Book Trailers?

If I had an option to do a poll on here, I would. I do not know that I have ever met anyone who was influenced to read a book because of a movie trailer. I am interested to see if anyone has. Clearly they help market books or they would cease to exist, right?

A book I read a few years ago has a book trailer (the link is here) and I feel like it does not gives a proper feeling of the book it advertises. A Study in Charlotte is a fast paced book with lots of twists and turns. Based on the character of Sherlock Holmes, the story follows Charlotte Holmes but through the eyes of Jamie Watson, her faithful sidekick.

The book trailer itself introduces two actors who I imagined very differently from the characters of Jamie and Charlotte. I think this is one of the biggest problems of book trailers. When actors are used the reader no longer has as much freedom to imagine the characters themselves. Not only is the appearance of the characters different, but the setting does not seem to fit for me either.

Additionally, book trailers tend to have music which I think can mess with the view a reader has of a book. In the case of A Study in Charlotte, the music is classical violin which fits well since Charlotte (as most Holmes) plays the violin. Even still, the actress playing the violin in the trailer does not seem as intense as I always imagined Charlotte being.

Personally, I just don’t like book trailers and never seek them out to see if I’ll look a book or not. I’d like to do some research on the usefulness of book trailers.

Panic

A panic attack can be triggered by anything. Not having access to a bathroom. An intrusive thought that keeps repeating itself until you are sick to your stomach. A story involving a trigger. It does not always come from big crowds and exams, though those are valid, too.

A panic attack can come in many different forms. From the outside it could be hyperventilating like people show in the movies. It could be tears that don’t stop coming no matter how hard you try. It may be staring at a speck on the wall and not hearing anything going on around you because the thoughts racing are too loud. Some last for a few minutes. Or they can last for a few hours.

Calming yourself down takes practice and different techniques. Maybe you pray. Maybe you triangle breathe. Perhaps the blanket you keep on your bed or the stuffed animal from home is not just for sentimental value.

The after effects of a panic attack are debilitating. Sore muscles. Aches and pains that come from being too tense. Head aches. Exhaustion. Stomach cramps. Inability to eat.

All I am trying to say is panic attacks come in many different forms. They are not always like they show on television. Sometimes they are less intense, sometimes more. Having panic attacks does not make you crazy. Not having panic attacks does not make you crazy. If your panic attack or your way of getting out of one is different than the next person, that is okay. You will be okay.

2.3 Memories

Val

I rest my left hand on his shoulder and my right hand fits into his left. Dancing is the best way for me to look at memories.  With his other hand on my waist, we sway slowly to the music. As soon as we get into a rhythm of quick smiles and blushing cheeks, I let myself look, starting as far back as I can without burning his hand.

I see a woman. She has sleek black hair and he loved her. A feeling of sadness washes over me. A few memories later . . . I see a fuzzy green mass. A fresh smell. Grass. He’s crying. He’s pressing his fingers up against something cold. Stone.

I focus back on his face, releasing the memories for a moment. He loved someone, and she died. Her grave is somewhere on a green planet. Not here. I study his face.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Hmm?”

“You’re just staring very intently for a simple dance.”

I pull myself a little closer, sliding my hand up his neck, away from his shoulder. I need to distract him from anything I might feel or see. I need clarity. “Is it a simple dance?”  His grip on my waist tightens a bit and I fix a smile onto my face.

I dive into the memories again, looking for any sign of strong emotion. A long period of grief. Then I find it. Anger.

Red hands. Hurting knuckles. I see it. A man is on the ground. His nose bleeds profusely. The man begins shaking and suddenly stops. Dead. Fear courses through me.

I lean my head against Henri’s chest. I can’t let him see my face. I close my eyes.

The bleeding man has a shaved face and strong jaw, but one side is swollen. Beaten to death. I pause a moment to make sure I can identify him, noting the golden bracelet on his wrist. Rich. Powerful. The surroundings are dark, but I search for a sign of a specific location. A factory for sure. Blue labels with yellow lettering. I wait for the memory to move outside. Three visible moons.

I have all I need.

The song ends, and I look up at Henri. A lover. A killer. I no longer want to dance with him, but I choose to smile at him, despite the sickening feeling in my stomach.

I could fall for him, if I didn’t know. In the few minutes here, I’ve managed to get him to fall for me. However, he doesn’t know the secrets I have hidden. His deep brown eyes focus on my face and I let myself forget everything for a moment, letting him search my face, knowing something has changed. He will always know something has changed in him, but he will never know what. I free myself from the fear for a few seconds. Maybe he’ll think its love and he’ll bring his tanned face to mine and try to kiss me. A few have done that in the past. Maybe he’ll buy me another drink and hope for something more.

He doesn’t. He blinks and takes his hand from my waist, letting go of my other hand.

“I’m sorry. I thought a night out would help me.” He shakes his head and I notice tears in his eyes. He felt more than most. “It was quite nice to meet you, dear Ree.”

“No need to apologize.” I reach up to wipe a tear away. He turns and walks toward the doors before I have the chance.

