Why not?

I've been in an extremely philosophical mood lately (which may or may not have been spurred by reading a dozen or so Diana Wynne Jones quotes on Brainyquotes.com) and I've stumbled upon this funny idea: writing style.
This is a little different from Voice. Voice is word choice and sentence structure and unique preferences to certain literary tricks, but the sort of style I'm thinking of is less of HOW you write and more of WHY.

Nor am I trying to get super scholarly on the deep message behind writing and the effect it has on our souls. This is more in reference to why you REALLY write. I mean sure, the theme inside my current novel is to teach girls what a healthy romantic relationship should really be about (and why my book is so much better than Twilight) but that's not why I'm a writer.
Why do I write? This is question that we should all ask ourselves, and in my opinion the answer should a mere few words that are totally nonspecific and unshackled. For instance, maybe you're particular writing style is simply: "Why?" or the more daring "Why not?"
Perhaps you're the daydreaming "What if?" or the challenging "What if not?"
On the other hand--and there is no shame in this--you might be a constructive "Because..." or you might be the spontaneous "Just Because!"

Answering this question may very well unlock parts of your inner-self to your outer-self that will equally open up your writing. Understanding what kind of writer you are makes the writing process that much the simpler--and the more enjoyable!

My answer, I think, is "Ooh! Look!"
Ever surprised, ever fascinated, ever optimistic: I write to make people look at the world in a different way. The day I discovered this reopened my imagination and put my writing on a whole different level. It has become who I am and what I do, and not just as a writer.

So what's your answer?

Cursed

I am cursed. Some days I think it was sheer happenstance that the curse landed upon me. It is always on my mind; I cannot escape it. It is always there, lurking, waiting to tear me apart with its cruel, gaping jaws before going dormant again: but never gone, never gone.

At times when I feel at peace with the world, I think that the curse is no big deal, that I can live with it. Other days I want to curse it back, scream and black its eyes. Often I feel alone: just me and the curse.

I would never wish this curse on anyone else. But, of course, I am not its only victim. My own brother has recently been covered in the curse's shadow. And how did he react? He didn't. The curse is cunning: it creeps upon you slowly, not attacking you until it is too late. One day, though, my brother will know the true nature of the beast. When that time comes, he too will want to curse the curse, to scream and black its eyes. But, when he's done rebelling and is ready to cry, he won't be alone. He'll have me.

I am cursed. Now I think that it is not coincidence that I was cursed first. As my brother lives under the curse's shadow, I will be there to walk with him, give him a leg up, and carry him when he falls. When we are cursed together, it's not so much of a curse after all.

Plot: an Oratory

Hi. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a teenager. Ands I’m the kind of person that places a little too much on stereotypes and a little too much on what other people think and maybe not enough on my grades. But that’s not what this Oratory is about, that’s what everyone else’s about. Anyways, I, being an ignoramus teenager, got in a fight with my parents. Everyone else is doing it, you know. It’s such a reliable cliche’. I stormed into my room, I slammed the door, I dented my globe, and, in my rage, I broke my glasses. I went blind. After resolving with my parents, I had to get the spare pair, which I hated. I liked my old glasses, I liked how they were covered with stains, I liked how they fell off my face when I moved too fast or looked down. This spare pair over focused everything, it made things seem way too concave, and and it made me feel just uncomfortable.

The title of this speech is one word: Plot.

There are two ways we humans learn. The first is experience. Don’t touch the fire, it burns, don’t jump on unstable surfaces, and don’t be a jerk to your friends or you won’t have any. The major flaw with this line of reasoning is that if everybody learned by experience we’d all be dead. So the second way to learn is through other people’s experiences, or in other words, through storytelling. We one of the few races of animals that do this. Terry Pratchett puts it this way: “Humans need fantasy to be human, to be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape. You have to start learning to believe the little lies, so we can believe the big ones like Justice or Mercy, Duty, that sort of thing.” Through storytelling, we teach ourselves the code to life. We tell ourselves that there are heights to reach, there is a sky to look up to, and each of us has a potential. And in the end, if there’s one thing we can learn from ourselves, it’s Hope.

