Dreamweaver

Today I learned an itty-bitty bit about how to make a webpage using Adobe Dreamweaver (I have a handout entitled "How to weave the website of your dreams," but only because the Inscape advisor has a sense of humor). I learned the basics of inserting text, and I know how to fiddle my way through modifying tags for text, background, and other simple stuff like that. The biggest stumbling block I've found is that I don't speak abbreviation. I know how to fiddle with tags, provided I know what the darn tag is. When there are fifteen three-letter-or-less abbreviations starting with A, that isn't a good sign for the uninitiated.

But I'm sure I'll get better. Even if I'm not on the web staff this semester, next semester is completely web, so I'll have to learn fast.

Question

Background: after my date on Friday, I was going to invite the guy inside my apartment while we ate our ice cream until I saw (through the window) that my roommate was having a movie night. Before completely deciding to stay outside, I asked if he was cold (he's from Georgia, and he was in shorts, and it was a bit nippy if you're not crazy like me, so it was a valid question). He repeatedly told me he was not, and we sat out on the stairs to talk and eat ice cream.

Skip to twenty or so minutes later.

Is it bad that, when I saw his jaw muscle shivering, I laughed inside? In addition to not repeating my offer of going indoors? Heck, if he's too proud to admit that his comfort level is several degrees higher than mine, I think I almost have a right to be gleeful at his discomfort, but a little voice inside (curse you, Avolin) tells me I should have been kinder.

Fact

Random fact for the day:

In the Roman Empire, it was a mark of keen eyesigt when one could discern both stars in the binary system that makes up the middle "star" in the Big Dippers handle.

Just in case anybody needed a trivia fix. In other news, I had thought about posting my Ruling Council's opinions on a certain recent event (i.e. last night), but alas, Maylene's comments are again unprintable, and Ayliel is so uneasy with the whole thing that I don't want to embarrass her further. But Suhayda has a sort of benevolent apathy going on, Avolin is just being his usual sweet little self, and Cal won't shut up about how boring softball is. Oh, and Brennan hasn't stirred a whit.

Ironic Response

Today I found out that my submission to the university literary journal was rejected. More than that, it was rejected without a discussion. And I am absolutely elated.

Of course, this response requires a bit of delving into. The reason I gave the girl next to me was that I had written the essay in one night and sent it...and regretted the sending two minutes later. Admittedly, that is part of the reason: I was in no way proud of this submission, except in the vein that it is the first essay I've written that fits into the genre of essay that is published in the lit journal.

The heart of the matter is a bit deeper. I have never, in all my life, submitted something I was truly proud of to any sort of publishing establishment. Call it a chronic fear of failure, but I've never wanted to take a risk on anything I cared about being rejected. However, even with this reining in of the quality of work I send, I have never truly been rejected. (To be fully truthful: two of my submissions to my high school lit mag this last year were rejected, but I submitted seven or eight pieces, so the rejections don't really count.) Outside of the high school scene, I have had several poems published (and I am not a poet), one essay, I've been invited to publish one other essay (I declined, because it was a pathetic, writhing thing), I've written last-minute essays with no soul that got me thousands of dollars in scholarship money, etc., etc.

I could take this as a vast complement, the idea that work I don't consider up to snuff is being accepted for publication. Yet I have never really felt that way. The concept that lurks in me after an acceptance letter is one of being cheated. I should have to try. Life should not be easy. Even something I love as much as writing should not, I reason, come so easily to someone who is so obviously not a genius. Robbing me of motivation to grow, to excel through hard work, is a crime I cannot forgive.

In essence, my experience in writing has been the opposite of my experience in swimming. In the pool, I gave everything I had, plus more, every single day for four years--more, even. Yet my results were meager: I qualified for state every year, but only barely; I was captain because there were only two senior girls; I was rewarded with some of the closest friends I've ever had (the latter is the greatest reward ever, but it didn't come because of my efforts in the pool). With writing, my half-hearted attempts have been accepted with open arms, even praised.

How wonderous it is to be so soundly rejected. Thank you, Inscape, for validating my firmly held belief that I am mediocre, that I have loads of work to do.

This is such a liberating feeling!

Angel Food Cake

So I pretty much ate most of a big angel food cake (like, my roommate ate one slice) all by myself. My roommate said she needed to get rid of it, so I slowly started munching, one piece at a time, every time I stood next to it in the kitchen. It took me several days, but today, the angel food cake disappeared. My roommate thinks it's hysterical and she gave me a hug for it. Silly, if you ask me. She also thinks the juxtaposition of my Vanilla Wafers, ramen, peanut butter, and apple cinnamon oatmeal is pretty funny.

And I've decided that I should be banned from playing Cranium. I have waaaay too much fun.

Raving

Raving for research, that is.

