The Insane Battle Between a Non Sentient Machine and Myself

                        Warning: I am deeply caffeine deprived.

I've been wracking my brain all morning to think of something to say about some of the books that I've been reading. It's been a few blogs since I've given a book review so I thought that it was high time to write another one out. The problem is that my downtime has consisted of rereading the Harry Potter series and seeing as that's pretty much a book you know everything about even if you haven't read it, a blog is kind of wasted on that. Then I thought I would go through my shelf and find something there to review, but all of my books seem uninspiring this morning. This is most likely due to my current lack of creative drive but I've been determined to power through this. As one of you lovely readers said, I need to punch this writers block in the face. So, sitting down with a cup of coffee, I decided to ponder my current predicament.

Before I continue, I must make one thing abundantly clear. I love coffee. Nothing is better than a perfect cup of coffee on a cold and early morning. I drink coffee after a work out because I love the feel of a relaxed body and a steaming mug. I have been known to take a shower before drinking coffee because I love that sense of utter relaxation. Coffee is always by me when I write and a good cup of coffee has helped me figure out numerous problems. Coffee and me are timeless.

Now, this morning I did my usual. I brewed a cup of coffee in hopes that this dark and rich nectar would help me through the writers block that I've been having over the past few weeks. But, sitting in my chair, holding my favorite panda mug between my hands, I took a sip of what should have been a rich robust blend with just a splash of cream, and instead got a mouth full of watered down swill that should be ashamed to even call itself a beverage.

This is how I got to this point.

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend lovingly decided to make me coffee one morning. I was just waking up, laying in bed and looking forward to that first cup, when I heard a crash. Somehow, he broke the pot. Believe me, it was an emotional day in this household that morning. I was caffeine deprived and he was guilt ridden.

We went out immediately to get a replacement carafe, thinking that something that says “universal coffee pot” would be universal and would fit inside my coffee machine.

It did not.

You know why? Because coffee is trying to break up with me.

Two days later, said boyfriend tried to get another universal coffee pot. A different brand from a different store that came with three adjustable lids. It still did not work with my coffee machine. Granted, my coffee machine was an old, twenty dollar Mr. Coffee but I naively thought that something that was only bought two years ago, wouldn't be this hard to find a replacement for. But, like I said, coffee was and is, trying to break up with me.

I didn't have time to deal with the coffee issues over the next week due to me working Valentines Day at a Flower Shop. I got my coffee on the go and ignored the empty space on my counter where my coffee machine should have been. But then, after the rush of Valentines was over and I had my first day off from the craziness, there seemed to be an end in sight. That proverbial light at the end of the tunnel had decided to shine. The boyfriend brought over his coffee machine and kindly offered that I could use it for the time being. I was overjoyed. He fixed me a cup that morning and either I was so tired that I thought it was the most amazing thing I've ever tasted, or the boyfriend is secretly a coffee magician (he's not). Either way, I thought, finally, the curse is broken.

Later that day I went to brew myself a cup though and realized that his coffee machine is a little hussy that loves no one but him.

The machine in question

I cleaned and shined up this poor girl like none other. I washed the entire machine, inside and out, ran hot water and vinegar cycles through it a few times, and generally, made it look like a coffee machine as opposed to a worn out piece of metal that lived in a house where cleaning out the coffee pot is a novel idea. But the thing still doesn't like me.

It's been a week. This thing yells at me every time I try to use it, it produces watered down, slightly coffee flavored swill for me to consume, and no matter how many scoops I put in it, it somehow comes out tasting like dirty bath water. I have tried sweet talking her. I have tried calling her every name in the book. The thing hates me. At some point, it declared war against me and decided to ruin all at home coffee experiences I ever wanted. I don't know what the hell I've done to it. I wasn't the one who took it outside of its home to put it in a tiny apartment with three cats. That was its beloved owner. But, no no, the thing is going to take its neglect and abandonment issues out on me instead. It sits on my counter, mockingly, screeching out loudly every time I touch it, yet, it purrs for the boyfriend, cuddling up to him like a metal plated cat of some sort. I think it's trying to replace me.

This morning, the boyfriend made a pot of coffee. It tasted perfect. I made a pot about an hour after he left and the little hussy vomited up some bile for me to consume and then laughed at my pain as I cursed and maybe even threatened for a good ten minutes or so.

Needless to say, this bitch is going to be replaced. She's going back to the boyfriend and they can live happily together in sin.

So, all you coffee drinkers out there, I'm looking for a new machine that doesn't exceed a hundred dollars. Suggestions? I want the other woman out of my house sooner rather than later. Also, I want to find this coffee shop.

Seriously, where is this?

