hang in there, baby

We all have those days where everything's out of sorts and you're out of sorts and everyone's out of sorts and the dishwasher's out of sorts and all you want to do is sleep the rest of the day or just watch Netflix. And it's those days that seem to stand out in your mind when you're living those days. It seems like good days could never happen again. It seems like your dreams fall down to the ground because either someone is making it seem impossible or your own laziness is making it seem impossible. Or perhaps it seems God don't care if you have big, beautiful dreams or not. And then, in the depths of those crushed dreams, you think you really don't care and that you'd rather go watch Netflix anyway.

But listen up. Those dreams of yours still matter and it's purely a lie if you claim that God Himself don't care about them. That He blows them off because He has something better in store. He still cares about what matters to you, whether He thinks they should come to pass or not. He still cares about those ideas and visions swirling in your pretty little mind. Just because you have a nasty day where everything's nasty (when even the hope of a comfort-food dinner is crushed)... it doesn't mean He's not still there and that your dreams don't matter.

hang in there, baby. things are crazy, but i know your future's bright. hang in there, baby. there's no maybe, everything turns out alright. sure, life is up and down, but trust me. it comes back around. you're gonna love who you turn out to be.


After a long moment of deep contemplation, I look up. "Hey, Bromley," I say casually, a smile on my face. "I'm glad you could join us."

He nods, a little gruffly, and sprawls in a chair. He looks quite the ruffian.

"I know you aren't who Jem thinks you are," I say slowly, almost patronizingly which seems to suit an author.

He looks alarmed. I see the danger glowering in his eyes, and I quickly change the subject. "Now, now, tell me what you know of your parents."

His knuckles clutch the arms of the wooden chair. I suppose I asked a wrong question. I try again, "Why do you risk your neck on causes that you know little about?"

He scrubs his chin. I think he seems slightly confused a moment before he says, as if reciting a well-remembered phrase, "I've nothing to live for; I've nothing to lose."

I wasn't newly inspired by that answer. I'd heard it already. "Why have you nothing to lose?" I press. "Explain yourself."

His face pulls a stubborn expression, and I groan inwardly. I've caught a peek into his soul, however, though he may not realize it. I gave him that stubborn nature, which in turn sends my creativity streak rolling. He is helping me more than he knows.

"Did you have any siblings?" I ask innocently.

He shifts. "A sister," he says, and I am surprised. His voice is thick, too, which sends my fingers trembling in excitement.

"A sister?" I probe.


"That won't do; Jem's sister's name is Katharine."

"That was her name."

I lean back in my chair. I suppose I can work with this. I need more, however, so I decide to keep him under interrogation for a moment longer. "Did you have any brothers?"

His eyebrows knit together.  "No," he says after a moment of hesitancy. "No brothers."

I know what he means, so I don't bother making him further uncomfortable. "Thank you, George Bromley," I say, tapping my pencil to my head. I smile at him. "You may go. For now."

And he vanishes from sight.

the difference between word and film

The controversy about whether books or movies are better sometimes puzzles me. I often feel as if I ought  to say that the book is better (writers are obligated to say that, you know), but honestly, there is nothing like the fiery thrill of emotions that comes with a good film.

A few weeks ago I realized something: books and movies are so very different that it really isn't fair to compare one to the other. (I do understand things like "the book was better" or "the movie was better," but keep reading as I explain myself.)

I noticed that reading an entire book takes much longer than watching an entire movie. This is because it takes several words to describe a single descriptive act or movement, while in a movie, that movement comes and goes in but a second or two. Therefore, while you may have to take ten seconds of your time to read and imagine how the tear slipped softly down her bitter-stained face, in three seconds you can see that happenstance; and the emotion it bores into you comes with much more force. After all, a baseball bat gently hitting your head doesn't leave as much impact as one coming toward you at twenty miles per hour.

Movies cram in so much emotion in such little time that it is no wonder this generation likes watching movies better than reading books. We like thrill. We like fast. We like action coming all at once. And I think this would also explain why more girls read than guys. Guys likes thrill and fast even better than girls, so when they must experience that thrill and emotion in a slower fashion, it doesn't have nearly the same affect as a movie. Besides, you must use your imagination for a book. Who'd want to take the time to do that?

