I REACHED 50K!

I did! Hurray!
Granted, I'm not sure I like the last ten thousand words, but now that that scene's in there I don't think I can take them out... oh well.
I'm actually nowhere near the end of my novel, though--there's something I still want to include and they have to travel for a day or two to get there. So that's one thing on my list of things to do now that I've reached 50k.
Other things:
a) Give Jindal some attention, the poor dear.
b) Work on Blood-Red Sun. I've been having more ideas for it recently (when I should have been brainstorming my novel)
c) Start dealing with college stuff again. (This should probably be first on my list.)
d) Design and draw a picture for a Christmas card. This is highly tentative.

...My brain hurts.

I'll try to grab a fictionpress account and toss the story up on there sometime soon.

Jindal needs to be taught the facts of life. Also, remember remember.

Also, he needs to SHUT UP BECAUSE I'M TRYING TO WRITE A NOVEL HERE, but mostly he needs to be taught the facts of life.

Word count: 13779

Two things happened today. Well, more than two things, I suppose.
First of all, it was the fifth. As is fitting I wore black. Yuck. Remember remember, the fifth of November... did you know we the L fans adopted that? Yes, I am fairly certain that we did.
It was the first day of the new quarter. I am now in R.G.'s English class! Also in Elements and Principles of Design. Gah. Can we get to the DRAWING bit already? This is boring!
ALSO WHITE THINGS FELL FROM THE SKY. NOT VERY MANY WHITE THINGS, BUT DEFINITELY WHITE THINGS. It is only the fifth of November. T_____T Why should snow fall from the sky now?
Finally, Jindal and his Twili history are preying on my mind. Jindal revealed to me yesterday that he is very fond of Dawdon. Very fond. In fact he's saying that Dawdon is his beloved. This is a problem; Dawdon is male. Jindal is male. Midna is supposed to be Jindal's greatgreatgreatgreat etc granddaughter.
SOMETHING IS WRONG HERE.
Several times I have told Jindal that in order for this all to work out, he has to express interest in someone who HAS A WOMB. *shakes head wearily* Look, I know that Dawdon is dear to you, but... this just doesn't work, darling.
Anyway, here's what I have so far, continuing from an earlier entry, I think... Twilight Princess spoilers, of course.
--

Consciousness came back to me slowly. You… have never felt being a spirit, correct? We all did that day. It was like being only half-there, like having pieces of your soul break off and disintegrate. I was unwilling to move, even when I had regained full consciousness, and instead I stayed lying where I was. I, the prince of my people. I didn’t yet know I would soon be their ruler, but still, I could have been stronger.

I did not get up until a man came running up to me.

I had seen him before. He was one of the strongest warriors of our tribe, and father had commended him once or twice.

“Prince,” he said to me, looking anxiously into my face, “there is something I must show you. Come with me.”

He offered me his hand to help me up, and I stared at it for a moment. Pathetically, I did not want to get up. I just wanted to lie around until I felt better, and if I never felt better then I was fine with staying where I was until I died.

But he said “Prince, please,” and grasped my arm, half-forcing me to stand. So I went with him.

Around me, things looked strange. The light seemed… uncertain of itself, if that makes any sense at all. It seemed dirty, hazy. The sky was a strange color. When I looked around, it seemed that the land we stood on was an island, floating in… nothingness.

All in all, it made me feel sick to my stomach.

The man led me down a narrow stretch of land; and after we had walked for a few moments, I saw my mother and father. It could only be them, but there was no way for me to actually recognize them. Their bodies had been burnt—charred black in punishment for setting foot into the Sacred Realm. They no longer looked human. I fell to my knees in front of them as tears began to pour from my eyes. I tried to shut my eyes to keep the tears in—but then the warrior gasped. “Prince!”

I opened my eyes again, and through my tears I watched as my parents began to emit a strange, white-greenish glow and floated several feet off the ground. I watched in confusion and horror. The light emanating from their bodies grew brighter, brighter, too bright; I looked away. Then suddenly there was a rushing noise, and I looked back to my mother and father—but they were gone, and in their places floated two orbs of light.

