English is one of the hardest languages to learn. And no wonder! The Eskimos may have 100 words for snow, but we had to invent a Thesaurus just to keep all our synonyms straight!
And then there's an evil place called Context, where a dove dove, invalid invalids means fake sick people, or we ask, "Does a buck mate with does?"
But I love our language. I think it's so versatile and universal, and even more, I love exploiting it! I adore puns and plays on words! And I love Greek and Latin roots to learn what new, big word means: Anthropomorphic, Ambidextrous, Ambiguity, Auspicious, Catalyst, Dictation, Prerogative,Philanthropist, Gregorian! I consider myself a writer and hope to write for the rest of my life.
In closing, I want a thesaraus for Christmas.

An Ekename

Which is where the term nickname came from. I've been thinking about nicknames recently. From self-proclaimed, to inside jokes, to purely circumstantial, most of us have a few at some point in our lives.
My oldest sister used to call me Sunshine. I think it was my first, and I loved it. I believe it was derived from the song "You Are My Sunshine," since she was big on singing, and it fit the description of my halo of white fuzz that floated around my head during the early years. She had also deemed another sister, two years older than me, Brown Eyes, also in honor of the song (whose title just slipped me) and her large, dark eyes.
Another sister has taken to calling most close relations by their first initial. I'm "M", Brown Eyes is "C", along with one of our nieces; another is "G. The few exceptions are my parents for obvious reasons, the oldest sister, and "Z", whose name doesn't start with a z but her nickname does. Confusing, I know.
I actually have several. One, "the Red-Caped Avenger," was self appointed one evening a long time ago among close friends. Select few even know about it.
Another is completely unpronounceable in English, and originated from a girl in my 6th grade class who wrote my name in some fancy, intricate way.
Another still is one that came a friend discovering my real name came from the Hebrew Language, and she started to pronounce it thus, and that eventually it turned into "Misha."
Once in Fifth grade I wanted a nickname really bad. Everyone at school had previously called me my given name and I found it dull. Plus, all three syllables was such a mouth-full. So the first day of fifth grade I asked everyone to call me some chopped-up version of the original. And they did. And I hated it the entire year.
Nicknames, I learned, need purpose in life, just like the rest of us. You can't just go nicking off bits and pieces of your name for no reason. Or, even worse, some people will start super gluing extra prefixes and suffixes on, making their names heavy, cumbersome, and sticky.
I'm not saying the lengthening of names is bad. Why, Manda May the Marvelous rolls of your tongue and Captain Hershey Bar is quite descriptive. But nothing screams D&D/Star Wars worse than Ked-Krevin the Star Slayer or Dhorxthal, Lord of Dwepthilla, or even Mega-Ultra-Kevin-the-greatness-of-all-time.

There's the classic shortening of names like Bill, Kate, Tay, Kayla, Mandy, Jon, Nat, Phro, or Jeff.
And it doesn't get much better than the Insider Jokes that gave birth to Green Gremlin, Uncle Joe, and Rabbies!

Names get twisted into fabrications of our mind, so distorted we can't even remember the original, like how E-mail became email and A Narange became An Orange. Nicknames build relationships, and friendships and trust: for there is one and only one person who's allowed to call me "Snuggle Bug", one to call me "Kay" and no one to say "Mickey".

"Love is something you can shake when it brakes: in the end, all that matters!"

I wouldn't have thought my heart could take it, nor did I expect it would ever have to.
Tuesday, August 25, after Caitlyn saved several frogs from a prank they unconsciously played a part in, I saw a dim white shadow crossing our lawn during the crepuscular hours: Lucky was back.
A week without food (though I think his fat stores helped with that) and his medicine, without which his Grand Mall Seizures would be increasingly frequent, and he comes back. Dirty, slightly thinner than a the last time I saw him, and shaking like a leaf, he meows constantly as he sniffs my hands. I had collapsed i few feet away, coaxing him closer. I then cradled him for a few moments, him purring in his motorboat fashion. A carried him likewise inside, fed him, gave him medicine, and let him sleep in the garage for the next few nights till the medicine got back in his blood stream.
It felt like a cruel joke, taking him away, have me planning on a adopting a new kitten, and the night before the official adoption, cry "Cyke!" and give him back. But it mostly felt like a test. I hope I passed that week-long life's exam. I do know, though, that my friends and family certainly did.

