If you deem yourself to be a part of the writing world (like me) but have not yet read Lionel Shriver’s speech on current day identity politics and the way that they have the potential to impact fiction writing (I just read it), I highly recommend reading it here. It’s very powerful and has many good points.
Pandemonium, book two of the Delerium Trilogy, was instantly not at all what I thought it would be.
I thought that it would pick up right where the first book left off, or at least somewhere near there, but it’s told through two different timelines: then and now. Now takes place six months after the end of the first book, then picks up only a few days after. It was an aspect of the story that I wasn’t prepared for, but I think it worked out for the better in the end.
What really threw me for a loop was the fact that Lena, the protagonist of the series, was SO different than she was in Delerium. It’s understandable, why she’s so different, but I don’t think it’s explained as well as it can be given the then and now story sequences.
The whole situation of the now sequences (SPOILER: a rebellion) isn’t well explained either. It’s stated several times that the Invalids have attacked cities across the nation, but we only get a detailed account of the attack in Portland, which doesn’t even make sense since Lena isn’t even in Portland for any portion of this book. Due to how big of a deal the rebellion is in Pandemonium, I wish there would have been more details about not just the attacks, but the rebellion in itself. Also, there is a big deal made about Lena’s escape from Portland and how it impacted the Invalid’s method of receiving supplies…shortly after, a rebellion is started. I want to know if Lena’s escape somehow started the rebellion, or if it was a lynchpin to starting it.
Lastly, there were a couple twist endings to Pandemonium. One (I’m not going to spoil it) that I thought was very appropriate and well placed, the other (also will not spoil it) seemed lame and as though it will be used to create unnecessary drama in the third book.
Overall, I give Pandemonium and 3.5/5 rating. It was well written and suspense-filled, but very different from the first book.
I am currently sitting in the Creative Writer’s Club at my college.
Yep. I’m a college girl now; actually going into an educational field of what I’ve wanted to do pretty much my whole life: writing. I’m not going to say what college I’m in because that’s too personal of information to share on this blog.
What I’m here to say is this:
No matter what your passion may be (writing, photography, biology, etc.) don’t be afraid to pursue it. Even though I know that a writing degree doesn’t at all guarantee me a good job or a stable future, I don’t care. Maybe I should care. But why? Why should I be forced into an education that doesn’t interest me, or even disgusts me (blood is gross)? Just for the stability of a job? If I hate going to work everyday, I may as well die young. But, even though I know that struggle is ahead of me, I’ll be able to endure it because I’ll love what I’m doing.
I’m young and just starting out. I’m blind to what the world has to offer me, but I’m not afraid.
Not only do I know that the Lord has a path already laid out for me, but I know that with a passion burning as strongly as mine for writing, EVERYTHING will work out positively in the end.
So, what I’m saying in this blog post is this:
Don’t be afraid to pursue your passion just because it doesn’t have the best stability. If you’d rather be stable and a little bit miserable, then fine. I’m not going to tell you how to live. But I’m not scared and I’m ready to face all of life’s difficulties. Here’s to the future.
It’s a very surreal feeling to know that your life is ending. And I mean this in two ways: Recently, the idea that the moment you’re born is the moment you start dying has been on my mind and I don’t know why that is. It could be the fact that a couple weeks ago I walked away from a totaled car that I should have died in (and I trust that I’m still alive because God saved me that night). But that’s another story.
I guess this blog post is somewhat of a letter because I honestly don’t think that I can just talk to anybody about this. There are people that I would talk to, but they’re either recently out of my life or are going through their own problems.
I don’t know.
I make my own calendars. It helps me think, I guess. There is just a satisfying feeling about drawing in the lines and writing down the numbers and month names that makes all of the time passing feel familiar to me; it makes me accepts that I am the oldest I’ve ever been and the youngest I ever will be again at every moment of my life.
Three days ago marks the two month mark until I move into my college dorm. Two months until my life ends. And I’m not talking about my actual life, at least I hope it doesn’t end; I’m talking about my entire life up until now. I don’t think that I really consider birth through three years life. It’s alive, that’s for sure, but to me life and alive don’t connote in the same way. When you’re four though, or whenever you start preschool, memories start to form and the training begins. What training? The training that sets you up for the next thirteen years. Preschool prepares toddlers for elementary school, which prepares kids for middle school, which prepares preteens for high school. But high school doesn’t really do much to prepare teenagers for college. Schedules aren’t the same, the way the classrooms are run, all of the things are different.
I guess that that is what I’m most scared about. The differences. I don’t think that I’m prepared and I would much rather be prepared.
And that’s what I mean about my life ending. My life that I’ve been preparing for and living since I was four years old is over. The schedule isn’t the same, neither is the curriculum.
When I looked at my calendar and when I wrote “MOVE IN!” in all capitals with an explanation point, it felt like I was signing away my soul.
As much as I think that I’m ready for this new door to open up, I know that I’m still standing just out of reach of the doorknob. I can’t decide if that distance, the distance between me and the doorknob, is because of terror or anticipation, possible both.
How can I be so ready, yet so ill-prepared, to end my life? Yes, it’ll be the start to a new one… But, am I ready to meet the new me?