The sickened feeling over his being a murderer is gone. Something else settles. I think doubt. How do I tell Gifre I don’t have anything on the target?

The music for the next song begins. I start toward the doors.

1.1 In the Glass Box

1.2 The Silver Haired Woman

1.3 Step Into Sunlight

2.1 Gold and Red

2.2 Sparkling Spiders

Freedom to Speak

I hope to be published one day, I truly do. My little fiction updates on this blog are my first attempt at getting people (other than my mom and teachers) to read my writing. Recently there has been a change in the way that publishing works. More and more people are beginning to self-publish, mainly using E-Books as their platform.

Last week, I totally bashed the E-Book, but most of my problems with E-Books come from the fact that simply love paper books and I don’t want to see them go out of style. In truth, E-Books are a great way for aspiring authors to get their names out there. Getting picked up by a big publisher is difficult. I have not thought much about this fact because I don’t want writing books to be my main job. I want to write a book but being published is a far-off dream.

The publishing industry is in currently in a fairly large shift toward more electronic mediums. This is the case in newspapers, magazines, textbooks, encyclopedias, and novels. While I personally enjoy a paper book more than an E-Book, I am continually learning how electronic versions of all of these texts are helpful and much more accessible. They are helpful, not just to the reader but also to the authors.

With electronic texts, a warehouse and physical resources are not necessary. People wanting to get their name out into the world and share their views have that ability now. Being picked up by a news station or a publishing company isn’t a requirement in order for someone to share their voice. In all honesty, it is a step toward freer speech.

Nevertheless, I will always have a physical bookshelf.

Little Sister

Apparently, people are just weird, but she is a steel box. In her opinion, everything is awkward. Her blue eyes and blonde hair have always been my source of envy. Not only that, but she tans like she’s made of vitamin D. I’m out in sun for five minutes and I turn into a lobster. At five feet and eleven inches, she towers over me with a full lipped smile. At six years old she had already managed surpass me in strength. Arm wrestling for anything was useless.

When we were both still in elementary school, she had more friends at one point than I had through my entire life. My social butterfly. Since then we haven’t gone to the same school, and according to her, her school is always different than mine. Every time I try to give her advice, she just responds with “I can’t even with you.”

That’s okay. I will probably give her advice anyway.

No matter how many times she tells me that she has no feelings and that I do not understand, I will still try to give her advice. Ask her to open up, because when she does it is so . . . damn beautiful.

Her eyes light up and she keeps talking and her words come out faster than her mouth can keep up with. She speaks with such passion and I see her acts of compassion.

I love her so much and I honestly can’t imagine a world without her.

 

I don’t like the E-Book

I don’t like the E-Book. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t feel the page turning or smell the paper. Maybe the trashy novels for two dollars finally got on my nerves. I’m not all that sure why I can’t happily read a book on my computer or phone, but I know I can’t.

When my mom, sister, and I moved into a town house two summers ago, I lost my built-in book shelf. A new book shelf was the first thing I insisted on having for the few decorations my sister and I could fit into our room. Books are important to me.

I desire to hold the real, physical book in front of me. The pages hold dried tear drops, coffee stains, and few angry rips here and there. When reading a story, I’m not only reading the conversation between characters but I’m having a conversation with the pages.

Just like with texting, the phone seems impersonal to me. In reading a book on my phone or computer, I simply wipe the tear drops away, keep my coffee in the cup at all costs, and never ever throw it across the room.

My phone and computer are used for so many other things. Like writing this blog post or sending the text message to my best friend that I still want to go to Goodwill today even if it rains. A book is a book and it is meant for reading. Nothing more.

So no, no I don’t like the E-Book, and I’m okay with that.

2.2 Sparkling Spiders

Val

We arrive at the dinner party and I exit the car as fast as possible. The entrance of the building is lined with ice and fans, making the room exponentially cooler than the evening air. Light music plays as people mingle. A few women eye my dress, but I ignore them and make my way through the crowd, looking for the target. Gifre had a connection to the man’s tailor and showed me the suit he’d be wearing.

The party is large with an array of different aromatic foods and a plethora of booze. Everyone wears a touch of gold, but the rest of the colors are scattered. I scan the room for a solid black jacket and white pants. Gifre mentioned that the man commonly wears a red tie. My eyes land on a man at the bar.

Perfect. He’s already halfway to where I need him. Drunk. All I need to do is enchant him. I smooth my dress down and tune my smile. Striding toward the bar, my eyes catch his and I stay focused. He grins at me, but not greedily. I take a place next to him.

“What might your name be?” He motions to the bartender for another drink. For me or him, I am unsure.

“Ree,” I respond sheepishly, “and might I ask yours?” The drink slides across the counter and the man passes it to me. I forgot how quickly things move on this planet.

“Henri. Hope a sparkling spider is alright with you. It’s the only free one tonight, and I have a better party to go tomorrow night. Better booze there.” He’s low on money. That’s slightly uncommon at a party like this. He isn’t nearly as drunk as I was hoping.