Goodbye, Old Friend

His name was Lucky and he was the best darn Cat this girl has ever known.
He was fat, lazy, loud, annoying, he hogged the bed, he get his white hair everywhere, and he was always begging for food. And he was wonderful.
I last time I saw Lucky was Wednesday, August 19, 2009. Dad had let him out for the night, because he was so anxious. He never came back. Which is, in of itself, strange, because he rarely strayed far from home, and when he did, all I had to do was call, and he'd come running (at his own pace).
I got Lucky for Christmas was I was three years old. I popping off the tape from the wrapped box he was in and he popped right out. I don't recall this, but all my sisters and parents say that when he came out I said, "Lucky!" like he was an old friend. We were deciding what to name him, and I wanted to name him Spot (I was only three, ok?), but Caitlyn convinced me to name him Lucky. From that day on, I think he was jinxed.
He had had cuts, gashes, and scrapes from fighting other cats and other undefinable sources. He had had three abscesses on his head; two on top, one on his cheek. The second one killed a few pigments in his skin, and he had a tiny white spot ever after on his head where it had originally been solid orange. He'd had re-occurring ear mites which we were never able to officially cure. He had this great ponch on his belly, like a middle-aged man with a beer belly, and it was wiggle and swing side-to-side whenever he tried to run. That and his neck were the only places he's store all his immense fat. The rest of him was scrawny. In fact, his belly was so large, he couldn't walk like regular cats; he sort of waddled.
In his youth, his tail was a little too long for him. It would dangle over his back like a carrot dangling in front of a mule. We thought one day it would get so long, it would obstruct his vision. It never did, but he eventually grew into it.
The way to his heart was definitely through his belly. Not only would he eat himself to death if we let him, his spots took the form of hearts all over his body--especially when he curled up in his way, with his back legs straight against his head.
Near the end, he developed Epilepsy, which I hear happens to some cats once they get old (Lucky lived for 12 years). He would have seizures and strokes if we didn't get his medicine. For the first month or so we had no idea what was wrong with him. I thought he was dying. Just one day, I go upstairs, and his was twitching and foaming at the mouth, he started circling and hissing... Then I saw his first grand mall seizure: I thought he was dying then, too. He didn't die. We took him to a vet and he got medicine. He was never the same after he got sick: he didn't yowl at the door to go in and out very two seconds any more (nothing missed) but nor did he sleep on my bed and head butt me in the middle of the night when he wanted petted or stare out the window at night, listening to all the night noises of the pond. He didn't purr as often, nor play/fight with Pounce (other cat) any more. But he would still wink at me with those big green eyes and stretch out and put his paws on the counter when he wanted fed.
I still can't believe he's gone. He was here, looking at me, purring, wanting fed and petted, following me around while I did my outside chores, just a few days ago. And now I have only one cat to feed and she doesn't even have to worry about her food being ravaged by him. I keep seeing little movement in the corner of my eye and expecting him to be there, wanting fed or petted, or just trying to get around on his daily rounds about the house. There's no one to knead the stuffed tigers in my room (which he did every time he walked him there, even after his illness) anymore.
Yesterday, Mom took me to the a cat adoption place. i met a kitten by the name of Spirit. She wouldn't leave me alone, and crawled all over me and Mom the entire time. And there was the male cat at the pound named Squirrel who jumped and climbed like his namesake. And had an inquisitive face to boot. I'll admit, I'm falling in love with both. I'll have to choose only one, I know.
Whichever I choose it would not be a replacement. Nothing, No one, could ever replace that Cat in my heart. I miss him, I mourn him, and I will never forget him. Never. The first and most developing years of my life will shine golden because of his friendship. he was a Godsend. I really think so. There is no way I could have made it through Elementary, Middle, Or Junior High school without him. Whichever cat I decide to adopt, it will be a new love, and new friendship.
I know Lucky couldn't live forever. I knew he would die. I knew it would be hard and it is. But I must move on, remembering him before and after he was sick, the sweet, stupid, loving cat. I know I will see him again.

Imagination: Definition by Example

A bit of a Psychological Test: read each word(s) and see what It makes you think of. I'll post my own answers below. no explanations involved, just a few words of what it makes me think of:

Playing Chicken
Text
Sports Car
Cloud
grass
big birds
Carrot
Blue hair
Khaki's
Pretzel
Bow
Melon
Night Games
Kite
Shoebox
Yellow

My anwers:
Playing chicken: Girls Camp's freezing pool.

Text: my sister fixed my cell phone in about three seconds.

Sports Car: a stalker who drives a red car with heavily-tinted windows.

Clouds: Ships.

Grass: Monkey toes!

Big Birds: a quill made from a turkey feather.

Carrots: Being very self-concious to around a Neighbor

Blue Hair: Dragon Ball Z.

Khaki's: a fake jungle river in Disneyland in Adventureland.

Pretzel: Hanging out at my best friend's house

Bow: A bright red bowtie.

Melon: Jimmy and Plank (from an old cartoon)

Nightgames: freaking out my neighbor (different one)

Kite: my kite in the shape of a Bird.

Shoebox: a baby sparrow that's fallen from its nest.

Yellow: Pioneer Trek! and our amazing Safari Tent!

It's ALIVE!!!