London Bridge is Falling Down: The City of WhoLock

By Caitlyn Tendick

 

I could describe how the Tower of London isn't really a tower at all, or try to explain to you the slightly offensive man that hangs out in Trafalgar Square with a hawk.  I could tell you about the Underground and explain the unique scent that bellows from the tube openings or I could tell you about how the city is overwhelmingly massive and a force to be reckoned with.  I have heard many times about how magnificent

London is and there are plenty of travelers, bloggers and writers that I’m sure could paint that city in such a way that makes you believe that the clocks are dripping with gold and the royalty has left its mark in jewels everywhere you go.  The thing is, London isn't a town for poetics.  I think to give it poetics actually does it a disservice.

I was there with two friends this past November and while I had been there before, I think I enjoyed the city much more the second time. It is big and it is overwhelming and it is hard to take everything in all at once.  Now, there are plenty of stories I could tell you about my trip there; all of which seem so insignificant and monumental when I think of them now.  But, since my blog mainly seems to be about stories and about writing (or the lack thereof lately) I want to spend my time pointing something out to you fellow readers and travelers that I think does not get discussed enough.  London is no longer a real place.  It has ceased all economic or world power that we think it holds.  No. London is a story; a conglomeration of different tales and legends all combined into one anthology.

 

Think about it for a moment.

You have Big Ben where Peter, Wendy, Michael and John, all flew past on their way to Neverland and where Jack and Rose danced to Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade.

You have the old Dickensian streets playing out before your eyes, the dirt and the grit of a smoggy London filled night rolling through the alleyways and the twisting down the cobbled side streets that still exist.

You have Fleet Street, home of the demon barber and the tavern dedicated to him where you can get a fantastic meat pie and a glass of mulled wine.  Just ignore the image of a flashing blade as you exit that night and hope that the streets are a bit crowded as you weave back home on unsteady and travel logged feet.

You have the black smoke that reaches out from the gap on the London Underground, stealing away the people that are easily forgotten if the gap is not minded.  Out on the streets there are numerous the forgotten alley’s that we all pass without a second glance, never aware of the portals that are contained at their end.  Door and Neverwhere’s slew of characters are waiting down there.

Shakespeare’s Globe sits in the heart of this town, old stories of betrayal and murder playing out inside its dome while out on the outskirts of the nightlife and bustling roads, Charles Dickens house still sits.  His walls are covered with words he wrote a long long time ago and his writing desk still sits empty, waiting for another story to be composed. 

Connecting these two worlds is the infamous London bridge that we see knights riding across to go to jousting tournaments, carrying favors from their ladies while the bridge itself holds echoes of markets and women hanging from windows to call down to the men below.  Then, it is beneath these bridges that ghost stories were made and where hands reach up from the icy tombs they have been banished too, beckoning the lone wandering as they try to find their way home.

By Caitlyn Tendick 

All the while, Big Brother is apparently watching us in this city, giving a whole new meaning to the London Eye.  But, James Bond is protecting us, racing his numerous flashy cars up and down these roads while wearing designer suits bought from the shops in the ritzier part of town.

There’s Hogwarts Great Hall, Sherlock’s Baker Street, and the fear that the Doctor has instilled in us that something horrid happens here every single Christmas season.  You have Kings Cross Station with Platform 9 ¾ and while not fiction, the gruesome images of Jack the Ripper still haunt the passages leading through the forgotten parts of the city.

And let us not forget that Spike and Drusilla were once from here and that Oliver begged for more at some point in time.  Let’s also remember that Canary Wharf was attacked by Cybermen or that Nick's High Fidelity record store is tucked between other crumbling business in the cheaper side of town. 
 

RomComs have their lovers meet outside the National Gallery in front of the lions. Diagon Alley is hidden somewhere in this city an hidden inside the tunnels are tales of secret meetings and deceit.

There are countless moments that we think of when we think of Europe.  It calls up images of Arthurian Legend or pilgrimages from the Canterbury Tales.  London is always at the center of it all and has continued to be there throughout the ages of literature.  Because of this, it is with a firm hand and tone, that I am declaring London to no longer be the city in which we believe that Queen resides or one in which we even call a part of our world.

London, is not a real place. London, is a book that we somehow have the ability to step inside and have been granted the privilege to walk its pages.

You can find Caitlyn Tendicks pictures here at http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/.  Go give her love and then like me on Facebook.

Shades of Grey - Not to be Confused with the Uninspired Twilight Fanfiction

Publicity shot: Jasper Fforde http://www.jasperfforde.com/grey/bigidea.html

Shades of Grey

By Jasper Fforde

*****

5/5 stars

How can you not like a book that was published in a color by number, limited edition hardback?

