#PitchWars mentee bio!

Well, this is the first writing contest I've ever even entered, let alone one quite like this one!  For any potential mentors reading, my MS is adult contemporary fantasy, and you can find me on Twitter @lucia_kaku. I also now have an author-dedicated blog: luciakaku.wordpress.com

Tidbits about my reading habits:
~ I was known as the "Walking and Reading Girl" in my neighborhood growing up. It's about the most imaginative nickname ever. I nearly walked into many a car or tree doing that.
~ I read at least half of the Harry Potter books while sitting up a tree.
~ The first chapter book I ever read was a biography of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. for kids. By the time I was done with it, it was falling apart.
~ I'm an avid re-reader. If I love a book, chances are I've read it at least three times.
~ The most well-written plot in the world won't keep me reading if I don't connect with the characters.

Tidbits about my writing habits:
~ I thought for the longest time I was an Epic Fantasy Writer. In my PitchWars project, I decided to try something contemporary, and it really took off (for me, hopefully my potential mentors agree!).
~ My current PitchWars project started as third person, but first person kept intruding until I changed it.
~ Although I don't much enjoy Anne McCaffrey's writing, I'm unashamedly fanatic about RPing in Pern and have spent years of my life there.
~ I work best in silence and in private, mostly because I read aloud what I'm working on repeatedly and constantly feel like that would be annoying to listen to.
~ When I feel like my words jump off the page in crystalline rainbows and embrace the reader in all their glory, I will go back and read those specific words approximately 80,000 times. With a stupid grin every time.

Non-reading or -writing related tidbits:
~ I currently live in Japan, but I'm from Texas.
~ When in Texas, I'm on the street cast of a Renaissance Festival and am constantly exposed to brilliance, randomness, raunchiness, and love.
~ Henry VIII is my favorite English king, and Anne of Cleves had it GOOD.
~ I'm not good at it, but I love to belt out songs in the car.
~ Japanese is my pet project for now, but I love language in general. (Except French. Never again, French. Never again.)
~ Eleven is my Doctor, but I'm also a huuuge fan of Two, and have several Classic Who stories on DVDs with plans to expand my collection when I move back home permanently.
~ I practice tea ceremony and have my own kimono.
~ I have plans to travel the world via cruise ship (no really, that's a thing).

I dream of a time when I can make writing my living, sleep in as late as I want, and stay up until 5 in the morning, drinking Pepsi and muttering to myself about metaphors. I don't do mornings, don't understand morning people, and the biggest downside of my job as a teacher is having to wake up early for school. If school started at 10 in the morning, I'd be so much more cheerful.



Now that submissions are open, you probably got here via this wonderful blog-hop!

Hiding

            “Doctor.” 

            The gentle word pulled him from his thoughts, and he raised his eyebrows, peering through the fringe of hair that dangled in front of the eye between him and River.  “Hm?” 

            Her hand brushed the hair out of the way, but it sprang back, just not quite as far as it had been.  “Can I ask you something?”

            He chuckled, shaking his head and looking out at the view of the scarlet oceans of Viraliss.  “Asking permission.  You.  Now I’ve seen everything.”

            “No, you haven’t,” River whispered near his ear, leaning forward to follow his gaze.  It really was beautiful here.  Another stunning place he decided to take her on one of the outings that she had long called dates, but he had only recently begun to admit to.  “Why do you hide it?  Your name.”

            “What brought this on?” he asked in an attempt to divert from answering the question, an attempt to hide the rush of sadness the question had brought.

            “A moment of quiet that gave space for it.”

            He should’ve known it wouldn’t help.  “Melody Pond,” he said softly, “River Song, professor of archaeology, child of the TARDIS....”  The Doctor shook his head.  “You’re a lot of things.  You can even regenerate, or could anyway.  But there are things, oh so many things, you can never be.  Regeneration, wisdom, intelligence, these things aren’t what make the Time Lords.  Neither is being a child of Gallifrey, which you aren’t.”