(This is for a certain someone who tells me my posts have gotten too short)
The following passage was taken from The Editors Preface in the beginning of Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte:
"...the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master--something that at times strangely wills and works for itself. He may lay down rules and devise principles, and to rules and principles it will perhaps for years lie in subjection; and then, haply without any warning of revolt, there comes a time when it will no longer consent to 'harrow the vallies, or be bound with a band in the furrow'--when it 'laughs at the multitude of the city, and regards not the crying of the driver'--when, refusing absolutely to make ropes out of sea-sand any longer, it sets to work on statue-hewing, and you have a Pluto or a Jove, a Tisiphone or a Psyche, a Mermaid or a Madonna, as Fate or Inspiration direct. Be the work grim or glorious, dread or divine, you have little choice left but quiescent adoption. As for you--the nominal artist--your share in it has to work passively under dictates you neither delivered nor could question--that would not be uttered at your prayer, nor suppressed nor changed at your caprice. If the result be attractive, the World will praise you, who little deserve praise; if it be repulsive, the same World will blame you, who almost as little deserve blame."

I have the Editor has put it plainly, if that thick, old English jargon is plain. I read that passage and immediately recognized the description. I've been the victim of several uprisings of my fictional characters, and I can tell you, it aint pretty.
Once I had to give up on an entire book completely because a certain character took leave of my control and even of my own thoughts. It took me quite the struggle for rip It (the main character gone bad) from the thoughts in order to save myself from sinking down with it. (This is the answer to some of you who wanted to know why i was discontinuing my full-blown novel).
My sister and I were once discussing book characters. (It was mainly after J.K. Rowling came out with the proclamation that Albus Dumbledore was gay.) We came up with this adage, and I think it applies to all books and their composers:
"Authors don't make the characters: readers do."
This is proven in the instances when book club members argue over a characters personality, motives, or character flaws, etc., like when A friend of mine stated she hated the character Peter Pan because he was stuck up, mean, rude, hurtful, and all those lovely adjectives; while i thought he was hilarious, adorable, carefree, and innocent, if not heartless, and that he embodied all that was the imaginative world of children.
Characters are how you see them: An author may be able to place the characters in situations that will bring out their character traits and have plots that will reveal facts about their personalities, but really it depends how a reader takes their own view of the characters' trials, motives, actions, thoughts, and all that literary drivel.

As a writer, the characters you create become something all their own. You find yourself bending your writing around a character's personality, not the other way around. In some ways, this creates great characters with depth that are believable and allow a reader to really relate. But many a time I've had to stop a character before it got it grew a mind of it's own.

In short, "you know you write too much when you love your characters in that way."

The Pilgrims' Liberation

My parents went on a walk and in a field opposite our house, found a mother wild turkey and her eight chicks. Yesterday, they were discovered again. On our lawn. Eating our red currents off the bush. The chicks were positively adorable, following copying their mother in everything, even when just fanning out her wings. They seemed rather tame and later, Caitlyn, my sister, had them approach her from outside a window and look up curiously at her.
i took the picture below. Suzanne (another sister) made the comment, "They look like dinosaurs." And they did! They moved exactly like the little orange herbivores in Jurassic Park!

Confessions of the Appreciative Spectator

One of the day-lilies in our flower gardens.










Robin chick nestled up in a tree near our vegetable garden.







Taken in the car on our way back from Utah, right after the rain (sparkles on the window).








It looked SO much like a ship! (also in the car coming home from Utah).

Mother Robin sitting on her newly hatched chick (Different from the chick above; this one is nested in our crab apple tree in front).
Some time back, My sister and I tackled eBay and wriggled out of it a lovely Kodak digital camera for only about forty bucks. Since then, the way to my fulfill one of my passions opened before me, I've delved into the mysteries and beauties of photography. I like shapes and making them fit together. All models working together to center the image and bringing out an idea; saying something through position, expression, and colors.
I'm infatuated with colors. Using each color to bring out all the others, complementing each other. Even dissonant colors that clash can bring about some new idea never thought of before. I love it. Here are a few images I've captured. perhaps the computer will behave for once and let me load up my images.

"We're alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic..."