Okay, so I have been in a bit of a book slump.  It’s not that I haven’t been enjoying the novels I’ve been reading, but nothing has shocked me.  Most of the novels I’ve read have been good but not page turners in the sense that I actually want to read. In fact, reading has been more of a chore lately.  While I enjoyed The Once and Future King (I’ll blog about it soon) it was predictable in the sense that I am a King Arthur girl and knew the gist of the story arc already.  And while I love my Gentleman Bastard series, I will painfully admit that I was left a little empty with Lynch’s latest installment.

Shades of Grey asks us to consider the idea that color is far more important than this series of light beams that enter our pupils when we look at an object. While we take the hues that we see for granted, this book presents the idea that each individual can only see a certain amount of color and thus is limited on the amount of the world they organically experience.  A hierarchical order is constructed around this thought process.  The more color you can see, the better off you are, and vice versa.

Originally, I wasn’t keen on this book.  I picked it up on a whim while I was at Powell’s over the summer, based a suggestion from a certain Australian.  It wasn’t that I wasn’t open to the concept, but it seemed almost bland.  There was something about this hierarchy that I kind of shrugged at because I simply assumed that the world in the novel would be like our own and honestly, I hate reading about our own world.  I tried reading this novel a few months ago and quickly set it down in dismay, thinking that it was going to be yet another long and tedious process for me to get through a book that didn’t even exceed four hundred pages.

In better spirits, I picked this book up again last week in an attempt to give it another go.  I’m so happy/angry that I did.  The happy, I can tell you about… the angry? 

Jasper Fforde created something that isn’t necessarily original, but is refreshing.  With themes reminiscent of Orwell’s 1984 (one of my favorites) the world created in this book (which I am told is set in South Wales. Huzzah!) is so distant from our own that I even question if the people populating this novel are meant to be the future human race or if they are simply a leftover construct of our own race, and have gained some intelligence.  The characters, except for one, aren’t really described and when they are, they tend to be more of an anamorphous figure or some sort of worker drone.  Our kind is nowhere to be seen though, having apparently died off in what is known as the Previously.  Little is known about what happened leading up to this new Chromatic point and whatever is given to us through the dialogue of the characters is horribly misconstrued.  Think of playing telephone as a kid and you have the type of information that this society has now.

In a world where you marry to increase your color percentage, where if you can’t see color, you are practically a slave, and where you die for the slightest infraction, Jasper Fforde has combined the Big Brother idea with the whimsy and hilarity of old style fairy tales. 

I will admit that I spent a good portion of this book feeling off kilter simply because the concepts aren’t explained to us in detail.  Though, that might be what I love about this book.  These themes and these rules are a part of this world.  The people here know them instinctively.  The fact that they aren’t explained to us makes this society more believable.  After all, Eric Kripke once put it best when he said you don’t really describe events to people who already known what you are referring to.  By doing this, the author has created a dystopian world inside a bubble that we have to actually pay attention and learn about.  This book is smart. The writing is smart. The clever pop culture references that are slightly construed so as to distance itself from our time period are threaded throughout the text in such a way that make you giggle and also foreshadow things to come.  Yes, Jasper Fforde may have just became one of my new favorites to read and I was relieved beyond belief to learn that this is a series and that I will not be left sitting in my living room, feeling incomplete.

My critique of this book? It did get a bit tedious for me in the middle.  I felt like once I had established the world and its rules, there was a lag time where there was more establishing that I didn't feel was all that necessary.  While I love the cast of zany characters we encountered, I did feel a bit tired in the middle of the novel.  I can guarantee that the last hundred and fifty pages makes up for this though.  I sat down today to simply read a chapter or two and ending up finishing the book and ignoring the dirty dishes and the hyper active cats demanding food they for some reason think they need. 

Not my cat but you get the idea

(Side note: I’m not starving my cats.  They are small little whales in the making.)

Now, that was the happy on my scale of emotions. I did mention there was some negative feelings as well.  But, as for them…?

Spoilers.

Read this novel.  If nothing else, it is entirely refreshing from the other mass market fiction that is plaguing our bookstore shelves.  Too often, it seems that literature is written simply to sell quickly and widely and not be remembered.  Thankfully, Shades of Grey does not suffer from this fate.

Has anyone else read this one? I don’t feel like it’s as widely known as I want it to be.  Are the next in the series just as good?  Also, who out there didn't like it? I can easily see where this book would alienate people pretty quickly and I’m curious to hear the downfalls that I am looking over simply because I’m a giddy school girl again and am memorized by pretty words and imagery.

Random shout out to my people that have liked me on my Facebook page over the past few months.  You guys made me pick this up again.

I know it's been a while but remember to like me on Facebook and follow me on Google + . Both links are in the sidebar and are craving your attention.  Also, drop me a line.  Would love to hear what you guys have been up to.