            “I know a long-winded way of saying I wouldn’t understand when I hear one,” River said teasingly.  “I am probably the only other person in the universe who knows it, Doctor.  Can you not also tell me why it’s only the two of us?”

            He was silent for a long moment, twining his fingers together, contemplating the view without seeing it.  Finally, he asked her a question of his own.  “Why aren’t you Melody Pond anymore?”

            River blinked, then half-smiled.  “But I am.  I’ve always been.”

            “No, you haven’t.”  The smile he turned to her was not joyful.  “You know when you stopped being Melody Pond.  You remembered who you were, what you had been, what you had done,” as he spoke, his eyes wandered away from her again, the weight of his years in them, “and you were River Song instead.  Knowing who you were, associating with your parents as much as you could, you made yourself into someone else rather than remain Melody Pond.”

            She searched his eyes, at least the one she could see.  “The Time Lords are gone, my love.  No one knows that history anymore.”

            Not even a ghost of a smile remained.  “Names are how we tell one thing from another.  What we call something, that name is what we associate with everything to do with that thing.  One infamous man tainted the name Adolf for all of human history.  Any child unfortunately named that, no matter how much time had passed, would always, always be associated with what someone else had done.

            “And I am not even someone else,” he finished, nearly inaudible.

            “You?” she scoffed, a bit overwhelmed with disbelief.  “What could you possibly have done that would warrant this level of hiding?  What could a man like you possibly do that time could never heal?  This was long before the Time War, and even that, you did because you had to.  What caused this?  What are you hiding from?”

            “River!”  The force of the snap stopped her in her tracks.  “Don’t ever try to suppose that you know me.  That you know what I am or am not capable of.  I have known you for a fraction of my life, after centuries of traveling with people far, far better than I am, who have helped me make myself better, helped me make a name I am proud of.”  He hid his face in a hand, hid from those eyes that were shockingly innocent for a woman who had done so much in her own life.  “The Time Lords knew.  I couldn’t hide it from them.  But I could make something new, and I could present that to the rest of the universe, I could be something else to everything else that was out there.”

            “Then why tell me at all?”

            “Never admitted something just so you could?  Just to certain people who would understand, who,” he broke off for a moment.  “Who would forgive you anything.  I know it’s meaningless, you don’t know what it means, it’s stupid to think.”  His own words were silenced this time by River placing a hand over his entwined ones.  He looked up to see a soft smile.  She had no words this time, but at the moment, the fact she didn’t say anything was better than anything she could have said.

            Leaning her shoulder against his, they watched the tide go out. 

Auras

An excerpt of my current writing project, an urban fantasy this time. 

            Kids in junior high, as a general rule, aren’t happy kids.  Many of them dealt with bullying, or school had suddenly gotten harder than they expected, teachers were harder on them, and that wasn’t including all the emotional and physical changes they were personally going through.  It was an isolating time in a person’s life, and being crowded with a bunch of kids just as confused and unhappy as you only made things worse.

            Not all of the auras she saw in that room were bad, but few were actually good.  The darkness of self-doubt clouded the air so thickly it became difficult to breathe.  All of the colors of the energy were muted, and even the fluorescent lights shone with less electric luster. 

            Auras were different from the moment-to-moment energy emitted by a person.  Someone might be laughing now, but if they were abused at home and were stressed during class, any good the laughter did to their psyche was overwhelmingly outweighed by the bad in their life as a whole, and the whole of their life was their aura, rather than how they felt at this moment. 

            One girl was being bullied right now.  Fully a fifth of the kids in the cafeteria were bullied on a regular basis, either at school or elsewhere, and their pain assaulted her senses.  Her vision dimmed with the blackness of it, as scenes flickered over the heads of the crowd.  Looming figures of authority with thunderous expressions, hundreds of laughing faces with cruelly shining eyes, caricatures showing huge teeth, too many freckles, or any of a dozen different humiliatingly accented features, then of course visions of physical bullying.  Pulling a sleeve down over a bruise.  Looking down in shame while trying to hide a black eye.  Disapproving mothers.  Authority scolding while the bully walked away whistling. 