I'm back. Alive. And smelling of bug spray. Girl's camp was a blast, let me tell ya. The skit, whatever certain critics would say, was an amazing replica of Dora the Explorer. That alone has unlimited possibilities. Then there was feeding roasted starbursts to the first years and chewing out my younger young women about air pollution and make woofums. Certification, hikes, roll-call: Ah, so good. and playing games like "Tree roots"; "Pretzel"; "Big Booty"; "Two Truths and a Lie"; and all those crazy, girly ones. My older sister wore a straight jacket and I did an excellent Swiper the Fox impersonation.
Then there was the Fourth Year High Adventure. And I was a fourth year at last! My best fried, Moriah, gave it a wonderful description:
"...put an obstacle course one hundred feet in the air and tie people to it."
But SO much fun. I would've stayed up there all day if I could.
I would've enjoyed myself much better if it weren't for the fact that half of my stuff didn't follow me there. This is how it went down: While the other girls were packing to go home and the 4th years to go on our adventure, I went to the bathroom, being all pack and ready to go. When I got back, Peter Bressler was up there with his dad, who was helping to drive and being our present Priesthood-holder.
Me: Where's all my stuff?
(Enter Peter)
Peter: Oh, I noticed you weren't here so I put it on the trailer for you.
Me: Oh, Thank you, Peter! That was so nice of you!
yeah, not so nice. He didn't know I was a fourth year and put it on the WRONG trailer, the one that was headed for Rexburg, not Island Park. I'm just glad to say that I have wonderful friends who were especially generous in donating pajamas, sleeping bags, shorts, a blanket for a pillow, bug spray, etc. They were SO kind. But I am now home and singing Girl's camp songs, being well rested for the first time this entire week. For those of you who weren't at girl's Camp, here are some of the G.C. song titles:
"We're a alive awake, alert, enthusiastic"
"Bear in Tennis shoes"
"Noah song"
"What Can Make a Hippopotamus Smile?"
"I'm a Nut"
"Bananas"
"Jello"
"Milk"
"Shark song"
"Sipping Cider"
"Tippy Canoe"
"Father Abraham"
"Three little Buzzards"
"Princess Pat"
"Mormon Boy Rap"
"Mormon Girls"
"Ice Cream & Cake"
"Chey-chey Shikolay!" (No idea how to spell that)
and all the others I can't list off right now.
While on the High Adventure, me and some friends decided why they have the fourth years go on High Adventure: It's so we can do some major bonding time and be the best of friends so that when we're Junior leaders we don't kill each other next year. It worked rather well.

Reasons for Rain

I went on a Pioneer trek with my stake recently. It was fun, with lots of great food and my un-biological family was great; my sisters especially. And walking. Lots and lots of walking.
But this post is about day 3, the last of our trek before driving back home to take much-needed showers. It was the only day that rained. It was also the only day that we went off-trail. Very muddy, very wet were we. Plus, it was through a cow pasture for the most part, so there were also cat pats which we would accidentally run our hand carts' wheels through and get a new whiff every yard or so as the wheels went around. I was in back, pushing with my un-biological sister, Chantelle, when she started coming up with why the rain was a blessing. After a few moments, I started to add on with her. We were merrily thinking up new ways the rain was a good thing the rest of the way. I can't remember everything, but this is a little of our list. We called it: "Reasons for Rain."

No more Mosquitoes

No sunburns

We wouldn't get too hot

It helped wash out some of the manures off our wheels and shoes

Everything looked so much greener

It smelled better, even with the ripe cows

We weren't as thirsty

No more eating trail dust

There was much more, I'm sure, but that's what I can remember. Chantelle taught me something. Among all the other spiritual lessons I learned, this was one of the ones that really struck me: If it weren't for rain storms, nothing green could grow.

Pet Peeves

-When people ask if you have gum. I find it rude, like asking "Do you have money?" That, and I never have gum: if I did, I'd be chewing it.

-When people imitate you like a second grader and say things you know you never said.

-When girls ask who you like. If I do like some one, why would I tell you?

-When some one you're talking to starts talking to someone else while you're mid-sentence.

-when people peer over my shoulder when ever I'm with my sketch pad and (word for word) say, "Wow, you are such a good drawer. I can't draw." Putting yourself down should not be a form of compliment.

-when you tell someone that a movie/book/person/place/game is so awesome and the funniest/best/funnest/coolest thing ever, and they for some reason don't believe you and instead of taking your word for it, they brush you off.

-When people know they are doing something wrong, and do it anyway.

-When the person you're talking to hasn't cleaned their braces in decades.

-Girls with too much makeup in all the wrong places.

-People who won't try, or even try to try.

-People who make fun of other people, purposefully being hurtful. Where's the enjoyment in that?

-People who complain about the weather.

-Books with cliche characters, plots, or titles.

-Adults who talk down to children or teenagers. They have brains.

-people who can't take a joke and are easily offended by playful banter or good-natured fun.

-People who kill other living things for sport.

-People who will only follow the crowd.

-people with too many pet peeves. It's like, GET OVER IT!!

An Unfortunate Recluse

I went to the college gardens this evening and was in love. I was surrounded by such lovely greenery, lovely flowers, and even found the most comfortable tree in which to roost while I wrote in my journal it was heaven--or would have been if it weren't for the various proposing couples and random single women in wedding dresses getting pictures taken, along with girls whose age I couldn't guess (between ten and twenty-five. Somewhere in there), and individuals with cellphones (what for I can't guess unless it's the only place they can get bars). And I was remembering the time my family went camping in a literally enchanted forest, complete with stream and dark, tall trees, and I was wishing oh so much that the gardens were bigger. I guess heaven on earth can only be an imitation of the real thing. It was like comparing Kraft Singles to Gouda. Just a disappointment. In the end, the experience was worth it, and I guess it wasn't in vain, and Summer would make the place popular for many residents, but still... I felt imposed upon, though for the majority I was doing that to others. At least it kept everyone shuffling around. Exercise, Right?