August Book Reads

Last months choice of books have left me not really enjoying reading that much. Granted, I've been busier than usual so I haven't had a lot of time but the stories that I am working through currently aren't ones that you can sink into. I'm having one of those sensations where I am aware of what I am doing. That's usually how I set apart good books from the truly amazing. If you are aware that you are reading about a character and that you are sitting in your living room or bed, reading something someone else has written, something is wrong. The same with movies. These are vessels of escape. They are emotional time bombs. I want to be taken away when I read. Unfortunately, the stories that I am wading through at the moment, don't have that quality and have left me not wanting to read. I haven't picked up any other books either because I didn't want to get distracted.

Today I decided that was stupid.

This months book choices aren't very long but they hopefully will allow some progress and get me back into reading once more.

Elric of Melinbone by Michael Moorcock

One of my nerd friends gave this to me to read. It's a short little read and, according to him, is one of those books that is just meant to get someone into reading if they aren't a book person. The concept though is supposed to be good. From what I can gather from it, the main character doesn't really seem like a decent guy either so I'm a bit intrigued over that fact. My only fear of this novel is that it was printed in the 70's. I have this thing about science fiction that is older than the past decade. There's something about the way those authors wrote that bothers me. They do it in such a way that is not exactly over the top, but it is not natural. There's a distinct lack of flow from them. This doesn't make them bad writers, or even make the story bad, but it doesn't feel like it's a world that is secretly lurking in the shadows, which is how I prefer my fiction.

Review Now Up: http://papertales4u.blogspot.com/2013/08/elric-of-melinbone-by-michael-moorcock.html

Stolen by Lucy Christopher

A love story between a kidnapped girl and her kidnapper? Uh.... alright.

This is another novel that was given to me by a friend. But, unlike the previous one, this one was given to me by someone who does not like to read. She is a girl who enjoys tales, but it takes a lot for her to get into a book. Stolen, however, she finished within a week. That to me says there was something about it that was special in order to captivate her and that has got me curious. I like this girls taste in most things so I'm curious to see what this book contains. I don't think I would have picked it up otherwise.

Like I said, this month is a short read list mostly because I would like to continue trudging away on my previous months list. I'm half way through John Dies at the End (which, I would like to add, is a complete WTF novel) and Jellicoe Road. They just take a bit more time than most novels do.

Review Now Up: http://papertales4u.blogspot.com/2013/09/stolen.html

If you have any book suggestions, leave a comment. Also, remember to like me on Facebook and Google +

Goodbye My Dear Character

This morning I woke with the intention that I have every morning. To write. But, as I poured myself some coffee and tried to wake up a bit, I noticed myself easily getting distracted by things that really weren't that interesting. “Oh, the person outside is sneezing too loud. I should go look out my window and watch them for a bit.” or “Last nights dishes in my sink look rather disgusting. I should definitely clean them” or my favorite “Look at the pink nose on my cat! I'm gonna poke it”. Things like that took precedent over writing all morning long until about eleven o'clock rolled around and I realized that this was ridiculous.

I then proceeded to agonize over whether I should just write the next scene in my book or if maybe I should go back to the start and reread what I've already written to get my head around the story. I've started and stopped this novel so many times (which is unusual for me) that I am worried I'm being a bit schizophrenic in my writing. So, the logical way to fix that is to go back and read the 100 + pages that I have written and see if what I have there is acceptable. I even proceeded to start to do that before the lure of a shower called out to me instead.

Finally, after my shower, and realizing it was close to one in the afternoon now, I told myself that I was being pathetic. This is only day two of my goal to write two to three pages of my story every day and I was already about to give up. I had just wasted a good four hours of my morning, on my day off, doing god only knows what because sitting and writing just didn't seem like a task I was up to.

I forced myself, I am proud to say, to sit and write my two pages today. Actually, I only wrote about a page and a half but I still feel accomplished with it. I also now know why my mind was rebelling over not wanting to write.

It was trying to protect me.

The scene I had planned next was a death scene. I had decided a few days ago that this character was going to die. It needed to be done to show the readers that safety is becoming scarce in this story and the main characters need to act or else its going to be too late for them. I knew when I woke up this morning that this was the scene I would have to write. What I didn't know was that I would have such a visceral reaction over it.

One day, when this is published, I will share this blog post again and tell you what character it is that I am talking about, but for now, the character will remain nameless.

I wasn't even two sentences into the scene when all of the sudden, I was clutching my stomach and crying hard enough to shake. I didn't even see it coming. There was no warning for these tears. My body just reacted. I wrote the scene in question with watery eyes and a strong urge to delete everything I was typing out. I want it on record, I as the writer, was not okay with this death. But, I also understand that it is what was needed for the story. In battle, people don't come out completely unscathed. Tough decisions also are not made if the situation around you isn't dire.