            Every vision flashed only briefly, but so many of the experiences were the same that they felt repetitive even after only a few moments, and seeing anything past the darkness and pain was a struggle.  She felt bruises on her arms, her face, her ribs, while shame and terror tore at her heart.  Rhia choked back a sob. 

            This had been a terrible idea.

            In her ears, above the murmur of the crowd, she heard screams, jeering laughter, and of course, tears.  Terrified tears, angry tears, shameful tears.  Silent tears with only slight hiccups to give them away, and loud, bawling sobs that had to be stifled into pillows. 

            One person’s torment wasn’t fun to experience, but Rhia had gotten used to dealing with that kind of feedback when she let her barriers down.  But each additional person didn’t merely double the feelings.  Energy had a way of snowballing, and with that many people sharing such heart-wrenching emotions, it was becoming a struggle just to keep conscious, let alone search for anyone.

            All of those bad feelings weren’t the only thing she could sense, of course, but anguish, pain, isolation are powerful feelings.  Amongst a crowd of kids who were far more likely to doubt themselves than stand up for what they thought, anything strong enough to cut through or help balance out all the trauma wasn’t terribly likely.  Not in a place that was already skewed to make them feel self-conscious, stupid, and young.  A place geared toward telling them what was right and wrong: the right answers, the right way to behave, the right way to feel.  Anything contrary to that just fed the self-doubt that choked the air, so the quiet contentment, the gentle glow of pride in doing well, the laughter of being with friends for the moment, none of it could compare to the overwhelming difficulty the vast majority had just being in their own skins, and anything positive was a quiet murmur beneath the cries of torment.

            Because pain is relative.  In their young lives, this time of their life might be the worst they’ve ever experienced, and though Rhia had seen the auras of people who had seen nothing but hard times, that didn’t minimize the pain of someone who hadn’t felt anything worse.

            But just before she had to slam the barriers closed, already leaning against the podium for support, nearly blind, she saw a flicker of something different.  Strong enough to cut through the compounded effects of all the negative auras of all the kids in the school, even though not by much. 

            Some people are extraordinary for some reason or another.  Sometimes, it’s sheer force of personality.  The truly charismatic, the supremely self-assured, the influential people all have auras that stand out in a crowd.  But it wasn’t just force of personality that could do that.  How you could affect your environment was another factor, and every person she’d met with even a small amount of talent had shown it in their aura.

            She saw that glow now.
            The barriers went up as her knees buckled, and only the podium kept her upright.  Tears fell on the closed laptop below her as she struggled to catch her breath.  The feeling of bruises faded gradually, the air cleared slower still, but the wash of emotions clung to her like water after a powerful wave.  She might not be surrounded by it anymore, but she still felt soaked.  

From One to Eleven

Something was very wrong.  The Doctor sucked in a deep breath and looked down ... at himself.

The other him, technically the First him, scowled up at him.  Then down and up him.  Then, he harrumphed.  None of the hims since the First had ever quite harrumphed with as much skill.  “So, this is me now, hmm?” 

The Doctor number Eleven folded his arms in his tweed jacket and squinted at the other one.  “You never did approve of much of anything, did you?”

“Nonsense!  I approve of plenty that’s worth approving of!”  He seized the lapels of his coat and shook his white hair back.  “Of course, it’s folly for any of you to think you could be as good as,” he chuckled, “the original.  But to be such poor replacements!”  He shook his head and clucked his tongue. 

The Eleventh straightened and thrust his fists at his sides, his mouth scrunched up like a child having a tantrum.  “Oh, the nerve!”  A finger pointed directly at his younger nose.  “You have always thought you’re better than everyone, and that is one thing I am quite happy to say I outgrew a long while ago!”

“Indeed?”  Unperturbed by the finger in his face, the First smirked at his elder.  “Then, why is it that you argue when a serious situation has landed us in this conversation, hmm?  You know, this is just like the first time, when I’m the only one who can stay on task.”  He strolled off, tugging smugly at the lapels of his jacket, and a look on his face that said he might start whistling any moment. 