There and Back Again

Well, I've just finished the entire LOTR series. *Sigh* they're so brilliant. The ideas in them are so fascinating, with so many mixed-in morals, equipped with excellent character development, and clever, unexpected humor in all the right places makes these four books so enchanting. I hate it when some one thinks of J.R.R. Tolkien as cliche. Allow me to stand on my soap box in order to add a few inches to my 5'4" while I rant at you poor readers.
LORD OF THE RINGS IN NOT CLICHE!!! There I said it. Tolkien was the first to come up with ANY thing like this, see? The first to create a world all its own, with complete races, lineages, histories, countries, and a full out War. All the other high-fantasy, epic, defeat-the-dark-lord are all copies. Christopher Paolini and all his wannabe followers, and yes, even the great Lloyd Alexander is merely copying Tolkien's Originality. Phew. I'm done.
Almost. OK, I'll say one more thing: Since Caitlyn already claimed Pippin, Sam and Aragorn are taken, Legolas and Gimli are busy traveling all over Middle Earth together, and Gandalf and Frodo are basically untouchable, I call Merry Brandybuck. Alright. I'm done now.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Wouldn't smell as sweet.
My dear sister and I were discussing Shakespeare's Observance, and she didn't agree. She thought that a rose smells wonderful in part because roses are supposed to smell wonderful. She made the impression that their reputations precede them, so whether or not Roses really smell good at all is unimportant. Some one who had never smelt a rose before would expect it to be sweet-smelling because everyone knows roses smell absolutely delicious, so even before their first inhaling, a person would already be expecting a rose to smell sweet.
I'm using this as a reference to the names of Characters in books. I got on the idea of the effect of a character's name on how the reader perceives them after looking up babynames.com in their writers' section. I am a hobbyist writer myself and use Baby Names as a common source for christening characters. They give tips on what you should base names on and having them correct as far as gender, ethnicity, and time period goes, as well as being memorable. Everyone remembers Frodo & Sam. The names just roll off your tongue and stick in your mind like bubble gum in braces.
No one wants to read a name like John or Jane. Eck. Ew. Grody. No. Boring. But names like Katniss, Hermione, Vesper Holly--those are the kind of names you find no where else and remember.
On the flip side, I like to play with normal names given to normal characters: names that are so normal, they're almost abnormal. Or better yet, take a normal name and play with the vowels and consonants till it's completely original.
I once took a regular name e.g. Richard and played with similar consonant sounds until I got something simple, but new, e.g. Wickard.
Names label characters with connotations and stereotypes, just like children on a playground: Chuck sounds simple-minded or overweight; Courtney and Brittany sound like ditsy blond cheerleaders; Jack is edgy or rebellious; Josh is a pretty-boy, while Joshua is either old-fashioned or rich and posh. Visual imagery begins the second a reader hears a character's name.
In short, don't name your kid Eugene.

First Impressions

I've been visiting the Good Ol' Library a lot this summer and have found something: I DO judge a book by its cover! Call me prejudice, but if a book has some idiotic picture of a teenage girl/boy/Dragon on the cover with the look of outrageous astonishment (See cover of 'the Gammage Cup', 'Nancy drew,' etc.), I'm not going to check it out. Period.
Then there are the cliche titles like, "Norgblats, the Dragon," "The life and times of Susan Decrue," "Love, Jim"... basically if it has "dragon-(Insert intense-sounding noun here)" or Some woman's name and the picture of white birds on the front, or anything with Scarlet, Black, Gold, or Midnight in them.
On the other hand, there are the perfectly wonderful titles, "Does My Head Look Big in This?" "Stargirl," "Of Mice and Men," "Evil Genius," "To Kill a Mocking Bird," and others that completely grab you.
I also judge heavily on the first sentence (which, coincidentally, is the hardest part about writing for me). The first sentence will tell you everything about an author's writing style, and whether or not it'll be any good. The second I read, "There once was--" I slam the book shut and throw at the opposite wall. We all know "Once upon a time," and "Long ago, in a land far, far away," are all overused, but so are things people use when they think they're being original, like when they start with an Onomatopoeia. Boom! Wham! Pow! If you think I'm on the edge of my seat, I'm not. I'm slouched even farther down and groaning. Of course, Onomatopoeia's aren't all bad, so long as they're different enough to make me actually concentrate when reading them. Not to the extent that they take attention away from the story, but that they make the reader actually pay attention, making them wonder, "What on earth makes THAT noise?!" Like Kap-TWING! SHLOOP! Thwallump!
C.S. Lewis is the perfect example of originality. 'The Horse and His Boy.' It's different, and you start asking questions before you even open it, "Wait, isn't the boy supposed to own the horse?" "What's so special about this Horse, anyway?" "Why does he HAVE a boy?"
The title was equipped with a beautiful, water-colored cover, with a Horse. And a Boy. So simple. So intriguing.
And then, In a different book the same series of Narnia, "The Dawn Treader," where the first thing you read is one of the best sentences a book has ever been started with: "There was a boy named Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it." Different, Funny, something we can all relate to in someway: Brilliant!! It started with a usual, "There was..." But then a name that was familiar, yet so different, followed by a phrase we can all understand without further explanation.
The point of a book isn't to just Plop the entire plot and characters in front of the reader and say, 'here it is.' The evidence of mystery is why people read! titles/covers/first words should create questions instantly in a person's head, then slowly answering them while still making new questions as the story progresses. Stories shouldn't be handed to us on silver platters, we should have to work for them, fighting for our own understanding and interpretation of characters and morals in the book.