The Moors I imagine I'm looking over 

I barely made it through writing what I did and when I was finished, I sat and sobbed. We're not talking silent and pretty tears. Maybe one day I will make up a tale of my hair blowing in the wind as I looked over the moors of an English countryside, grieving for this lost character, but today I will be truthful. We're talking full out, hold yourself tightly because you're afraid you are going to fly apart, kind of sobbing. It hurt.

Afterward, while still weeping, I fixed myself a cup of coffee and sat there for a minute, forcing myself to ask the question of whether or not this scene is necessary. Did it truly need to happen? Yes.

Why did it need to happen?

I can't really answer that. It's just one of those things that I know is right for the story and while the larger part of me wants to take that scene, tear it apart, and fix the situation, hell, even kill off a character that doesn't mean as much, I can't. It's an interesting line to walk, really. The writer and the reader in me is rebelling violently against this but my characters aren't allowing this to change.

So what does everyone think? Are there deaths in stories or TV shows that you have rebelled against so much that you feel like you are grieving them? Leave your comment below or on my facebook page and let me know what you think.

Creative Writing Is Like a Scribble

Some day, I hope to read this post while sitting on the back porch of my house that sits along the Oregon Coast. Or in Ireland. I'm really not picky.

I'm in the midst of one of those writer woes where I question every word I write and bang my head several times against a keyboard. Then, during the moments that I genuinely enjoy what I've written, I proceed to question if this is really what I should be spending my time dong because it doesn't seem like it is a viable option for my future. After all, at twenty four, real jobs and real lives need to assert themselves as opposed to the fantasy of writing a novel about children who are being forced to grow up.

I have jokingly been told that if I was the first child born in my family, there probably would have been no more. That is how I feel about book three. If this was the first book I've tried to write, I wouldn't have written any more of it. It's not that what I'm writing isn't good and its not as if I'm struggling to come up with idea's. It's that this is the book that needs to wrap everything up. The pay off that I've been asking readers to wait for is finally here and I don't want to disappoint. Add that on top of what I know about the publishing world and suddenly I become frustrated. Not only do I need to make a compelling story, but I need to do one in a certain amount of words because the publishing companies know that the general populace has the shortest attention span in decades and can only handle so many pages thrown at them. My word count, almost triples the amount of words usually allotted to a new author.  And that is only the first book. Of course there are exceptions to the rule, especially in the fantasy genera, but I don’t think my ego is big enough to assume that I will fall into that small little category of authors who managed to get around that. So, as I'm writing, I find myself wanting to edit and cut as I go, which then just hinders the creative process, which then makes me decide that I should probably cut out certain storylines, which then makes me upset because I'm the writer, of course I think its important to the story and so on and so on and so on. It's been a frustrating loop of ick that I'm sure plenty of writers have gone through before.  In the words of the great Chukc Shurley "writing is hard".

But that's not all. No. Because that? That I could probably handle. I then start thinking about the fact that it doesn't matter if I somehow drink a magic potion and become the greatest writer to ever live. It doesn't mean a damn thing if you are not in the right place and the right time and even then, that might mean nothing if you don't know how to market yourself.

Head. Meet Wall. Become great friends because you two will collide for the next x amount of years.

The publishing world is a mish mash of frustration and tears and proverbial blood that makes me want to run

screaming through the night while tearing out my hair and crying big sobbing tears that I only like to cry when a favorite character on a television show dies. It also leaves me rambling in run on sentences and for that I am sorry.

Add this overwhelming panic to everyday life like college, work, trying to maintain a social life, a blog, and a genuine desire to consume arts and other literature to keep up with the writing world so I can stay on top of the business, and you have just created a very frazzled me. My usually tidy house is in a disarray that I can't even muster up the energy to clean and every day that I don't manage to get out and do some amount of exercise in order to hopefully counteract the shotty immune system that I was blessed with, I feel guilty. Furthermore, there are about a dozen and a half things that I've committed to over the next six months and I have a dwindling bank account because of situations popping up like sick cats, personal emergencies, or you know, food. I somehow managed to grocery shop today which was a feat all on its own.

Last night, this all came to a head. The storm has been brewing for a while and last night it hit in that jittery too much caffeine and not enough hours in the day kind of way. So, I made myself a deal.

There's not much I can do about all this. Work and college and social lives are always going to happen because they have to and most of the time that I'm doing all these things, I'll be thinking about my story. And its because I'll be thinking about my story, that I'm not going to give up on writing because obviously its important enough for me to spend hours every day obsessing over. But there are things I can do to become more proactive.

1. Write three pages everyday because eventually, those three pages will turn into a book.
2. Work on my blog or Whimsy Travels (because yes, while I'm freaking out about all this, I of course started a new project to add to my time spent on the computer) at least an hour a day.
3. Do your damn schoolwork! Thank God I'm good in class.
4. See the sunshine because they tell me its good for you.
5. Do not worry if your house is in a disarray or if you have to turn off your phone and neglect your life for a bit. It's not always going to be this way.

