Why Your Writing Sucks

Yes, it does. It sucks. And mine probably sucks too. Actually, your writing has a lot of potential. Don't ask how I know. I do. And once you tap into that potential, your writing will be brilliant. It will be so riveting, so down-to-earth and astonishing that readers will not be able to look away. Everyone has that writing genius (unless they are truly idiots) and the level of your writing is determined mostly by how easily you can come to terms with your writing.

Stop trying to be grammatically correct all the time. I don't mean become lazy in your use of "your" and "you're" or "there" and "their". If you use the wrong word there, I will get one of my friends to eat you. What I mean is, stop limiting yourself to rules like: don't use fragments, don't begin a sentence with 'and' or 'but'. Those are terrible rules, and apart from English essays I want you to delete that from your brain. Think how dramatic fragments can be.

"Blood. It was everywhere, streaked on the walls, oozing from the furniture and splattered on the floor; a stark reminder of the tragedy that had just occurred."

See how effective and dramatic that was? The sentence started off with one word that was something like a slap to your cheek; it woke you up, made you blink and shudder a couple of times before you even knew what was going on.

Eliminate the details. Don't try to write like those 19th century poets. Instead of:

"Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures." -Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

write: 

"Though he was drowning in intense sadness and misery, he still had room in his broken heart to accept the beauties of nature. Every wondrous sight seemed to lift his soul from the earth. He was split in two: he suffered, yes, and faced disappointments, but in his own companionship he was an angel with no cares in the world." -me, my blog

Give your characters flaws. Don't turn your guys into Edward Cullen. Don't turn your girls into the epitome of perfection. Nobody is perfect, and nobody wants to read a boring book about perfect people. Give your characters interesting flaws, like serious identity issues, or a terrible family background, or a flaring temper, or excessive nervousness, or narcolepsy, or color-blindness. Mix it up. Make it interesting. Don't use cliches or stereotypes. Don't make all the popular girls blonde, like Barbie dolls. Don't turn them into typical, popular-girl, hair-flipping freaks. Haven't we all read about those before? Hmm? Don't be all like:

"The intensity of his gorgeous brown eyes made me want to melt into him."

or

"His skin was so flawless, his hair so artfully messed, his frame so athletic yet slim."

instead, write something like:

 

"He was on the skinny side, more like gangly, really, tall and thin with clumsy movements. Despite his awkward build and stance, he was quite popular; always making his friends burst into laughter, always smiling and cheerful. He did have a rather blunt way of saying things, however, and often unintentionally hurt people's feelings. Despite his flaws, though, he had a heart of gold." -me :P

Show, don't tell. You've heard this before, but I'm serious. Don't say: 

"He was extremely sad."

say

"Emotions ran through him like a wind of silvery knives, jabbing and twisting and slicing at his insides."

And finally, embrace your writing voice: it is your one and only original trait and you must enhance it. Don't try to write like someone you're not. Just write. And make sure, throughout all that prose and dialogue, that a hidden shadow of yourself is recognizable.

Goodbye, or as they would say in Hindi, alvida. Happy writing!

Why I Hate Valentine's Day

I hate Valentine's Day. All the pink, all the lace and frills and hearts, all the couples debating in high voices what they're going to do...it drives me nuts. You could argue that I'm just a bitter, jealous girl who scorns relationships because I'm not in one. That's really not it. I just think, what is the significance of the day? If you like a guy/girl, and a guy/girl likes you, what grain of effect does Valentine's Day have on your relationship? You like each other the same, just as any other day.

I try to ignore Valentine's Day as much as possible. So imagine my horrified surprise when some guy says, "Oh yeah, it's Valentine's Day on Friday, isn't it?" and a bunch of girls reply in shock, scandalized by his mistake, "It's on THURSDAY!"

My French teacher laughs, and says, "What girl DOESN'T know when Valentine's Day is?"

Ahem. Me! I'm sure my face turned bright red. 

So while I am trying vehemently to ignore everything about Valentine's Day, here is how I am being hindered:

• Overenthusiastic announcements on our school TV and in the caf, "Valentine's Day is coming up! Show your love by buying all your friends a Candy Gram! Candy Grams are only 50 cents each, and they are sure to show everyone just how much you care about them!" Yeah, right. I care about you so much that I bought you a fifty-cent, red, heart-shaped lollipop that tastes like a hyperventilating hippopotamus threw up on it.
• Excited girls everywhere, squealing and gushing and giggling, gossiping about what outfit they're going to wear, how they're going to color-coordinate ("I am TOTALLY wearing pink. Omg, ___ you should so wear red! It looks so pretty on you!! Omg we can be, like, twins!"). Yeah, cause wearing pink on Valentine's Day totally indicates love and happiness.
• Advertisements on TV, telling me I have to attend Justice or Abercrombie because of the mega-super-awesome Valentine's Day sale they're having. "You get 2% off EACH ITEM YOU PURCHASE! What a deal! What a deal!"
• Valentine's Day (more like Valentine's Month, really) specials. "See Lauren and Conrad in this Valentine's Day special filled with MORE drama, spice, and never-before-seen scenes!" Seriously? I don't even watch TV, and each drama is literally shoved in my face from fifty feet away where some member of my family is watching the talking box.
• Blog updates, all giving me new DIYs for Valentine's Day and suggestions as to what I should get for my nonexistent spouse, my best friends, my mother, my father, even my teachers. "Valentine's Day is coming up, and here's why YOU should be excited!!" Hell no! I don't give a pig's nostril!