Alexander vs. Tolkien

I've read two series in near succession of each other: Lloyd Alexander's *Prydain Chronicles* and J.R.R. Tolkien's *Lord of the Rings* (which I have yet to finish, but still...) and have found something amazing.
Both Alexander's and Tolkien's Books have deep ties to Welsh mythology and the similarities are thus:
-Both are in distant lands that very CLOSELY resemble Wales
-Both are epics, with good in the form of simple farm people, pitted against evil, both in the form of a Dark Lord.
-Both have Protagonists (Frodo Baggins in Tolkien's and Taran of Caer Dallben in Alexander's) who are from peaceful farm-like homelands and both wanted an Adventure in which to prove their heroism and Bravery and Manhood.
-Upon ventering out past the boundaries of their safe havens, both heroes deeply regretted ever wanting to come on said adventure and miss the safe comforts of their homeland.
-Both have mysterious, wise, all-powerful wizards who help the main characters in their plights.
-Both end with final battles in which the Dark Lord is defeated.
-Both series' epilogues contain the heroes leaving to the "Land across the Sea" In the east, where they will live forever.
-Both have strange, sub-human creatures with speech impediments ("Smeagol"/"Gollum" in Lord of the Rings and "Gurgi" in Prydain).
-Both had large amounts of poetry and song in similar Celtic and Welsh verse.

I came across the comparison when a friend of mine saw me reading the last of Prydain, "The High King" (Cross-reference with the "Return of the King"), and said--I am paraphrasing--that she used to like Prydain before reading LOTR, and then realized that Prydain was Cop-out.
Prydain is NOT a Cop-out. Yes, the reading level of Prydain is significantly lower that Lord of the Rings, mainly because Alexander was writing for a much younger audience than Tolkien.
Both Alexander's and Tolkien's Author's Notes claim that the setting in which their stories take place are in a land totally of their own envention but do have significant ties to Welsh scenery and myths and Lore. I did notice that Alexander's book stuck much closer to the legends of Wales while Tolkien strayed far more into the heart of Fantasy itself, which is not to the advantage nor disadvantage of either parties. In Prydain, The "Bauble" of Princess Eilonwy and the bottomless food wallet of Gurgi do come from real Welsh lore, as do many motifs, including the "Land beyond the Sea," appearing in both novels.
Another similarity concerning the ending of the two books: While the majority of the successful heroes of the novels go to the Land beyond the Sea and immortality therein, there must, in each book, be one character to stay behind to complete, and even carry one, the story; Sanwise Gamgee in LOTR, and Taran (along with his beloved Princess Eilonwy and "faithful Gurgi") in Prydain.
A difference I found, however: in Prydain, the language was easy, roll-off-your-tongue simple, obviously for Alexander's younger audiences, while LOTR's language was so rich, I found, that I couldn't read in long periods. Beautiful and addicting, yes, but so rich and decadent, that I felt as if I were coming up for air between chapters, and even paragraphs.
I see it like this: Alexander's Writing is like the dinner rolls at Thanksgiving: I never get tired of them, even after I lose count of how many I've actually consumed; Tolkien's is like a chocolate-covered banana split Sundae with nuts, caramel, whipped cream, and a cherry on top: so delicious that it's the first thing I take off the buffet desert table, but so rich, that I must wolf down several Dinner rolls in between small servings of Sundae, yet I never really getting tired of the sweet, loaded-down richness of the Sundae. Both are delicious Must-Have's.
I also found that both of the books had similar morals and themes in them, despite their taking completely different paths to get to the morals.
In both Series' favors: I have fallen in love with the characters in both. Taran, Eilonwy, Fflewder Fflamm (I don't know if I got enough F's and M' in there), Gurgi, Prince Gwydion, Orwen, Orduu, and Orgoch, etc, in Prydain, and Aragorn, Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, Bilbo, Legolas, and Gimli in Lord of the Rings. Each are Superb in their own, complete differentials.