The time has come that I have resolve face. My characters don't deserve to be wandering around the dusty mazes of my mind. They deserve to be out there and heard and read about. In order to do that, I have to go a bit crazy and I have to accept that that's okay. I also have to write blogs like this to vent my frustrations and move on from the fact that I'm falling into a stereotypical emo writing mode that I so very loathe. To anyone that knows me, I have my 'shit needs to get done' face on. Which means I'm probably going to become a hermit. At times like this I'm always reminded of that triangle thing they tell you about when you enter college. At each corner of a triangle is a different aspect of your life; sleep, social life, school. The sides of the triangle only make up two of these aspects or some weird thing like that but basically, what it comes down to, is you sacrifice something. You can't have all three. The PTB dictates that you only can have two. Well, writer me doesn't really have a triangle (so I'm not sure why I'm rambling on about this analogy) but I do have a scribble and somewhere in that scribble, something in my life is gong to get lost or drawn over or violently negated.

I'm not sure where I was going with any of that.

In other news, in order to calm the chaos of my brain a bit, I've decided to re-read Harry Potter. I sometimes forget why I love writing and stories and then I remember nights spent reading by flashlight or days spent eating pumpkin seeds while reading these stories on my bed. It's time to remember why I love creating and who better a reminder that J.K Rowling and the completely memorizing world she created.

Like I said. Hopefully, one day, I will be sitting on a beautiful back porch, cup of perfect coffee in my hands, reading this old entry of mine and laughing at the inner turmoils that were completely unnecessary.

Or I will be in a straight jacket, in a comfortable mental institution, being fed pudding.

Redwall and a Tangent

Cover of Redwall (Redwall, Book 1)

Die hard Redwall fans.... don't hate me.

3/5 stars 

***

Before I start this review, I would like to go over something that I think plagues stories in the worst possible way. The exclamation point.

This elusive little creature denotes excitement or a tone of voice that differs from the usual pitch. It is meant to let people know that 'hey, this thing that's happening right now is being delivered to you with lots of feels and urgency'. This little guy is the 'strong emotion' symbol in the punctuation family and if left to its own devices, it will murder its siblings.

Less is more. Strong, declarative sentences from a character shouldn't have to have an exclamation point at the end of the sentence in order to indicate to the reader that someone is upset or excited. That should come from word choice or from the narration surrounding the sentence. Furthermore, exclamation points shouldn't be in the narration. The narrator is often times a third party that is omniscient. They don't need to become excited like the characters. It's weird. Don't do it. Exclamation points have their time and their place. They should not be used because the writer can't seem to convey in any other way, the characters feelings at any given moment.

Redwall suffers from the plague of exclamation. Every character seems to be yelling at each other in impassioned tones. Maybe that was a choice on the authors part. Maybe the idea of a small little mouse talking, deserved exclamation points because they had to talk louder when speaking to badgers or foxes. I don't know but I desperately am hoping that Brian Jacques didn't just throw a handful of exclamation confetti at his story because he thought it was a great way to make his dialogue more exciting or intense. Although, the idea of small creatures yelling at each other in constant excitement or anger is funny. Though, when I imagine a world where everyone always talked to each other in exclamation point sentences, it is not pretty. I think it would probably look something like this... except for the scary center part.

That is not to say the exclamation point didn't work in moments. One thing that I learned about Redwall is that it is over the top. Very over the top. So, when the main bad guy Cluny had to repeatedly announce his title to people as “I am Cluny the Scourge!”, I felt like the exclamation point was deserved. Cluny was kind of one of those bad guys that thought he was a lot more awesome than he actually was. The frequent reminders of his title to everyone he met, even people that are in his presence constantly, is a pretty good indication that the guys a dick who probably thinks he's a hit with the ladies and is what all little rats want to grow up to be. When the reality is, all the other rats are talking behind his back and making fun of him. No, this wasn't actually in the story but its the story I've decided to make up about him. Because really, I felt like most scenes with Cluny went like this:

Cluny: “I'm Cluny the Scourge!”

Any other character in the book: “What would you like for breakfast, Cluny?”

Cluny: “Cluny the Scourge does not order breakfast! People bring Cluny the Scourge breakfast without asking! I am Cluny the Scourge! You should know what I want! Cluny the Scourge does not ask! He simply receives!”

Other Character: “So cheese is fine, then?”

Cluny stabs other character: “That will teach you to ask questions of Cluny the Scourge! All others must see and fear me and my actions! Know that I will kill you because I enjoy it! Cluny the Scourge takes no prisoners!”