Act One:

“In the beginning, God made the heavens and the earth.”
Genesis 1:1

Every fictional universe has basic, axiomatic elements without which the story could not even begin to happen. For Harry Potter to defeat Voldemort, we have to assume Magic is possible. For Frodo to destroy the One Ring, we have to assume that the fire will destroy it. For Pokemon to work, we have to have faith that we really CAN catch them all. But we also have to give in to a semblance of destiny - whether we realize it or not. Harry Potter WILL defeat Voldemort, otherwise the universe just isn’t working right.

This is the theory of narrative causality. If you didn’t catch the title of my essay, it’s one word - Plot. Causality is why the plot moves the way it does. It’s why the events of the story are shaped the way they are. And yet.. in the words of Tom King, novelist, “The truth about stories is that’s all we are.” So how does Narratology work in our lives? The beautiful thing about life is that we live from moment to moment. There is always a place to go, a job to fulfill. The lesson we should take from Narrative Causality is that good always wins in the end. Like, certain Christians know that God will triumph over Satan in the last days, that the faithful saints are always, always guaranteed a place in heaven. People need happy endings or there just isn’t a point. And if there is no point, there is no existence. If there’s one thing you learn from reading fiction, it’s that everything resolves and good always wins in the end.

Act Two:

“Speak not in the ears of a fool, for he will despise the wisdom in thy words”
Proverbs 23:9

Characters. Characters are the window into the story, the anchor to the plot. As defined as the plot is in a book, it still always begins with “Now what would THIS kind of person do in THIS situation?”. Now, why do our heroes always seem to be an “ordinary high school student” or “small town hero”? You’ve probably heard this line before, but we need something we can relate to. In fact, to a writer the best part about a person in a book is their flaws. If someone in a book is starts the story being absolutely perfect, they are not the main character. They have to begin where you and I begin, so that we can see how to grow. Without a flaw, or a way to improve, there is no story. The exception is the Bible, and well, that’s the point, isn’t it? The idea is, We need a real person in our stories, or it isn’t real. But if everybody is flawed, what is the difference between the “good guys” and the “bad guys”? I think the answer is that a good person is someone who wants to get better.

Case study: Aesop’s Fables. Every single one of them involves a character with a flaw, a flaw to challenge, a flaw to overcome. The animals in the story are personifications of how humans think - the clever fox, the proud lion, the gullible chickens. And the reason Aesop is one of my favorite storytellers is that he not only entertains, but effectively and shamelessly enlightens us. The fables have become solid proof of the value of virtues like patience, or honor. And so, the hero is someone who always strives for his redemption. A hero is someone who realizes the best end to the means is the honest way. Because characters in stories may be fictional, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. They are us. This is the key to having a good attitude. Think about it. In fiction when we paint our selves, we see them succeed. All throughout history, people have gone from the lowest of the low to the highest of glory by the principle of resolve. Do the heroes in a story back down? No! Do they go through trials? Yes. And if there’s one thing that we learn from reading fiction, it’s that every one of us can achieve something.

Act Three:

“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path”
Psalm 119:105

Throughout the speech, I’ve been giving biblical quotes. I don’t really care what religion you are. But the Bible is one of the most influential pieces of literature - arguably the most - in the history of mankind. The scriptures we treat as holy are in fact some of the most incredibly, undeniably human collection of stories I’ve ever seen. Beginning with the Old Testament, we have, much like Aesop, the stories of people who have very specific flaws to overcome.

So while the Old Testament is instructive in its morals, obedience can only get us so far. That’s why we have to New Testament, then - because it gives us the Perfect Example: and he is the Christ. If you find biblical things “just a fantasy”, then I hope you never forget just how powerful fantasy can be. Amazingly, the story of Christ isn’t about how he is so far beyond our reach but that he is within it, that there is bit of him inside everyone of us. In the pages of scripture we have the account of a man who stared down temptation, pain, and ultimately Death to come out victor. This is the story of a man who on the cross looked to the sky and said “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do”. Fictional or not, his perfect example inspired the the American Revolution, gave inspiration to men like Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., and continually gives light to those in darkness.