But books have a certain way of sinking deeper into our hearts than a movie. It stays with you longer. After all, watching a gleaming car speed by at fifty miles an hour doesn't give you quite a clear picture of itself, nor does it give you enough time to fully implant that picture in your mind. Such is with books versus movies. Movies come at you faster and with more impact, but it doesn't leave you chewing on the information you just gained and it doesn't allow it to sink as far and as deeply into your thoughts.

So perhaps this isn't a matter of whether books or movies are better. Perhaps it's about which you prefer. Though, to throw in a personal thought, I think it'd be healthy to get yo'self a good dose of both.

chatterbox | the spanish italian

"He's Spanish, isn't he?" Chet whispered to me, his tousled hair standing up on end.

"Why would a Spanish guy be in Italy?" I whispered back, scrubbing the washcloth over my sunburnt face. That Italian sun worked wonders on the skin.

"Genevieve, he's probably on vacation like us," my best friend replied, tossing his head in his obnoxiously cocky way. "Maybe he's a Spanish chef who is opening an Italian restaurant in a little town in Spain."

"Maybe he's a Spanish spy who plans to destroy all of Italy for his own personal gain," I offered, lifting my hand. I dropped the washcloth on the sidewalk accidentally, and Chet reached to pick it up.

"Maybe," he said warily, clutching the washcloth in his fingertips as his eyes roved the short man several yards away. "Maybe he is really a well-known musician in his country, and he is trying to escape his fans."

"Or maybe," I shot back, yanking the cloth from his hand and slapping it on my cheeks. "Maybe he's a well-known Spanish convict, and he is trying to escape the authorities." I winced suddenly, realizing that sunburns and scratchy washcloths really did not go very well together. I dropped it on the tiny table between us and kicked up my feet.

"He's probably just a tourist," Chet replied. He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Just like us."

"Yeah," I said. "Maybe." I studied the Spanish man again a moment. "Or maybe he's really a prince of Spain and came to declare war on the Italians. Maybe we'll be the heroes who stop him."

Chet slurped his slurpie before saying, "Eh, he's probably a Spanish trader coming to study the trade of baking."

"Nah, he's probably a Spanish pirate searching for Italian gold buried," I gestured toward the fruit stand the man stood by, "beneath that stand of fruit two hundred years ago."

"Or maybe his girlfriend ran away before he had a chance to propose, and he is looking for her." Chet nodded his head, and a breeze gushed through, loosening a few wisps of hair that were tied back in my messy bun.

"That's sappy," I said. "He's probably a Spanish fisherman come to the luscious vineyards of Italy because he's tired of fish."

We watched as suddenly a companion joined the Spanish man, and they both began walking our direction. We held our breaths, and I felt Chet suddenly reach out and touch my arm protectively. Then the two men were walking past, speaking rapidly in Italian.

"You know," Chet said, pointing a straw at me. "I think he's not even Spanish."

"Maybe," I said. But I still believed he was.

advice from me

1 :: Don't walk all the way up to the pool in the heat unless you know that you know that it's open.

2 :: Watch Hannah Montana on Tuesdays.

3 :: Don't feel bad that you can't prove your life is as cool as everyone else's because you don't have an Instagram.

4 :: Crack your phone at a best friend's pool because you'll feel better than if you crack it at your own pool.

5 :: Don't chew on hangnails because then your hands will look ugly.

6 :: Go Gluten-free when you feel like it.

7 :: Pray even if you don't feel like it. God wants to hear from you.

8 :: Remember you're still beautiful even on the worst hair-and-face days.

9 :: Read lighthearted books in the summertime (and in the autumntime, wintertime, and springtime).

10 :: Wiggle your toes for fun. Then slurp your ice cream.

basically, it's okay to love life.

ten million fireflies

i'm weird 'cause i hate goodbyes
i got misty eyes as they said farewell
but i'll know where several are
if my dreams get real bizarre
'cause i saved a few and i keep them in a jar.
- owl city, fireflies

"This is the story of how a girl named Kitty fell in love with chocolate."

That's how Sensical Nonsense  starts. And precisely two or three days ago, I typed the last word of that darling novella. I love it to itty bitty bits. Therefore, you can imagine the sadness in finishing it. However, on one good note, this is a post full of Sensical Nonsense  nonsense, so you may bury yourself in it to your heart's content.

And after all, the ending of a story is never the end. Who knows what lies around the next bend?


i'd like to make myself believe
 that planet earth turns slowly
it's hard to say that i'd rather stay awake when i'm asleep
because my dreams are bursting at the seams.
- owl city, fireflies