That's how I felt most of the story with the bad guy went. No motive other than he was a dick that obviously didn't get enough love from his mother as a baby rat. And yes, he often did seem to be a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Now, I want to make it clear, I didn't dislike this book. I just had some major issues with it. Yes, I'm aware its a children/young adult novel and there are a lot of people who are going to bring that to light as a counter argument. But you know what my counter argument to them is? Harry Potter is also a children's/young adult novel. So is the Hobbit, any of the Everworld series, The Outsiders and The Giver. You don't have to dumb down your book for children. They are much smarter than we want to give them credit for.

Now for the good things. I love the fact that there are no humans in this. I adore that the cast of characters are small little mice and squirrels and badgers, running around, trying to save what they love. Redwall has all the makings of a classic fantasy novel where the young and naïve main character has to rise to greatness in order to save the people and the land that he loves. It is a great introduction into a fantasy series (story wise) for people first starting to read. It holds unbelievable imagination and charm with its cast of talking little rodents and is very reminiscent of Wind in the Willows in that respect. There were parts that made me giggle simply because I got to imagine a tiny little field mice making declarative statements and holding a sword high in the air. It was fantastic. Plus, there was Silent Sam the squirrel who is quite possibly the most adorable thing in all of fiction.

I didn't particularly enjoy the story that was told but that was more to do with the fact that it is a very typical ABC story. In my mid twenties, I want something more out of my literature and the writing wasn't done well enough for me to enjoy reading a story that I've read a thousand times before. Redwall unfortunately suffers from having a storyline that is repeated throughout cinema and literature. But, I would again like to point out that this is a great introduction novel into the fantasy world in the respect that the story was good if you've not had much experience with this type of fantasy novel. The writing definitely left a lot to be desired, but if a child is struggling to get into reading, the story is probably more important than a good writing style. I don't feel like this tale holds up once you become an experienced reader, however, or if you are a beginning reader who enjoys a bit more than the surface value retelling of the hero's tale.

I'm afraid in the case of Redwall, nostalgia is what keeps it lasting. I wasn't a Redwall kid so much but I did read a few of them. I do plan on continuing on, at least through Mossflower because I do remember that when I read Redwall the first time around, I was pretty luke warm towards the story and characters.Mossflower was the one that gutted me.

Overall, I think Redwall is great for inexperience readers who are looking for an interesting fantasy to indulge in. For experienced readers, however (young children included), this might be a bit of a let down. Also, if you are an adult that loved this series as a kid, continue to love it. Don't go back and read it because like most things we re read when we're older, cringing may ensue.

To see what else I'm reading this month go to: http://papertales4u.blogspot.com/2013/07/july-book-reads.html

Like me on Facebook, follow me on Pinterest or Twitter, or send me a comment or message to let me know what you think!!!! (see what I did there?)

Travel Tuesday - Heceta Lighthouse, Ghosties and A Squirrel

The Oregon Coast

There is a place, covered by the mists of fog, where mermaids sing and dragons roam. In this place, the air is filled with salt that pixies feed off of as they dip down towards the oceans depths, gathering star fish to place in the night sky. Bent and beautiful looking creatures tear apart crumbling castles made of sand and sailors hear the sirens song as they try to navigate through the night.

Hook

Growing up in Oregon, I have always been surrounded by images that feed my hungry imagination. However, when I was younger, I tended to dream about adulthood whereas now, I dream of Neverland. One thing has not changed through the years, though. I have always had a fascination with the Oregon coast line. I remember when I was a little girl, I was always made to sit in the back seat during car journeys. In true Oregon fashion, the clouds would be thick and grey the moment we arrived at the beach and would threaten to release salty drops of rain without any warning. I loved this though. I loved looking out a rain spattered car window and watching the waves crash against the shore as we drove by. I loved the rocks that jutted from the water or the way that the air smelt crisp and fishy. During those moments, when no one talked and old

rock tunes wound their way through the car speakers, I used to look out over those rocks and think that if I could only see to the other side, I would catch a glimpse of a mermaid or some other little creature that we had yet to discover. These images came directly from watching way too much Hook as a kid and thinking that the scene with the mermaids swimming through those green waters was probably the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Of course, since those days, I have become a bit more dark with my fairy tales. The once simplistic beauty of a mermaid has become a bit more sinister as I imagine it luring wanderers to certain death. The pixies of my dreams have a bit more of a tricksters side than they once did and this magical land where you are said to be happy is only joyous as long as you don't ever want to return home.

"Fight! Fight for my master, defender of  the house-elves!"

The little hunched over goblin like creatures with hooked noses that I used to imagine climbed the rocks, are nice though. Goblins like that are always nice. Think, House elves. :) But of the none Kreacher variety.

Anyway....