Curiously, the light from these orbs refreshed and strengthened me.

By now you have figured out, of course, that these were the Sols, our version of the sun, which give energy to the world we now call Twilight. Very few of my people know of the origin of the Sols. It would be best that you did not tell my Princess.

The Sols, these orbs of light that had only moments before been my parents, floated higher and higher until they shed light on all of us.

“My king…” said the warrior, still next to me. His voice sounded stronger than it had before.

I pretended—or maybe it really didn’t even register, I don’t remember—not to know that he was talking to me; I looked towards the orb that had been my father.

“My king,” he said again, touching my shoulder. I shook my head.

“He’s your king,” I said, pointing. “I am the prince.”

“No, Jindal, you are king now,” he said, his voice softer on my name as if he feared I would be offended by his using it. “You are our king now.”

“My father—” I began, but I knew it was useless. The Sols shone and strengthened me. I swallowed the rest of my sentence. “I will rule, but I will always be the prince,” I said. “We must never forget what happened to my parents.”

And we never have, of course. My Princess said as much. The shame and horror and pain that result from rising against the goddesses are burned into every Twili soul. If a Twili were to think of defying the goddesses—it would be an anomaly in itself, but the Twili would be terrified of the idea. It’s part of who we are.

But I get ahead of myself again. I had no way of understanding any of that on the first day, or even at any time during my natural lifespan. Not until the goddesses infused me with the light of the moon, the sun’s inconsistent, muted cousin, could I step back from what I felt well enough to understand what had happened to us.

Back then, I tried to act kingly. “Warrior,” I addressed the man who had brought me to my parents, “you have shown great strength in bringing me here; I am impressed. What is your name?”

“Dawdon, my prince,” he replied with a bow.

“You show the potential to serve our tribe very well. Will you lead my royal guard?”

“I will, my prince.” He looked so noble and proud.

“Dawdon…” I whispered, my kingly attitude suddenly evaporating. “Will you support me?”

He knew I was not referring to my political ideas or my rule. I meant like a crutch. I was asking if he would hold me up, and he knew it.

“I will, my prince,” he said kindly, and he offered me his hand so I could stand.

Did you miss me?

I am now eighteen, there was only one passage on the listening part of the Japanese SAT II that killed my brain, and I am currently sitting pretty at 11330 words, about three hundred words away from being ahead of Wednesday. Life is good.

My novel is pretty full of nonsense. And an inordinate number of inside or just plain self-referential jokes. I'm trying to quell that--I mean seriously, maybe there might be NaNoers who would find the idea interesting, but if it's only about you!--but I'm having a hard time of it. Oh well... the point is to write, not to write well...
When I tell people, they ask me, "How many pages have you written so far?" How the taco should I know? "I'm on so-and-so words," I'll tell them, but it only occurred to me to check pages today... twenty-five, if you're curious. But I mean why would that even matter. 11k words; that's what matters.

Oh, I got a sewing machine.

L's birthday and Halloween and the day before NaNo.

-explodes-
I wore my Boogiepop costume to school today. I really wish people would stop trying to figure out what it is. They have no chance, and it's really annoying to explain over and over again to blank looks.
In any case, much of today's freep was devoted to an attempt to think of an L fanfiction idea, for his birthday. Finally with about fifteen minutes left I got one. Wrote about 250 words of that at school and will attempt to finish it right now. I have no idea where it's going, but the nice people who live in the NaNo forums say that this is just fine... @_@
--
Today was one of L’s “normal” days, which he occasionally took provided that first, he could afford the time and second, he felt like it—he did not always feel like having normal days. But every now and then he did, and on those days he would leave his computer (securely locked, of course) and go out and make-believe that he wasn’t the world’s greatest detective or even a detective at all. On those days he was Luke, or Levi, or Lowell, or whatever other name he could think of beginning with L.
He was, no matter what, an L.
Today he was going for a walk in the crisp, late autumn air. He took particular pleasure in crunching the leaves, brightly-colored in their decay, beneath his feet. With each step he kicked some up, intentionally, like a child. Ahead of him, there was a cat sitting on a wall. It was a dark gray cat, and its back was to him. It must have heard him crunching the leaves as he walked, but it didn’t turn to look at him at all until he said, “Hello, kitty.” Then it lazily rotated its head, looking at him the way that cats do, eyes half-lidded in an expression of bored superiority. L reached out to let the cat sniff his hand, which it deigned to do, giving the hand a single lick. Then L pet the cat, running his hand through its short fur.
It was supremely uninterested in him.
~
...
I have no idea what to write. I don't know where I'm going with that at all, so... yeah.
*kowtows* Gomen nasai, L! T^T *fails miserably*