Eleven stared at the place his original predecessor had been standing, his finger still pointed at now empty air, his mouth working furiously for some kind of retort that wouldn’t just make him sound petty.  In the end, he whirled around and spat out, “You started it!”

“Ah-ah.”  One twitched a finger over his shoulder in reprimand.  “I merely commented that we were the same person.  You insulted me first.  So, what are we to do about the TARDIS, hmm?”

Growling under his breath, the Eleventh stalked over to stand next to One and folded his arms to eye the two TARDISs, their back ends fused together, with the doors facing opposite directions.  Even the control rooms inside had been fused together, but as they’d crashed together, both TARDISs had been evacuated too quickly to do anything about it then.

Amy was standing near the door of the older TARDIS, her jaw hanging open and staring at the old man, while Ian and Barbara stood opposite her, staring at the two Doctors and speaking in low tones.  Ah, good old Ian and Barbara.  But they were alone.  Susan must have just left.  A small, sad smile tugged at the Doctor’s mouth as he thought of Susan. 

Another harrumph broke the Eleventh Doctor out of his reminiscing, and he blinked at the scowl of his younger self.  “You really ought to have been more careful!”

“What?”  Eleven blinked again.  “I should have been more careful?  Why is it specifically my fault and not ours?”

“I don’t know my own future,” the First pointed out with a firm nod.  “You landed right in your own timestream.  And I’m supposed to be the young, inexperienced one, hmm?”  Another harrumph.  The Doctor had never quite realized how annoying that habit of his was.

“Now, wait just a minute—”

“There are two of you?” Amy broke in, taking a step forward and putting her hands on her sassy hips.  The Eleventh smacked himself in the forehead. 

“Pond, priorities.  There are two TARDISs fused together.”  His hands did a little mime of his words, gesturing to one TARDIS, then the other, then lacing his fingers together. 

“Well, exactly.  That’s a big deal.”  Now it was Ian’s turn to speak up, and Barbara nodded along with him, then added, “We know you can travel in time, but why is he,” she pointed to the Eleventh, “the older one?  And you look nothing alike.”

The Doctor might’ve torn his hair out in frustration.  “Humans.  Always have to satisfy their curiosity before they can solve problems.  Would it help if I hunched over and barked ‘nonsense’ at you a few times, Barbara?  And Chesterfield, you’re usually better at being practical than this.”

Ian’s mouth pinched.  “My name is Chesterton, Doc—Doctor?” he caught himself in the middle of what he was saying and his eyes widened.  Barbara was already there, but she recovered from the shock faster and covered her mouth to hide her giggles at Ian’s rote reaction to the little jab.

While they absorbed that information, he whirled to face Pond.  “Pond, meet the first me.”  His hands showcased the First, who was squinting at him thoughtfully.  “Meet my old friends Barbara and Ian.”  His hands swept over to point them out next, with flourishes and all.  “Meet my TARDIS.”  His hands went to the faded, battered side of the two TARDISs.  “She sort of exists outside of regular time, so she’s pretty much the same now as she was then, although we’ve gotten closer and she’s had a few makeovers.”

“If she exists outside of regular time, then wouldn’t you be just as close then as now?” Amy asked, arching an eyebrow.

The First laughed and pointed his pinky at her without letting go of his lapels.  “Very good, my girl!  Very good.”

Eleven worked his mouth for a moment, scowled at his predecessor, then snapped, “Yes, technically.  I was stupider then.”  That shut the First one up, and they glared at each other for a moment.  “So, if all that is cleared up, can we move along?”

“Still not sure I get it, but yeah, sure.  Fused TARDISs.  Can’t you just....”  She flailed her hands at the two of them, then fluttered them up in the air, miming dematerialization.  “Move them?  I mean, they don’t exactly just roll around on wheels, so when they dematerialize, won’t that separate them?”

“If they were different TARDISs, possibly,” the First answered, squinting thoughtfully at the problem.  “But they are the same.  The distortion in time caused by each would cut through the other.”