I give him a bashful smile, “Well, you’re in luck. They’re the only drink on the menu that I like.” My eyes skim across his face. He’s not terribly unattractive. I’d honestly go for him even if he wasn’t Gifre’s target. His hair is a mop of almost platinum blonde curls, but his eyes are . . . “You have beautiful eyes,” I whisper. They’re dark and brown, expansive and kind.

He looks away and blushes. “Well, you just get right to the point, don’t you?”

“Why hold back a perfectly true compliment?”

“In that case, you are the heavenly resemblance of an angel.”

I tuck my hair behind my ears and take a sip of my drink. “Would you like to dance with an angel tonight?” I offer him my hand and I let him lead me out onto the floor.

And now I’ve snared him.

Banish the Grammar Test

In sixth grade I remember making a flip book explaining the uses of commas, semicolons, colons, and a thousand other grammatical thingamabobs. The project bored me, but I don’t recall ever having to do a similar project until my sophomore year of high school. Then the grammar tests came back with a vengeance.

When writing my grammar isn’t that bad. Honestly, my mistakes are ones caught by teachers and professors, but not the general population of students. However, those grammar test I took and retook in high school showed something different. That’s where my problem lies. Other people in my class easily memorized what every device was called and how to “properly” use them, but their writing needed heavy editing even in the simple things. Their grammar quizzes came back with bright and happy As. I had to retake my grammar quizzes three or four times before I got the result I wanted. My essays, on the other hand, landed in the “minimal” section of grammar mistakes and were never hindered by that category of grading.

Now I have this crazy thought: I will never have to take a grammar test in the real world in order to get a job. I will have to write a cover letter and résumé without grammatical errors in order to get a job.

What a wild concept.

I propose that the grammar test should be thrown out of the window and that grammar should be based off of actual writing. As someone who wants to teach high school English one day, I fully intend to implement this idea in classrooms I teach to the best of my ability.

Writing and Gender

In today’s culture, it seems like more and more people want to erase the line between genders. Blue and pink. Hot Wheels and Barbie dolls. Pirates and princesses. I’m all for it. While I loved my Barbie dolls as a child, I also loved my Star Wars action figures and my Legos. I was the little girl that wanted to be a Jedi for Halloween, but also had an entire kit of play makeup. I picked out the green and black bike, never mind the fact that my backpack was bright pink with flowers. Some of it, I think was rebellion. I didn’t want to be like the popular girls, the “girly-girls.” However, I also didn’t want to be teased for acting too much like a boy. Turns out I was teased for being the most gullible kid in class, but that’s a different topic. Basically, I’m cool with the Darth Vaders and the Groovy Girls being next to each other in Target and any kid picking out whatever doll they want.

For some reason, writing doesn’t feel the same to me. I want it to feel the same. I want there to be no difference, other than pure personality, between me and my male classmates. Yes, being female factors into my personality, but that’s not what I mean. I recently read an essay that made me feel boxed in as a female writer. The author outlined that women write about connections with other humans and emotions while men write about individuality and achievements, there were other attributes to both sides but those were the two that stuck out to me the most. In class the next day I was instructed to write a story about a Spring Break trip. My story fit all of the characteristics of a female writer and, I don’t know why, but it made me a little mad. What irritated me even further was that my male classmate’s story more or less fit into the generalized version of male writing. I suppose my frustration comes from the same rebellious streak I had a kid. I don’t want my writing to fit perfectly into the women “side.”

But my writing does fit. What does that mean? What does it mean that the fact that it fits irritates me? Is that good? Bad? Maybe it doesn’t matter. That response seldom satisfies me.

I think I need to do a little more digging.

College Lessons

I find college to be a weird place. I feel like I am either in a state of “I need to act like a responsible adult” or “I really want apple juice, Fruity Pebbles, and a nap.” As a freshman, I’ve learned some valuable lessons in this time living on my own, most of them not learned in the classroom. So, here are ten vital tidbits of knowledge I’ve picked up in the last six months:

1. Apple sauce in oatmeal does not make it taste like apple cinnamon oatmeal. Trust me.
2. Fish are difficult to take care of. Even bettas. (Sorry Archduke Finnegan, but it’s true.)
3. Some professors demand to be called Dr. Do Not Call Me Anything Except [insert fancy title] and others will introduce themselves as Mike.
4. You will tell yourself you need to exercise, but you will convince yourself that walking around campus is . . . probably good enough.
5. Death before decaf.
6. Free laundry is a gift from heaven above.
7. No matter how many people tell you it’s true, do not expect a ring by spring. (Why would you want one anyway? A boyfriend/girlfriend is like another class.)
8. Napping is not only accepted, but highly encouraged.
9. Always wear shower shoes.
10. Free time is a precious and beautiful thing and you may plan to watch a movie or read for fun or go out with friends, but in reality, you’ll just end up sleeping.

I’m sure college will teach me more lessons through the years, but this is what I’ve got for now.