I don't really have anything worthwhile to say today.

I need to come up with an L fanfiction plot FAST (like, now) and write it and... GAH.

Here, have a haiku. This was inspired by HEY, IF YOU INTEND TO TAKE RKA'S COLLEGE ENGLISH CLASS BUT HAVEN'T TAKEN IT YET YOU CAN'T READ THIS NEXT PART.

Right, I'm sure that worked wonders.
This was inspired by a question on the Odyssey test (which was easy to the point that I almost found it... enjoyable). The question was something like,

"The Odyssey is this type of literature.
a) Novel
b) Epic
c) Haiku
d) Chick Lit"

Anyway, c made me snort. So I wrote this.
"Long journey at sea
Odysseus, home at last.
Death to the suitors!"

There were some pretty amusing joke answers on that test. Ahhh... good times, good times.
(You're talking about an exam! Are you crazy, woman?)

...So, an idea has occurred to me.

I... don't even know how practical it is. In fact I am pretty sure that it's not practical.
But, a few days ago an idea occurred to me.
I thought, "I would like to own a publishing house that translates Japanese light novels (young adult novels, generally fairly short--LABB and Kino both fall into this category) into English."

Now, it's an interesting idea, but I'm a little frustrated with it. It's so impractical! The idea of me starting a business... And this isn't even a simple home business like, "Oh, I have some cute screen-printed T-shirts. Buy them!"
Oh, no, it's nothing like that.
I'd have to acquire the publishing rights. (Requires money & interaction)
Translate it.
Have it printed. (Requires... well, something, and I don't even know what)
Market it. (Again... I have no idea how to do this. I do know that it would require money)

It's nearly impossible that it could all be done by one person; certainly I would have to spend a while struggling before it took off, IF it took off. But Seven Seas has dropped its novel line (to my great frustration--I wanted to read Boogiepop at Dawn!), Viz shows signs of not being very confident in novels (at least, this thought is recorded in my head. I forget if it was only caused by LABB, which would now make the thought invalid, or not), and Tokyopop... well you saw my issue with Tokyopop in the last entry. -_-
But in my mind... In my mind, I'm thinking, "Maybe they're marketing them wrong."
See, here's the thing. I hate saying this because it makes me sound like that evil man, but maybe the "manga crowd" that they generally market to doesn't really read as many novels. I mean, especially if they just got into manga because it was right next to the comics, or because they got into it through anime.
So if I didn't place the emphasis on them being Japanese novels... But then I risk over-localization which would cause me to explode in a fit of self-loathing.


Sigh.

So... I think I shall finally submit that Kino fic.

Aheh.
Also, I'm reading that Piper story I started to write a long time ago. Other than a few things (for example, this sentence: "He dug into his steak with extreme vigor, perhaps imagining that it was rat-flesh he was tearing."--what, is he going to eat rats?), it's rather nice. And it's like reading something that someone else wrote... I don't remember this at all. Ahaha. I never really wrote much of it... Dang, how was I going to end it? I wish I could remember.
Anyway, I have jibun no um (titled it back when I didn't know the word monogatari, ha) open because I had forgotten about the story I'd written based on Andersen's Little Match Girl. Like, completely forgot that I'd written it at all. So let's see if it's any good at all.
After I finish submitting the Kino fic, that is.
(I'm quite proud of the Kino fic. I mean, it's morbid, but it... I like it. I think it fits well with the series.)
(Gah, why did I kill Koshakk? That was so mean of me!)
(That was the point, you silly girl.)