Cumulonimbus

There are few things the human mind can’t do. Their bodies are more or less limited in every degree, but little can stop one’s mind. There is a common phrase. It’s along the lines of: “You can’t imagine,” or “Beyond the imagination,” etc. This undermines the human intelligence. Anything can be imagined. Imagining is one thing; believing is another.
Believe is a word often affiliated with not certain. We often say believe in replacement of the dangerous, commitment-forming word know. To save ourselves from the hazard of being accused of certainty, we often say, “I believe that was the case,” or “I believe I saw…” To go a step further, to believe something is quite different than to believe you believe something. Belief is a frame of mind.
So, say you are performing the common, stress-relieving activity of watching clouds, perhaps sighting shapes in them. Is it ever so hard to believe that those clouds exist? The quick answer is that you know that those clouds exist. I would then correct you. You know that you see clouds. You perceive, even at such a great distance (or the distance you believe to exist. Pardon: that you know to exist), all the facts of clouds that you’ve learned over time. (This learning I’m referring to is other people telling you what they know, which they learned from other people who learned that from other people, until you reach people who believe they knew something about clouds).
When someone says, “You can’t imagine,” they really mean “It’s hard to believe.” Of course, I won’t quickly believe in, or dare say I know of (outside my mind), a world of winged horses or wand-waving wizards, but I will say I that believe in believing there is such a world.
Back to subject of clouds, I would say what everyone “knows.” Clouds are evaporated water molecules, which condensates together to form the cloud. The shapes, or types, of clouds differ from each individual based on the conditions during their formation. Anyone who has past the second grade could tell you that.
Another fact, so well known, they don’t bother to tell you in school, is that clouds could not support anything heavier or denser than the cloud itself. A human would fall right through. Thinking on the subject, I once posed this question to a friend. A new imagining: why can’t a person live on a cloud?
She answered that they would fall through.
I asked her why.
She said it was because clouds are light and fluffy. It couldn’t support the weight.
To solidify her knowledge of this “fact” to myself, I asked after her proof.
She repeated that people would go right through.
I wondered if she had tried.
She hadn’t.
This conversation brings up the thought: planes and birds go right through clouds. Then it occurred to me: Birds only fly through thin clouds, I believe. They wouldn’t bother trying to power through one of those thick, puffy, cottage-cheese-looking ones. As for planes, I am certain anything can go through anything if allotted enough momentum (thus also answering the question of skydivers).
So she, as with all else, counting myself, couldn’t offer satisfying reason why a people could not, based on all of our given evidence, live on clouds.

The Eye of the Beholder

A sick day found me alone, curled up on a sofa, in the dark, watching Disney's Beauty and the Beast. It is my all time favorite Disney Movie, for many reasons, but the most prominent, being Beast.
He is the epitome of animated perfection, first off, being goofy when the moment suits, terrifying at all the right times, though not so much so that it's still a family show, and lovable in the End. Also, he is the Pinnacle of Anthropomorphism; the artists, after fishing around
for sometime on the right human/animal balance, decided on an image based on a Silver back gorilla, which would give him the "Human" feel, crossed with a wolf, hence the hind legs and tail, as well as other beastly characteristics. But there is more to him than pure artistry.
Beast was a Prince turned Brute by a beautiful enchantress, after which he locked himself away in his cursed castle. So, no matter how long he has actually been a beast, his heart and mind are still that of a 21 year old man, or boy, if you will. The Feminine race alone is alien to him, not to mention kindness and love. And so the Beautiful Belle reaches out to him and--Viola!--The spell is broken.
Re-watching this movie made me realize the deep emotions, especially of Love and the REALness of the characters, though it was made well over a decade ago. I also reflected on the contrasts between the Movie version and the original Fairy tale, mainly the retelling in Robin McKinley's book, Beauty. And I saw one Major difference: While in the Film, It is beast who must change his beastly nature before he can change his beastly appearance by learning to Love. In the book, however, he has already overcome himself after years stowed away in his castle in the forest. When Beauty shows up, he loves her at first sight. It is Beauty who must change her heart to be able to accept him, and in so doing, accept herself. So the question is asked: Who has the real challenge? The Hideous in overcoming the physical and emotional challenge of being a Beast, whether physically, emotionally or both; or the Beautiful, in witnessing the beast and having sympathy and try to understand the Ugly, and accepting it despite the obvious barrier of both Appearances and--in the case of the Movie version--the cruel actions and seeing the kindness and goodness inside.
While that may be a philosophical reason to enjoy both book and movie, I still prefer the Film. And I love Beast, past the "Moral of the Story." Though my infatuation is rather hard to explain, I shall try any way.
He's furry/hairy and teeth-y. He has an awesome, billowy cape, an amazing singing voice and roaring voice; he has kindness, but self-doubt. He can make enormous snowballs, has the heftiest pair of eyebrows ever to move individually. He's adorably awkward, yet frightening. But most of all, Beast battles on roofs and jump from half-way up a stair case onto the next floor without bothering to make the turn in between. He's a Beast, what other reason need I?

"Curdle, I don't think we're in London anymore..."