“And because they’re made of the same stuff, the time distortion wouldn’t easily distinguish between one or the other,” Eleven picked up, “so they’d try to take pieces of the TARDIS from the wrong time with them.  They’d be torn apart.”

“What about a way to distinguish them?” Barbara suggested.  “Maybe if you don’t try to move both of them at the same time, you could have one pull away while the other stayed put.”

“No, no, no, the same problem would happen,” the Eleventh said, shaking his head and pacing.  “Even if only one of them yanks the dimension open, they’re still—no wait.  Hang on.  Hang on!”  He dashed inside his own TARDIS door, habit to be sure he went in the same way he always did, and everyone followed after him.

While he dashed to his control panel, everyone else paused on the walkway to look at the comparison between the new control room and the old, merged in a jagged line at the far end of the room, so that the ceiling looked like it domed twice, with two complete control rooms and an opening the size of a small wall between them.

Amy wrinkled her nose.  “It’s so ... white.  And plain.  And kind of boring.”

The First scoffed at her.  “Boring?  It’s everything we need!  Not all this frivolous....”  He gestured around at the glass platform, all the different kinds of lights, the decorative paneling on the walls.

Ian, who had made it as far as the control panel, blinked at the gadgets and gizmos that replaced the dials, knobs, and switches he was used to.  “Junk?” he supplied.

Eleven slapped his hand as he reached for the ketchup dispenser.  “Don’t touch that.  Get ketchup all over the glass, and someone’ll slip.”

“Ketchup?” Ian asked, but took a step back from the control panel, anyway.

Amy sauntered onto the platform and leaned her butt against the railing, hands braced on it.  “Never know when it might come in handy.  I got a Dalek in the eyepiece with that once.”

“You,” Eleven said to One, as he continued dashing in circles around the control panel, fiddling with gizmos and flipping switches, “should never have come here.  I don’t remember ever being here, and especially not just with Ian and Barbara.  Right after Susan left—” he paused, looking up for a moment with a look on his face that clearly said he was reworking his words.  “Never mind.  You need to go.  Get in your TARDIS and prepare to leave.”

“If you’re wrong, my boy,” the First began, but the other Doctor waved a hand dismissively, still focused on the control panel.

“Yes, yes, they’ll be torn apart and the resulting explosion will wipe out at least half the universe, if not all of it.  Please, just go.”

All three companions froze where they were and stared at him with gaping mouths.

“Um, shouldn’t we be worried about that?” Amy demanded.

“Very worried,” was the terse reply.  “Just do as I say.  The TARDIS might exist out of regular time, but I do not.  I have a considerable amount of experience with her glitches, and I know what I’m doing!”  He put his hands back down on the control panel and hung his head for a moment.  When he lifted it, his voice was much calmer.  “If anyone in this room knows more about the TARDIS, take over the controls.  If not, let me fix it without nagging me.”

Amy gave Ian and Barbara a wide-eyed look and mouthed the word “okay” sarcastically.  Then, she rolled her eyes and gestured to them, shooing them toward the white-paneled control room.  One had already strolled over to his own control panel and began preparing to take off.  Amy stayed where she was, leaning against the railing, and watched the Doctor work.

Eleven proceeded to give instructions to his younger self, most of which went completely over the heads of his human companions.  Something about the Vortex, and alignment 83-12, and to be sure not to forget to release the magnetic containment capitalizer, until it seemed like he was just stringing random words and numbers together.

But then, that was par for the course.

On occasion, the First would grumble that he was going too fast and that old bones couldn’t keep up, but they eventually finished their preparations.

“Ready.  On my countdown, then, dematerialize.”  Eleven paused a moment with his hand on the switch and looked up.  He met his own eyes across the two control panels, as they were on opposite sides from each other.  One was in the same pose, one hand poised to send the TARDIS into the Time Vortex, the other resting on the edge of the control panel, looking across at him.

They shared a small smile.  A little nod.

None of the humans heard the countdown, but two hands—one old and wrinkled, the other fresh and lightly tanned—moved at exactly the same moment, and both TARDISs shuddered so that everyone had to scramble to hold onto something.