I am not necessarily a fan of Oregon. I can acknowledge its beauty and think that the lush green trees and the rolling hills are sights to see, but I think there are much prettier things in this world than what I have around me. That being said, I have yet to see a coastline that tops that of Oregon's. So, yay on you Oregon. You've managed to convince a girl who doesn't really understand the hype that people give you, to love your coastline enough to make it the setting of the novel she's writing.

I visited the red rooftops of Heceta Lighthouse in Florence Oregon, over this past week. I am always struck by the color that those roofs produce in the gloom of the fog and the way that the light still shines brightly, cutting through the grey surroundings. Its something out of a painting. Now, Heceta is one of the only lighthouses I've visited but I keep coming back to it. It's said to have a haunted little history and one in which I love.

Legend has it that the caretakers of the lighthouse had a small girl. One day, while the girl was out playing, she passed away. As all good ghost stories go, we don't really question the details of how this girl died but at least this story does have a grave to back it up. After the child’s death, the mother became so distraught, that she threw herself over the cliffs edge, falling to her death. It is said that she still haunts the groundskeepers house though, looking for her child and waiting for her to come home. Locals have dubbed her the Grey Lady; a name that is all too fitting given the state of the weather most of the time.

Photo by Caitlyn Tendick
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

The Grey Lady has a certain penchant for construction workers it seems. In one of the more infamous stories, a man working on the groundskeepers cottage, came face to face with the Grey Lady inside the attic. Startled, he fled from the attic, breaking the attic window in the process. His fear became so much in fact, that he left the attic as is, leaving the shattered glass scattered across the attic floor as he fixed the broken window from the outside. That night, some of the guards heard scraping coming from the attic above. When they went to investigate the next morning, all the glass had been swept into a neat pile at some point during the night.

Needless to say, these workers didn't wish to return to work afterwards.

Items are said to be moved within this house, images of the Grey Lady herself are said to have been captured through the attic window as she stares mournfully out at sea, and sometimes, late at night, you can see her wandering around the bay, looking for her little girl.

Ghost stories aside, Heceta Lighthouse truly is a pretty lighthouse. It's one of the originals left in Oregon. Every time I see it up close, I tend to dance around the land, looking out over the sea, pretending to see ships coming over the horizon. These ships are of course pirate ships.

There is a lookout point not too far down the road from this lighthouse though where you can stare back at the structure and suddenly, the thoughts of ships and the excitement of being on the coast, disappear a bit. Here, standing off in the distance, is this beautiful column of white and red, looking out over the ocean, all alone. There's something so pretty about it. It's like when you look up at the stars for the first time when you're a little kid. Suddenly, you feel very very small.

Photo by Caitlyn Tendick
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

Heceta is of course one of the many things that the Oregon Coast has but in my opinion, it is one of the best. After hiking up to the lighthouse you only need to drive a bit further, crossing over a terrifying bridge (which my friend drove over about three or four times this trip because she kept getting terribly confused) to get to Mo's.

Photo by Caitlyn Tendick
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

Yes. Mo's.

It is the fish restaurant on the coast where you can sit and gorge yourself on actual fish as opposed to the cardboard imitations that you can find in your frozen food isle at the grocery store. It is also the place where every table has trivia cards with questions on it that barely anyone knows the answer to and your eyes are always bigger than your stomach. A garage door is opened during the nicer days of the summer in order to open up the restaurant even further. The story goes that after Mo's first opened, a woman had parked her car outside of the restaurant and instead of putting it in reverse when she meant to leave, she drove straight through the establishment. They decided to put a garage door in place of the wall after that, proving that the owner had a sense of humor that most in this world do not. To this day, that same garage door, remains.

You can eat at the original Mo's in Newport and across the street is a small little dock where the seals hang out. Unfortunately, you are reading this blog and cannot hear my marvelous seal impression but I'll have you know, it's kind of amazing.

Also, this is Otter Rock. 

Photo by Caitlyn Tendick
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97205176@N06/

Not to be confused with the actual area of the Oregon Coast called Otter Rock. No, this is my friend, who is very well fed, and who has no fear what so ever.

If you have not had the chance to visit the Oregon Coast, take it if the opportunity arises. If anything, look up some of the pictures that have been taken there over the years in order to get a sense of what I mean. 

Also, does anyone else have the horrid habit of having this scene pop in their mind when they're around a beach?

THE FEELS!!!!

If you would like to read more about Heceta or Mo's, click on the links below.

Heceta Head Lighthouse: http://ouroregoncoast.com/florence-guide/1404-the-gray-lady-at-heceta-head-lighthouse-an-oregon-coast-ghost-story.html

Mo's: http://www.moschowder.com/story.php

Like me on Facebook and message me if there is something you want to see me blog!  Also, if you are a fan of the scene above (which no one should be) go to my Pinterest page and check out the Nerd Love board.  You will not be disappointed. You can find the link on the right of your screen.