Okay, so maybe that was a bit much. Valentine's Day is pretty dumb, but there's one thing about it even I can't complain about: chocolate. The chocoholic inside me is drooling at the thought of all that yummy stuff, even if it is wrapped in shiny pink foil and shaped like a heart.

So Happy Valentine's day, everyone, and I hope you have a good one!

Many Answers

I came across this story yesterday and thought it was pretty interesting.
  
   "Some time ago I received a call from a colleague. He was about to give a student a zero for his answer to a physics question, while the student claimed a perfect score. The instructor and the student agreed to an impartial arbiter, and I was selected. I read the examination question:

"SHOW HOW IS IT POSSIBLE TO DETERMINE THE HEIGHT OF A TALL BUILDING WITH THE AID OF A BAROMETER."

     The student had answered, "Take the barometer to the top of the building, attach a long rope to it, lower it to the street, and then bring the rope up, measuring the length of the rope. The length of the rope is the height of the building."
     The student really had a strong case for full credit since he had really answered the question completely and correctly! On the other hand, if full credit were given, it could well contribute to a high grade in his physics course and to certify competence in physics, but the answer did not confirm this.
     I suggested that the student have another try. I gave the student six minutes to answer the question with the warning that the answer should show some knowledge of physics. At the end of five minutes, he had not written anything. I asked if he wished to give up, but he said he had many answers to this problem; he was just thinking of the best one. I excused myself for interrupting him and asked him to please go on.
     In the next minute, he dashed off his answer which read: "Take the barometer to the top of the building and lean over the edge of the roof. Drop the barometer, timing its fall with a stopwatch. Then, using the formula x=0.5*a*t^^2, calculate the height of the building."
     At this point, I asked my colleague if he would give up. He conceded, and gave the student almost full credit. While leaving my colleague's office, I recalled that the student had said that he had other answers to the problem, so I asked him what they were.
     "Well," said the student, "there are many ways of getting the height of a tall building with the aid of a barometer. For example, you could take the barometer out on a sunny day and measure the height of the barometer, the length of its shadow, and the length of the shadow of the building, and by the use of simple proportion, determine the height of the building."
     "Fine," I said, "and others?"
     "Yes," said the student, "there is a very basic measurement method you will like. In this method, you take the barometer and begin to walk up the stairs. As you climb the stairs, you mark off the length of the barometer along the wall. You then count the number of marks, and this will give you the height of the building in barometer units."
     "A very direct method."
     "Of course. If you want a more sophisticated method, you can tie the barometer to the end of a string, swing it as a pendulum, and determine the value of g at the street level and at the top of the building. From the difference between the two values of g, the height of the building, in principle, can be calculated."
     "On this same tact, you could take the barometer to the top of the building, attach a long rope to it, lower it to just above the street, and then swing it as a pendulum. You could then calculate the height of the building by the period of the precession."
     "Finally," he concluded, "there are many other ways of solving the problem. Probably the best," he said, "is to take the barometer to the basement and knock on the superintendent's door. When the superintendent answers, you speak to him as follows: 'Mr. Superintendent, here is a fine barometer. If you will tell me the height of the building, I will give you this barometer."
     At this point, I asked the student if he really did not know the conventional answer to this question. He admitted that he did, but said that he was fed up with high school and college instructors trying to teach him how to think."
    
The student was Niels Bohr and the arbiter was Ernest Rutherford.

To Make You Think

This story never fails to raise a lump in my throat. I've read it quite a few times, but this time when I received it I thought, "I really should post this on my blog." You've probably read this before. But here goes.

There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson. And as she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same.
But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X’s and then putting a big “F” at the top of his papers.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.
Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be around.”
His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.”
His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.”
Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class.”
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His present which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag.
Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.
Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.” After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children.
Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.”
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer—the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.
The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.” Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”

Skiing

Skiing is such a weird word. Skiing skiing skiing. Anyhow, I went skiing for a couple of days. Yesterday, the day before, and the day before that, to be precise. I've been skiing once before, at Massanutten Resort, where there was a green slope called "Nutten to It" (haha, get it?). It was reasonably fun, except for the fact that last year's winter was pretty terrible, with literally no snow and warm temperatures. So the snow was basically two inches off the ground.