By the time things settled down and Amy looked up, the control room was whole again.

She looked at where the breach had been for a moment, then wandered over to stand next to the Doctor, planting her butt against the control panel, folding her arms, and looking up at the domed ceiling.  “The ‘first’ you, huh?”

“Yep.”  That nostalgic smile still in place, the Doctor leaned against the control panel and watched the gentle rising and falling of the glass.  “There have been eleven.  So far.  But that, Amelia Pond....  That was where it all began.”

She flashed him a teasing smile.  “You were such a crotchety old man.”

The Doctor smiled back.  “Some might say, still am.”

Stupid and Amazing

“I did something stupid and amazing this weekend!”

Two words that go together perfectly.  Not everything stupid is amazing, naturally, and not quite everything amazing is stupid, but the two coincide more often than the average person might think.  Anything that gives an adrenaline rush has got to be stupid on some level, after all.  Just about anything a teenager will be happy about but which also makes their mother yell at them has got to be stupid and amazing by definition, although who thinks it’s amazing can vary.

“Faire is dumb.”

“So say we all.”

Wearing four layers of clothing in the Texas summer is dumb.  Systematically breaking down the barriers of acceptable behavior in order to purposefully make a fool of yourself for others’ entertainment is pretty dumb.  Spending four months of weekends not resting, but using up more energy than we tend to have in a given week, on top of working at the same time, is dumb.  Not getting paid to do all this, and having to pay for gas, food, costuming, and props out of pocket is dumb.  Trying to convince people who will never actually believe you that this is actually sixteenth century England, and I am in fact completely affronted that you’re wearing shorts is dumb.  Willfully participating in activities such as whacking each other with large wooden sticks no matter how many times we’ve cracked knuckles and turned ankles is dumb.

Subjecting ourselves to so much pain and fatigue is dumb.  Getting up at six in the morning on the weekends is dumb.  Having no days off except for holidays for four months straight is dumb.  The myriad ways that we can identify the stupidity of Faire must prove to any who have doubts that this Renaissance Festival thing we do is pretty dumb.

That’s part of what makes it so amazing.

Right off the bat, we have amazement from our audience for wearing so many clothes in the Texas heat.  Having no barriers means there are no limitations on how much hilarity can occur when we get together, and especially when there’s an audience.  Most of the energy we need and use at Faire is taken from the site and the audience, so while exhausting, it’s very doable.  Most people’s favorite hobbies do not pay, and almost all of those require money that comes out of pocket.  The times that people actually start to doubt, or decide that it doesn’t matter and they’ll play along anyway, make all the bitchy audience members no longer matter.  There are dangers to any physical activity, so worrying about them more than simply taking safety precautions is a waste of energy and takes away some beautiful experiences.

With all that and more, who can care that it hurts and we get tired?  It doesn’t stop us from getting up at six in the morning on what should be our days off, and many of us can get an extra day or so (usually Monday if we can swing it) during the week to rest for these four months.  The fact that we’re still doing it despite all the stupidity speaks volumes about how amazing this Faire thing really is.

Do I call Faire dumb?  You betcha.  I won’t shy away from the fact that there is a lot of stupidity surrounding what we do.  Never mistake that for a pejorative, however.  It’s a fond appellation.  I call some of my dearest friends “bitch” more often than I do my enemies.  Same principle.  Faire is one of the dearest things to my heart, and like any good friend or member of the family, I can abuse them verbally (and a little physically) as much as I want, but all bets are off if anyone actually means the bad words they use.

Grand Joy and Subtle Happiness

The idea of beauty has gotten out of hand.  Beauty in Nature, in particular, seems to have become about rarity.  Those dwindling areas on our planet with grand mountains or deep forests, vivid colors or expansive skies.  A waterfall with spray landing on the brilliant green woods to each side.  The vista of Yellowstone National Park, perhaps, or the majestic Alps.  Exotic, colorful birds from the rainforests, or the ever-elusive predators that grow more scarce by the day.