Ahh, that's better. I even ranted about the move of Land of Adults. That's always fun, ranting about translation/editing things I don't agree with. I can always end my rant with, "And that's why I need to hurry up!"
*mutters something about February*

Oh, squee, I did like this story. I suppose it's a bit saccharine, but... I always loved the Match Girl. Squee.
Anou... mitai no darou ka. >> <<
--

The Organ-Player

A scrawny waif wandered the streets on that cold New Year’s Eve. She was dressed in thin rags, and she had no home. She was trying desperately to find a place to sleep that night. But her search was almost hopeless; everything had been touched with snow, which was quickly turning into slush as a cold, steady rain fell.

She knew that she had to find somewhere warm to sleep, or at least to stay briefly. Even a few minutes would do her well and keep her hands and face from freezing completely. At that moment, the desire for warmth was even stronger than her constant hunger, for earlier that day she had found a table scrap that some wealthy family had thrown out. It had been the leanest part of a roast goose, unseasoned, already filthy in the streets, but even so it had tasted heavenly to the poor girl. Though it hadn’t satiated the girl, it had served to lessen and divert her attention from her hunger.

The cold, however, could not be countered so easily. The girl’s thin gown had been completely soaked through and her long brown hair was plastered to her doleful face. Every exposed inch of her skin was either chaffed red or quickly turning blue. She shivered constantly, and every now and then she would give an intense shudder as a gust of wind blew and dashed cold raindrops against her face.

Through the streets she kept walking, one foot in front of the other with a trance-like motion. Something told her that if she kept moving, she would stay warm. But oh, how she longed to find an iron stove somewhere and lie down and curl up in front of it and let the waves of heat roll over her! She tried to imagine such a stove, as if imagination alone could bring the precious heat to her.

In the distance, there was the faint song of an organ. Some holy song was being played, and it struck the girl as familiar. It was not so long since she had attended the church daily; but now that her parents were gone, she was ashamed to be seen in her one ragged dress while all the other ladies dressed so finely and beautifully.

However, today the girl was so desperately cold that she found herself moving towards the organ song anyway, haltingly. She passed several houses on the way, glancing enviously into the warm yellow windows. Just a few more steps, she told herself, and she too would be in a warm place.

Finally she reached the great, heavy door of the church. It took all her strength to pull it open, and the metal handle bit her hands with cold. She stepped in and smiled at the satisfying warmth, letting the door swing shut behind her. The only other person there was the organ-player, who had her back to the girl.

The drenched girl began to move forward, towards the sanctuary. The warmth of the church was tangible; she could feel it rubbing against her skin comfortingly, like a cat. But she still shivered. Muddy water dripped from her hair and clothes. She was silent as she went; for a moment she entertained the notion of speaking to the organ-player, but something held her back. Instead, she knelt down in one of the aisles—not in the pews, for then she would get them wet and filthy, which would be disrespectful to God and his worshippers.

The organ’s song was beautiful. It reminded the girl of the days when she had come often to church, with her parents. And after the service, they’d leave the church all bundled up in thick, warm clothes and rush home to a hot, filling meal. Ah, to be that warm and full and happy again! How bitterly she wished that those days had never ended.

Back then, she would not have knelt on the ground near the back of the sanctuary; she would have sat in one of the front pews, kept warm between her two parents. And there would have been many more people. Now there were only the shivering girl and the organ-player and God.

Silently, the girl clasped her hands and bowed her head, as she had been taught, and silently she prayed to God. She prayed first for her parents—she always prayed first for them, for their souls and their happiness. Usually that prayer was followed by one for her own safety, for food and warmth, but today, in the presence of God and in his grand house, such a prayer seemed selfish. So instead, piously, she prayed for the souls of the others on the street as she shivered.

