Makeup and Other Stuff to Do with Evil Enchantresses

I’d tell you what she’s doing, but then I’d have to kill you.

Actually, that’s a lie. (And besides, I’m rather tired of killing people.) This is a bit of concept art I’ve done for the faerie-tale I’m working on. And since it’s just concept art, it’s not an actual illustration and therefore gives away just about nothing.

Which means that I can tell you what she’s doing: holding a spindle. Basically every person who has seen this has asked what on earth she’s holding. I would be irritated—except that I actually had to look up what a spindle looked like myself before I sketched this picture. Which is highly embarrassing, since a spindle has been a pivotal symbol in my story for years now.

In any case, she’s the wicked witch, the bad guy of my story, and below are some detail shots:

From a technical standpoint, I uplit her face a bit. Not completely, because I got impatient and didn’t want to spend more hours blocking out all of her face, her shoulder, her arm, and her hand. But I did add a hint of uplighting, with those shadows on her cheeks, her nose, the curve of her shoulder, and so on, in attempt to add a touch of wildness, even a trace of a nightmare.

And on that nightmarish vein, I shrank her pupils to very tiny points of blackness in very light eyes. That’s because years ago, for a play my dad was in, he wore white contacts. I mean, contacts that whited out his entire eyes except for his pupils. The results were the scariest two eyes I have ever seen in my life. (My dad was playing somebody frightening, to say the least. And he did a fantastic job.) Anyways, though I haven’t ever actually used all-white eyes like that, since then I’ve kept it in mind that small dark pupils, plus as much light/white space as possible, tend to look wilder than darker eyes with bigger pupils (which, in turn, tend to look softer).

Technically, as far as the story goes, the bad girl in my drawing isn’t exactly wearing makeup, but as a sometimes-partly-kind-of-cosmetic-artist, I did specifically pay attention to the makeup she’s wearing, especially around her eyes. As you can see above, she’s wearing thick eyeliner sweeping out in “wings” at the corners of her eyes. That I did first, afterwards moving into the medium-tint “eyeshadow” covering her upper eyelids and then the dark-tint “eyeshadow” in the creases of her eyelids. Finally, I went back with a darker pencil and added her eyelashes with mascara in mind. She’s also wearing very dark “lipstick.”

And final note, I just used pencils I found scrounging around the house. Actually I convinced my nine-year-old brother to let me use one of his pencils because I couldn’t find mine. But that’s another embarrassing situation.

Anyway, that’s a little discussion on my personal wicked witch.

*insert villainous laugh here*

in defense of fiction

Sometimes my friends tell me they can’t see the point of fiction. I understand. Like, freaking out obsessing over made-up stories. Feeling like a piece of your heart has been forever crushed when a pet character dies. Getting ticked off when someone disses your favorite author. Sometimes it gets a little odd, to say the least.

But while I’d say fiction in general is a cause worthy of a massive vindication put forth by minds far greater than mine, at least I can offer a few words in its defense. (Maybe in many years when I grow up I’ll write a dissertation a little more suited to the topic.)

As Sir Francis Bacon said, “Truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it plausible.” Good fiction functions as both a window offering a view of the world and a mirror showing us (sometimes unnerving) images of ourselves. In other words, it shows us truth more clearly than we could otherwise see. Case in point. I hate that in Narnia-speak, I’m a Susan. Easily distracted by superficiality, quickly intoxicated with cheap pleasures, all too eager to turn from childlike faith and truth. I’d love to say I’m a Lucy or even an Edmund (traitor turned hero—love the character arc), but I’m not. I’m a Susan trying to be a Lucy, and that’s a scary thing. But it’s also the truth, and it’s something I wouldn’t know as clearly about myself, and therefore wouldn’t have had as fair a shot at changing, if I hadn’t gotten to know a fictional talking lion. That’s the mirror-side of fiction. If this were a balanced paper, I’d also include an example of the window-side of fiction. But this isn’t a paper. It’s a blog post, and I’m running out of room. Anyway, back to the point of fiction showing truth—“After all,” J.R.R. Tolkien said, “I believe that legends and myths are largely made of ‘truth,’ and indeed present aspects of it that can only be received in this mode; and long ago certain truths and modes of this kind were discovered and must always reappear.”

 In further defense of fiction, imagination (fiction’s brainchild, even while fiction itself is also the brainchild of imagination) is arguably the life force of the world. Albert Einstein said, “Knowledge isn’t important; imagination is.” If the genius who developed the theory of relativity can bank everything on imagination over knowledge without shame, so can I. Even Napoleon Bonaparte—not exactly a name that comes quickly to mind at the mention of imagination—said, “Imagination rules the world.” What fosters imagination? Fiction. And then imagination goes on to foster more fiction, and then fiction fosters more imagination, and then you’ve got this whole messy chicken-egg situation and it’s not really clear which came first. But you can’t have one without the other.