This grand ideal of beauty has its place for certain, and brings a wild kind of joy to the heart.  It fulfills us in a way our daily lives can’t compare to, so we worship it the only way we know how: by flocking to see it at any opportunity and capturing it on phones in the hope that the pictures we take will continue to inspire that bottomless depth of joy we experienced while in that place.

It never does, though, does it?  It brings back an echo of the memory, and that can bring a smile to our faces, but it’s never the same again.  To those who never went, but only see the pictures, it brings a sigh of envy at the pale reflection of the beauty we are sure exists if we could only get there.  That indescribable joy of being in the presence of such rare, apparently fulfilling, beauty can’t come home with us the way we want, but still we try.

Why?  Because we think that joy is happiness.  That if we could take that joy home with us, then it would make our whole lives more meaningful.  Joy is not happiness, though.  Joy is fleeting, like the rush of rapids.  It’s breathtaking while we go flying through, but it will end, the waters will calm, and we’ll be left only with the memory that we felt so alive.

Happiness is far more subtle.  Happiness is the undercurrent of the water the keeps the canoe moving.  Sometimes faster, sometimes slowly, but an ever-present feeling.  The problem with grand ideals of beauty is that they only bring joy, not happiness. 

Happiness is everyday.  Happiness is quiet smiles, proud hugs, and daisies.  Happiness is the occasional bad day or misfortune amid a string of laughter.  Happiness is a hobby, a shoulder to cry on, and praise. 

If joy is the dozen roses, then happiness is the herb garden.  If joy is a magnificent rainforest, then happiness is the stand of oaks down the street.  If joy is the clear waters of the open Caribbean sea, then happiness is the rippling patterns on any surface of water.

Humanity is ‘us’, but that’s not really the way to be happy.  Happiness is ‘me’.  I love to look up through trees on a clear morning and see the different shades of green where leaves are in shadow as opposed to in light.  I love to watch squirrels scamper and chase each other through the branches.  I love to stop and listen to the sound of water burbling through a ditch.  I love to look at the pattern of clouds in the sky and watch it shift, even without applying shapes to it.

If we all love mountain ranges, then I like plateaus.  If we all love grand rivers, then I love streams winding through suburbia.  If we all love the colors of sunset, then I love the colors of rock in the Panhandle.  If we all love grand towers of rock, then I love the colors of pebbles on a gravel road.

Beauty can be everyday, too.  Just because I have seen a tree a thousand times doesn’t mean I won’t appreciate it again.  Just because I have been to beautiful parks and breathtaking mountains doesn’t mean the street I live on doesn’t thrill me. 

Just because I’m beautiful when I dress for a wedding doesn’t mean my smile isn’t compelling every day.  Just because I’m adorable when I jump up and down doesn’t mean the way I crinkle my brow when I think isn’t cute. 

‘I’ could be anyone.  However, ‘I’ am not ‘us’.  I am always myself, no matter how many others might be similar.  I never confuse myself for all of humanity.  I recognize my similarities to all of us, but don’t credit everyone else for what makes me amazing.  I am happy, but I don’t know about us.

My Side of the Family

I have one of those classic names.  Everyone has a friend with my same name, usually several, sometimes with numbers to differentiate them, others use nicknames, and some forsake the name altogether to avoid confusion.  As one in the final category, I don't use that name anymore except in certain circumstances, like around my family.

I changed my name when I went to college because before that it was impossible to change it.  No one would call me by anything but the name they'd always known, so when a clean slate was offered to me in a new town, at a new school, with none of my family around, I took it.  My parents make the effort to use my middle name only when around those that would know it better than my given name.  My siblings never bother.

That name is now little more than a stage name to me.

When necessary, I can play the role of the geeky, shy girl who keeps all to herself.  The girl that my family knows, the girl that was the name they use.  A girl who could nail an accent for a role but not fill the auditorium with her voice.  A girl who made friends by reading books off by herself.  A girl who only sometimes spoke up in class, but who could talk to her teachers for hours one-on-one.

That girl found an amazing group of people and started to bloom.

