, admired, humble, and virtuous...as if some of the "good guys" I write about are actually what I perhaps might be like if I possessed every virtue, could overcome every sin and, to top it all, was pretty spectacular with a broad-sword.
Heroes, however, aren't to be mistaken as some sort of perfect, god-like figure, otherwise their triumph over adversity and over their faults wouldn't exist, as they wouldn't even have faults to begin with. Heroes are understandably human, and, consequently, make human mistakes. But the measure of their bravery is shown in one important test: whether or not they can, first, overcome their own weaknesses, and then, after they have done this, if they can triumph over evil.
This is the test of a hero. And it is not an easy test, as it demands that one first look into his own soul and weed out the bad, before turning his eyes to the evil of the world. But this is what a (good) character is built upon.
This thinking too, has helped me to see alongside my hero of my story (though I have several). Their decisions, I realize, reflect many things in their personalities, influence many people, and answer questions...Hopefully, I can represent them in a way that is good.

     So, I guess the entire point of this rather long and rambling blog entry was to present my foremost thoughts on villains and heroes, to report the small amount of progress I have made, and perhaps even to reassure myself that I haven't been completely unproductive this month. In any case, I know it has helped me. And I'm telling myself that it will be worth it when I have some deep, well-developed characters to show for it. Maybe my villain and hero will be grateful. But most importantly, I'm hoping my readers will be.

The Quill is Mightier Than the Sword?

     Well...I have found a way to continue writing. Yes, (I know it's dorky) I have taken up a quill as my writing tool...

     Is it as crazy as it sounds? Absolutely. It's troublesome, I'll admit, to keep a constantly light pressure as you're writing, to have to dip into my tiny bottle of blue ink every line, to ignore the scritch-scratching sound that it insists on making as I write, to have to peel the sticky pages of my notebook apart when I'm finished writing.... 

     However, as I write, I can't help but reflect on how many brilliant and important things were written with a quill...and an actual feather quill at that! I often feel rather spoiled when writing with a metal-tipped quill, and then a little bit guilty, as if I'm cheating at it... Those would be be the times when I look up from my paper, and notice an entire glass crammed with ballpoint pens, pencils, and crayons, all available for use, all so close, all at my fingertips. The guilt fades, then, and I still choose to use a quill. After all, what if I were to tell someone that, when faced with the choice of either an old-fashioned quill or a crayon, I chose the crayon? 
That would be pretty unremarkable. 

     It seems that every line I write with a quill, the more enjoyable it becomes. Does this mean I'll forever use a quill and never again use Microsoft Word to solve my horrendous spelling problems? Uh, no! In all honesty, I don't think most my book would come together as it is without our old, trusty computer. It is nice, though, to every so often take a break from that and revert back to a seemingly prehistoric tool: the quill. I find it to be an amazing stress reliever to carefully scratch out a part of your story with a quill and ink, strange as it sounds.
     Additionally, I've managed to crank out around twelve pages in the last week or so (yes, yes, I know...quality before quantity). But that's a production rate I haven't been able to replicate in a long while--probably not for half-a-year or so. All because of a quill...hmm.
In any case, I feel like maybe all it took to rekindle my love for writing was a simple quill. Had I known it would help me so much, I probably would have gotten one when I began writing in the first place. I'm looking forward to writing more with it!
Thanks to my sister who got it for me for Christmas! Best gift EVER!