She did not notice when the organ’s song ended, nor did she hear the soft, padding footsteps of the organ-player as she approached. The shivering girl only looked up when she had finished her prayer; and then she stared at the organ-player without speaking.

The organ-player was no older than her, and had golden hair that framed her pale, pretty face in curls. Her clothes, like the girl’s, were thin, and she wore no shoes. She looked at the girl solemnly for a moment; then she quietly said, “Welcome to the house of God.” Her voice was sweet and warm, like cream. She knelt next to the girl and continued, “You’re very cold and hungry, aren’t you?”

The girl nodded slightly, hands still clasped in her lap. It seemed almost blasphemous to address the organ-player, the one who had provided such holy music, but the girl couldn’t keep from adding, “I’m mostly cold. It’s so cold outside.”

The organ-player gave a small smile that lit up her face. “I may be able to help that,” she told the girl. She reached into her apron and brought out a handful of matches.

The girl brought the corners of her mouth up in an appreciative smile, but shook her head inwardly. It would take many, many small matches to warm her shaking body. A handful would never suffice.

But, her smile now a little more mysterious, the organ-player struck a match against the polished wooden floor of the church. For a moment, it sputtered; then it burned clear and bright—and so warm!

Somehow the warmth from the small match surrounded the girl’s whole body, settling around her shoulders and head like a heavy blanket. Amazed, the girl reached out for the match. The organ-player gave it to her readily, and the poor girl held it up, studying it. How could one small match warm her so completely? It seemed a gift from God!

The match went out. The blanket of warmth disappeared immediately, but the girl found that she was not as cold as before. She opened her mouth to ask the organ-player about the matches. Before she could do so, though, the organ-player struck another match.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” she asked, holding the new match out before the girl. “This one will help.”

The girl again looked to study the match, but—behold! As she looked into the flame, she fancied that she saw inside it a long, fine table with a great banquet spread out upon it! The girl’s eyes were as wide as saucers as she took in everything on the table, and her stomach growled conspicuously as she took a deep breath and smelt the food. There were five loaves of bread, two whole roast geese, and more fruits and candies than she could count. Steam still rose from the bread and the geese.

The girl stared at the glorious vision in disbelief, salivating. It all looked so delicious, the perfect New Year’s feast, just as she used to eat with her family. But it was no more than a vision, the starving girl told herself unwillingly; it would not satisfy her.

The organ-player lit another match with the flame of the current one, which was close to dying. The vision inside the flame stayed. “Eat,” the organ-player encouraged softly. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“But it’s just a vision,” protested the sad little girl, nevertheless still entranced by the grand banquet.

“Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t,” the organ-player answered mysteriously. “But if you eat, at least you will be happy in that vision, will you not?”

Such simple logic was all that the girl needed to convince her; she ran forward to the table and immediately began reaching for food. She briefly noted the odd fact that the food had substance under her fingers, but quickly became more interested with the substance it had in her mouth. How wonderful it was to take such large bites and feel those bites slide down her throat, filling her stomach! The girl couldn’t even remember the last time a meal had satisfied her so well. And the taste—the taste! The goose was perfectly roasted, the bread just slightly sweet. It was like a meal from heaven.

As the girl ate, the organ-player kept lighting matches, perpetuating the vision. She waited patiently for the girl to finish. Finally, the child wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin and smiled. The organ-player let the last match die, and as the flame sputtered the feast faded from view.

It was cold and dark in the church, but now the girl did not notice. She stared at the organ-player for a long time as rain lashed against the stained glass windows. Finally, the girl whispered, “What was that?” The vision was gone, but her stomach was still full. She could still taste the sauce from the goose.

The organ-player smiled. “It was a gift for you.” She stood, brushing ashes off her apron. “I have to go home now. Grandmother might worry.”

She left the church. The girl stayed. She curled up on the floor of the church to sleep and dreamt about the organ-player girl and her matches.