Everyone has a side of the family from their mother, and a side of the family from their father.  Me?  I have my own side of my family, too, and I don't even have a boyfriend.

My side of the family is huge.  They don't all talk to each other all the time, and they can cause drama and strife with the best of them.  They're from all walks of life, all ages, all personalities, and all styles.  All colors of the rainbow, in any sense of the word you can think of.  And we have a family reunion that's four months long, only on the weekends, every year.  The extended family shows up for the second half.

My side of the family jumps up and down and screams when they're excited.  They laugh and say, "I love you," when someone says or does something weird.  They don't always like everything, but they always encourage when someone is clearly passionate.  They're not afraid to tell each other when something is stupid or just a terrible idea, and they know how to take that kind of criticism.  They hug, kiss, compliment, and cuddle at every opportunity.  No matter what, if one of us is in danger or unhappy, everyone pitches in.

They're not a group that's for everyone.  Some people can't handle how stupendously creative we all are, especially when we gather in groups.  We can get obnoxious at restaurants, and leaving anywhere when at least four of us gather is always a multi-step process.  We're a troupe of trained monkeys who know all the song cues, not to mention the obligatory call and response or the corny jokes that are only funny still because it's traditional and we're having fun when we say them.  

They were exactly what I needed.  They didn't need me, and they probably still don't, by and large.  When I leave soon, with no clear idea on when exactly I'll be back, they'll go on next year just fine without me.  I will be missed, but not needed, and when I return, there will be work ahead of me to forge my place among them back.

I'm still a geeky, shy girl.  I still hole myself up in my room or up in trees and read.  I still have trouble striking up spontaneous conversation with strangers.  The fact is, though, that the girl I was when I arrived there stayed home in the minds of my family, and someone new went off to college.  Someone who could jump up on a table and whip her hair around without a care in the world for how stupid she looked.  A girl who could step up to be the first volunteer whether she knew what she was doing or not.  A girl who still feels her heart pound in her throat at the thought of going up on stage, but who can own that space with her voice, her presence, and her confidence.  A girl who knows who she is, and the girl my family knows never did figure that out.

I arrived in their midst an unfinished person, still floundering, but with ideas and potential.  I barely had enough confidence to throw myself at them and hope they would catch me.  I would like to finish this saying that I'm successful now, that everything's worked out, and I'm an amazing person, but that's not true.  Yet.

That's a powerful word.  I have come a long way, and I'm pretty cool.  Among my side of the family, I'm about your standard amount of awesome, which means I'm pretty spectacular among regular folks, but I don't stand out among those I respect and love the most.  I've gone from cruddy job to cruddy job, working my butt off and being respected there, but unable to get better jobs.  I'm still an unpublished author, and the best work as an actor I can get, aside from the improvisational work I do with my side of the family, is extra work that requires no auditions, only that you show up.

A lot of persistence, not to mention loads of help from my family of choice, has landed me with something spectacular, though.  This summer, I am off to teach English in Japan, fulfilling a dream I've been nursing for years.  I wouldn't call it "successful" in a general sense, but I would call it a good start.

Does my side of the family need me?  Nah.  They'll be fine if I was down the street, on the other side of the globe, or spinning through space in a blue box.  They love me, though, in a way I'd never experienced before, and which can and will reach me all the way over on that gorgeous archipelago.  I won't be in the immediate family, but they'll still think of me and love their distant cousin, coo over my pictures, and possibly threaten me with bodily harm because my life is more amazing than theirs.  When I return, however long that may take, there will be plenty who remember me and herald my return with love, hugs, and teasing.  Those who don't remember me will welcome me with open arms back into the fold because we all can recognize our own, even if it's been a long time, even if they've never met us before.

We are a family of choice.  A family that picks and chooses who comes into the fold, and then never lets go.  A family that picks up those with potential, those who need support, and gives them as many shoulders to lean on as they need.  A family that can pick up a crowbar and pry open the shell that keeps us hidden from the world.

My side of the family made me into who I am.  Go ahead, you can be jealous.