This is what saved my life. Because when I was angry, angry at my parents, angry at the world, and ultimately angry at myself, I wondered if life was worth it. I thought that if I died, maybe I’d be missed, but in the end I would just be another sad story, content to be an uncomfortable spot of gloom people remember but avoid thinking about. But...

“Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see!”

I found a Bible in my room. (checklist: angry at parents, angry at world, angry at me... oh, I DID forget to check off God.) I don’t care if it’s a fantasy. I don’t care if you think it’s a fantasy. I don’t care because this shows us just how powerful the stories in our lives can be. “Being Christlike”, as intangible as the subject may be, became a tangible goal. The point of this speech is not “read the bible” rather, take away from this “READ!”. Because ultimately, “Humans need fantasy to be human, to be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.” And if there’s one thing that reading fiction can teach us, it’s Hope.

a flash too bright to see

So I decided to actually look up a Villanelle - a beautiful poem format, in my opinion - and I wrote one. It took a few minutes, I'll grant you that. I think it's about WWII, or at least, civilian bombings. Have that in your head as you read this. I probably should've posted this on the Workstation, it needs some help, but what the hey.

Falling, they speak to me
Black snowflakes flood in white
That flash, too bright to see

The only way they could be free
The only goal near in sight
Falling, they speak to me

A shriek, a metallic plea
Raiding towns in dead of night
That flash, too bright to see

Crouching on a single knee
They're worried about who is right
Falling, they speak to me

The Pilots missed a single tree
Until at last, another light-
That flash, too bright to see

It fell, to no longer be
A belief that once was trite
Falling, they speak to me
That flash, too bright to see.

BYU Writing Contest

Everyone in Writer's Club is good enough to do this, even though I don't guarantee winning. Deadline is Jan. 31... enjoy! http://english.byu.edu/contests

Blackened Eyes

Eugh, all my poems end up seeming so depressing.

Don't leave me behind, December
Don't end beyond my reach
Don't miss the wish you wanted
Or forget any lessons you teach

Tapping out silent rythms
On the other side of the state
The only way I know to find you
Is after I find it's to late

The bruises and blackened eyes
Reddened with fights we've won
And the signs the good is fading
Are missing when our time is done

And the death of the innocent artist
And the birth of a psychotic rant
And the life of a long lost lover
And the skeptics who said we can't

Don't leave me behind, remember
Don't fade in the curtain call
Don't hide behind hours and days
Before the time will come for us all

And the end of a created wonder
And the start of a God of the rose
And the spark on a trail of powder
And the fire at the end of the shows

Indian Chant Song

So, this was for History class, but I'm sort of proud of it, so I thought, since we've all died slow, painless, literary deaths, that I'd post this like some sort of pulse--like a sleeping bear during hibernation, whose heart only beats eight times a minute; its alive, but only just. We are a hibernating bear, at least ciber-speaking. This is to prove we are not dead. Yet.

Fire Demons

Like fire, came White Man
Like fire, came White Man
Like embers under White ashes
Came the White Man years ago

He came small and weak,
Like wind blow could him out
As we tried to blow him out
He only grew bigger

Now he is big,
And consumes everything
Like fire in the grass
Fire that does not spare

With Demon Fire
He burns even great stone.
Like angry thunder
He burns through mountains

He flies in Fire Demons
It screams and roars
On a trail of bones
That scars our lands

The Fire Demons bring him
In their bellies of smoke
Like the smoke in his pipe
That burns the sky

With Fire demons,
Come stranger White Men
From many different lands
They, too, were burned

But they do not flee the fire,
But become the fire
They burn as they were burned
And they will not be quenched

White Man spreads across the plains
Like fire in the wind
His spotted cows
Burn the ground they eat

The spotted cow,
As fiery as the Man
That chases them,
Consume the Buffalo grass

White Man must always eat to burn
So He kills every Buffalo,
Thunderous, he fires
And leaves to smolder

The Buffalo have fled
As they would great fire
And we now flee
As if from great fire

Now all is black
Charred and black
The White Man has nothing
More to burn

White Man is fire
We are the ashes
That are blown by wind
Away to new lands