Something is definitely wrong with my brain. Today in my writing class, we were going over the syllabus (she procrastinated writing it until this morning) and talking about the end-of-semester research paper (assigned to be at least ten pages, and less than twenty pages). When she said we could write about anything we liked, I was practically ecstatic (still on something of a little high right now...). You mean, I thought, I get to research in-depth about whatever I want? Holy cow, what an opportunity!

Only now, I'm trying to decide if my first thought is really a good one.

I want to research the representations of, symbols of, reactions to, relationship with, etc., death in various cultures, especially in the myths, legends, and folktales thereof. But that's too big, so I want to zero in on old Celtic traditions. Arawn, Bran's head, the Bean Nighe, the Banshee, ravens, hounds that bay like geese, and so forth. It would be awesome.

But people might think I'm a little crazy for picking such a morose topic. It gives me too much delight to be a healthy fascination.

I could, on the other hand, discuss a set of legends from a certain subdivision of Celtic lore--Manx, Scottish, Irish, Briton, Cornish, Welsh--and how they reflect social dynamics of historic society.

On a completely unrelated note, I could research old sailing ships in hopes of getting around to writing out that idea about the lonely, vindictive embodiment of the waters of the world, Lady Undine, and her fascination with Former-captain Lund. Since he practically lives out at sea, I'd need to know more than a thing or two about the ship he'd be sailing on.

Or I could write about Malayan bladed weapons, or focus on the use and structure of the European longsword.

I could theorize about why the constellation Orion often crops up to be a warrior/hunter type fellow in various cultures. I mean, he doesn't even look all the human. Yeah, he's got the belt to draw attention to himself, and his armpit's pretty bright, but you can take those stars and make them into something other than a guy about to bop a bull on the head.

Heck, I could write about the history of swimming.

She also mentioned the option of turning in the first chapter of a novel--even though she's not supposed to allow that sort of thing--if we worked out what sort of research we were going to do in advance, and displayed it in the writing. Some people, upon first hearing that first chapters were allowed, seemed somewhat jaded at the thought. But she glared everyone down and asked if they knew how much research actually goes into a novel. When she said that, I let my head fall against my desk. Too dang much, in my opinion. And even when you think you checked enough facts, something you learn in astronomy class pops out at you and shouts, "Hey, idiot! New moon, even though you can't see it, isn't up at night! Dipsmack."

So yes, I have quite a few options floating around in my head. For Son of Sferesh, I could even just research medieval travel, city layout, and social structure and stick it into the first chapter.

Problem is, now that I've thought of so many, I have to pick one. Yikes. Any opinions are welcome, of course.

(In favor of the Celtic idea, no matter how ultimately useless the research would prove to be for me, I have a book full of Celtic stories that has, in the back, a list of recommended reading. I'm not sure where I would start with most of the rest of them.)

Editing Staff

I'm officially a member of the staff of the university's literary magazine, and I don't have to do poetry. I'm actually on staff to help with the creative nonfiction that comes through. Huzzah!

Duck Fluff

"You're a swimmer, aren't you?"

My professor caught me by surprise. I'd slipped into the lead on our field trip to the Writing Center--they had free food, so I'd already been there--and she'd pulled me up short with the question. I fumbled for a moment, trying to decide how she knew. I didn't smell like chlorine: I'd been out of a pool for weeks. My hair wasn't wet: my alarm hadn't gone off that morning in time to take a shower. The dead-giveaway shoulders were disguised: my backpack made it impossible to know that they were any wider than the rest of me.

"Yeah, I am. How'd you know?"

"That streak of hair on the back of your neck is bleached blond by the chlorine."

I laughed aloud. I'd been picked out as a swimmer many times, but never by the gathering of too-short hairs on the nape of my neck. "Duck fluff" was always a subject of mild amusement for my teammates and me, but I had never been branded on account of the extra light streak at my nape.

First Final

Sounds kinda contradictory, don't it? Yes, this should probably be in the Starving Student blog, but I just don't feel like a starving student yet, honestly. I haven't even done my first grocery trip. Anyhow...

I took my first final yesterday. 'Twas the culmination of my six-day course on Dante's Inferno, and it wasn't half bad. Two hours, and my responses filled two lined sheets of paper front and back. I felt pretty good about it.

In other news, shortly after the final, there was an end-of-Late-Summer-Honors dance...with non-LSH roommates, and basically anyone else who found out about it invited as well. I got there late, but enjoyed myself immensely. And everyone seems to have this wild notion that I know how to dance. Highly amusing, really. My roommates, who were also in attendance, voiced jealous impulses. I told them to make fools of themselves and it would get better, but they didn't take my advice.

I met a guy who's really good at leading, though. He is also under the impression that I know how to dance, so he asked me to do some swing and later on some waltz. Surprisingly enough, we did not look like complete idiots, which is a fine compliment to him. I tend to instinctively rebel against any sort of leading, but he had me doing some simple lift-dip things during the swing and I managed the waltz fairly well on top of that.

Oh, and finding all the cultrual nuances that separate British from American makes me laugh. My British roommate can entertain me for quite some time discussing kitchen rolls.