I've just recently finished the book "Un Lun Dun" By China Mieville, given to me by my one of my loving sisters for my Birthday and I must say: It was strange.
Not altogether poorly written, its characters were solid and the twists in the plot were unexpected and even gripping, but the whole idea of personifying London's infamous smog and making it the antagonist is slightly strange. Of course, it made a GOOD villain, being evil, insane, power hungry, and all that, but still... SMOG?!?!
But I did enjoy the idea that it started out as the classic "Prophecy," written by someone no one can remember, of a CHOSEN ONE, who is some ordinary kid that gets called into another world which they must save from some uncanny evil force. But then it made a complete U-turn, and the main character switches: The original protagonist, of whom there are dozens of "prophecies," making her the CHOSEN ONE, IS defeated, which was NOT written with the rest of the prophecies. Instead, her "side kick" (And not the "Clever side kick" either. We're talking the "Humorous Side-kick") must take over for her in saving Unlondon, the Alternate reality of London.
I love how the writer makes somethings that were "prophesied" come true, and yet with others, the 'side kick' says, "To heck with this!" and saves the world her own way. She is nicked named The Unchosen One, and SHE, in fact, gets the cute Supporting male character whose sights were originally set on the SHWAZZY ("the chosen").
And then there were the occasional play on words and puns, that I will admit, I laughed at, being completely original and out-of-the-blue.
But on the whole, the entire book was bizarre: For starters, there's a man named "Skool" who is actually made up of random sea creatures compiled together and stuffed in an old-fashioned diver's suit, which then animate it as if with one mind. Why? Just because.
And then there are the random characters, like Yorick Covea, who was a small parakeet inside a cage, controlling some headless body on which its cage rested. And that wasn't the strangest.
At first I started it, then had to quickly put it down. Rogue garbage, Trash can Ninjas ("binjas") Pet milk cartons (named "Curdle"), Broken umbrella slaves (called "UNbrellas"), and Double-Decker buses that had adapted to Unlondon's peculiar traffic with either legs for wheels or were strapped to enormous balloons, and I was pretty wierded out. But once the story took hold, it became enjoyable, easily reminding one of Alice In Wonderland and The Phantom Toll Booth. Very Inventive, though still very, very, very, VERY strange, I liked it, even so. Thank you, Zanna!

Haldo

"Hello?" You ask?
No. I said 'Haldo,' and I meant, 'Haldo.'

On this Blog, you will find strange comments, half-baked words, and lots of imagination. This Blog relates to all my fictitious findings and therefore should NOT, by any accounts, be taken literally. Many of the things you'll see on here may appear weird, uncommon, out of sorts, or very bizarre. It is intentional, I promise.
Also, you will find other posts relating to fiction, such as Movie or Book reviews, comments, or quotations from my most favorite (or least) fantastical mental Library.

The Library will often be referred to. It is the collected works, whether imaginative or realistic, of own my fantasy Land. Placed on the shelves are literary masterpieces of Rowling, Dianna Wynne Jones, Tolkien, Bronte, etc; Visual works by Miazaki, Andrew Adamson, and other great directors; and unworthily catalogued beside these great pioneers of Just Left of Reality are my own inventions, strange, grotesque, bewildering to myself and many of my spectators.

I hope you will reach past the confines of a simple day-to-day reality, and barrow a cup of sugar from reality's close neighbor, fantasy land.

Midnight Blue

I was looking out my window one night and then I saw It.
It was HUGE! One of the most amazing spectacular images I've seen.
It stretched as far as the one's eye could reach, nay farther.
Its expanse went from horizon to horizon, and it did not stop there.
It continued past the treasured mountains of my homeland, over the oceans of adventure, leaving Infinity in Its wake.
And It was not alone. There were in Its midst small Things--tiny but eternal in their own minuteness. The Things were farther than the most distant thought. The Things, indeed, were the epitome of Foreign. Yet they were not, perhaps, so far nor so alien; I would not be lying to say they teased my eyes and for a brief moment, I considered extending my hand up to them.
But It had an Object as a guest of honor in Its accumulation of Things. This Object was closer than its fellow Things. It was warming and welcoming, being much nearer and thus more familiar than the other Things in It. And yet, in the Object's own closeness, it was that much more strange, though far from awkward. Merely queer by its whole attitude toward me, the Viewer.
And I thought, for a breath, that the sky in the middle of the night was quite Beautiful.

Are not things so much more beautiful and precious when we remove the familiarity and every-day view of the world?

In the Best of My Being

I have, for some time now, believed in things that most would not. I believe in Fairies, I believe in Elves, I believe in Santa Claus, I even believe in Dragons. And I have proof.
If we didn't have dragon's, why are there stories of them in almost every culture around the world?
If there weren't elves, then who goes into poor peddler's shops and makes shoes for them?
If there wasn't a Santa Claus, we would be over run by the Elves.
And If there weren't fairies, then a child's first laugh would've become something else, but obviously there is nothing else that is made from a child's first laugh, so we can be sure that it turns into fairies.

And now I shall make a contradictory statement:
I do not think that anyone anywhere has seen a fairy who was not on L.S.D.
I do not think that princess are in danger of being captured and/or eaten by dragons.
I do not think that Elves made my cellphone last year at Christmas.
I don't not think that Santa could fit down our gas fireplace.

I suppose I stand correct. I do not believe in fairies, St. Nickolas, or even Elves in peddler's shops. I do, however, believe in believing in them. Sometimes you just gotta believe.