This year, I skied at The Wisp. We planned to leave early an maybe arrive at 12-12:30 so that we'd have time for some activities. The day we began to drive to the resort, it started snowing. Awesome, right? NOPE. We got STUCK on the road, because it was too slippery. Every time my dad tried to rev up the car, there was this weird whirring noise and the smell of burning rubber. Well, we somehow got past that obstacle and by that time, we were glad to even arrive there.

We got there around, what, 7 pm. At first, we planned to just hit the sack, but then it turned out the Mountain Coaster, what we'd been looking forward to, was open until 9. The Mountain Coaster allowed the user to control the speed. We walked to the start of the coaster. It was fantastic. Anyone going to The Wisp: don't miss the coaster! The car went unbelievably fast, and to top it all off, all that secured me to the car was a puny seat belt. I could see my life flash before my eyes at every breakneck turn.

After walking back from the coaster, we stopped at the food court to get some dinner. There weren't any healthy vegetarian options (have I mentioned I'm vegetarian? My friend +Neyha Bhatia likes to call me a "Veg Head"), so we asked the chef to make us a couple of wraps. My brother had pizza, of course, just cheese, Costco size, two slices. I'm surprised he didn't gain a couple of pounds, then again, he's 9+. The wraps were ok, my mom makes better ones.

The next day, when we went down for breakfast, I had French toast with syrup. I was originally gonna order a veggie omelette, but the lady told me that they grill the omelettes on the same things as the meat. Which sucked, because I need my salt in the morning! Salt's what gives me my daily boost! Well, I had to go with the French toast. I was waiting patiently for my toast, and then my heart nearly stopped. The lady just tossed the toast onto the same grill, the very grill that was used for both omelettes and meat! Well then, my friends, why couldn't I have had the omelette? I felt like kicking myself for forgetting that no one else uses toasters for French toast. To top it all off, the toast wasn't even sweet or cinnamony! It tasted like a very bland omelette. I felt like throwing up, until I added the syrup. Nothing like sugar for taste, huh? Also for calories.

Then I went to the ski camp, because I'm no expert at skiing. I was the oldest kid in my group! Everyone else ranged from 7-10 years old, and I'm already tall for my age. I just kind of skulked around awkwardly, towering over the puny little midgets. So the skiing group I was in was level 2, which meant they'd supposedly done green slopes, and knew the basics. Well, all but three of those annoying little ants DIDN'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PUT ON THEIR FREAKING SKIS! My brother, this other girl and I had to wait at the bottom of the hill while the others tried to figure out how to jam their feet into the skis. One girl could barely ski while standing up! I'm not blaming her, but why the heck would she be in level 2 instead of Willy Wisp (beginners)?

To add insult to injury, or perhaps the other way around, the snow making machines were on for the entire 7 hours. Imagine a hundred icy knives poking into your face over and over again. Now multiply that by a thousand, that's how that felt. It was so cold, the tips of my fingers froze painfully inside my gloves. I skied fine, but everything else was torture.

To add even MORE insult, the lunch was a meager portion of mac and cheese, minus the chicken tenders for me. I don't mind mac and cheese. But I am one hungry girl. Five of the kids in my batch ate just their tenders, and didn't touch their mac and cheese. "Ew, how can you eat that?" they asked me. "Ew, mac and cheese is just so gross!" SERIOUSLY. If I am hungry, I will eat just about anything. 10 minutes after devouring the mac and cheese, I asked my instructor if there were seconds. I knew it was rude, but damn, I was starving! Can you guess what the instructor said? He said "No." I wanted to scream, because 5 kids still had their full portions of mac and cheese, and weren't planning on eating it, and here I was, so hungry I could probably eat 3 more plates full of the stuff. I almost cried as I watched each kid throw their untouched mac and cheese in the trash.

Hearing about my incessant hunger may cause you to think that I am a fat, greedy girl. No. That is not it at all. I just have a rather speedy metabolism, and any kind of activity will make me hungry hungry hungry!

That night, we went to a bar/restaurant for dinner. BAD IDEA. The veggie food a) took like 3 hours to prepare and b) tasted like rat barf. And inevitably, my head started hurting a lot. I pigged out on the desert, lemon meringue, then felt terrible about eating so much tart and walked up four flights of stairs to make up for it.

I will now take a brief intermission from complaining and smile to myself while I remember the snow tubing the next morning. Other than my headache continuation from the previous night and dehydration, the cold air whipping against my face was refreshing.

I said it was brief.

Yeah, the cold air was refreshing, but cold is never good. 6 hours later, in the car, driving back home, my throat started to kill me. By the time we got home, I could barely talk for pain. My mom made this awesome Indian herbal thing, and the pain went away so I could rest in peace. Except not in peace. I had the weirdest dream that my dad was telling me to be careful of people trying to kidnap me, and the rest of the night I was lapsing into 2 minute snoozes, then waking up and looking around in paranoia. I could not sleep. I just could not. So I woke up earlier than 7, which is my usual, I woke up around 6:42 and went downstairs.

My headache and sore throat are gone now, thank god, and I feel much better.

What's your most miserable vacation?