Finally, fiction is walking in the footsteps of the greatest Storyteller, an attempt at thinking his thoughts after him. In fact, storytelling—the act of creating, loving, believing in, mourning over worlds—is mimicking at its finest. We are living, I believe, what Tolkien called “the greatest Fairy Story,” and the stories we write and read and watch and love are all echoes of the truth. I can’t say it as beautifully as Tolkien did:

We have come from God, and inevitably the myths woven by us, though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed only by myth-making, only by becoming ‘sub-creator’ and inventing stories, can Man aspire to the state of perfection that he knew before the Fall. Our myths may be misguided, but they steer however shakily towards the true harbour, while materialistic ‘progress’ leads only to a yawning abyss and the Iron Crown of the power of evil.

So when Katniss volunteers herself in Prim’s place, I’ll let myself cry because I see more clearly my relationship with my own little sister, and what I want it to be. I see sacrifice at its grittiest, love in the darkest place. When Bilbo mans up and plunges into his worst nightmare—an adventure—I’ll let myself take heart because though I’m not nearly as brave as I’d like to think, in this I see that I can be courageous too. There’s hope for hobbits-in-disguise like me; maybe I can dare to hope that I might save someone’s life. When Jane stands up to Rochester, I’ll let myself be inspired because I see a reflection of the woman I wish I were and want to be.

And when Percy Jackson uncaps Riptide, I’ll uncap my own “lethal ballpoint pen,” which in my case most often equals rattling words into a word processor. I’ll do my best to stand, albeit shakily, on the shoulders of giants and reach as high as I can for the stars. And by that, I mean I’ll write my own fictions too. But that’s getting into a whole different topic, and this post is already too long.

So yeah. Stories, books, heroes, villains, fandoms, coffee and stuff. Fiction. 

I murdered my grandmother this morning.

FDR was sick to death of formalities. Life as the thirty-second President of the United States could be intense, but it could also be simply annoying. Take those insanely long receiving lines he had to endure at the White House. Hundreds of people, big dogs from all over the world, lined up to shake his hand. Meeting the President of the United States.

And nobody ever listened to what he said.

Formalities, formalities, formalities. Of the hundreds of people waiting to meet him, the President was sure not one person actually heard the few words he spoke during each greeting. Like I said, the poor guy was sick of it.

Until, however, he came up with a genius plan. At one of the formal White House events involving a long and tedious receiving line, President Roosevelt decided to change up his receiving approach. He’d still shake each person’s hand and smile politely, but instead of his typical hello-yes-welcome comment, he’d very courteously say each time, “I murdered my grandmother this morning.” I mean, that’s one way to find out if somebody’s listening or not.

I can just see his face as he thought it all over.

Well, the event began. FDR started shaking hands and calmly telling the visiting ambassadors he’d murdered his grandmother that morning. And just as he’d suspected, his guests replied, “Thank you. Well done, Mr. President. God bless you, sir.”

At last, near the end of the line, the ambassador from Bolivia approached. Upon hearing the President’s comment, the ambassador leaned forward and whispered, “I’m sure she had it coming to her.”

It’s just an urban legend, but I love it. You can Google the story and decide for yourself if you think it’s true or not; I’ve done a bit of research and haven’t found a way to either prove or disprove it. All I know is FDR had some serious spunk, and I don’t doubt that if he thought of it, he’d have done it. (I’m sitting at my desk to write this, but I’m tempted to give him a posthumous standing ovation for the story above.)

Either way, I opened this blog with that particular narrative because I think I see a parallel here somewhere, even though I can’t quite figure out where it is exactly. I’m launching one more blog out into the universe. Everybody’s got a blog. Is anybody listening?

Well, for what it’s worth, I murdered my grandmother this morning.

And that’s about it for now, except to clarify that this isn’t a properly new blog. It’s actually an old blog that I’m re-launching, and posts below are from when this was a non-fiction class blog assignment. In some cases, it’s as if a different Randi wrote them. For the record.

And last note, what to expect from this blog now that it’s launched again: basically geekism in the extreme. Writing discoveries, probably; snippets of practice fiction; perhaps book reviews; fangirl reactions to events in various parallel universes, the like.

That’s all for now. Cheers!

No grandmothers were harmed in the making of this blog post.

I will pass the moon.

Promises to ninety-one-year-olds are scary things.

“Y’all come back,” Betty pleaded with me for the hundredth time.

She’d made us promise to do so dozens of times by now, me and my five cast mates. We’d come to visit the nursing home where she lived to get in touch with senior citizens because four of us are grandparents in our upcoming play, Over the River and Through the Woods. Once again, I smiled and repeated our promise to come back to visit.

But then she looked at me, her ninety-one-year-old eyes deeply troubled, and added something else. Something that had been bothering her, nagging at her, forcing her to beg us over and over to promise to come back. “Some people come and leave their son or daughter here. And they never come back.”

I smiled as I replied, “We won’t be those people. We’ll come back.”

Inside, though, I was caught off guard, suddenly sobered by the haunting desperation in her voice and eyes.

Okay, remember my “Diapers. Legos. Destiny.” post? I know all you multitudes of rabid followers of my blog are following with every fiber of your strength and eagerly keeping track of every single post, but just in case… That was the one about how yesterday, I was tiny, helpless, toddler-age Jaelyn. And tomorrow, Jaelyn will be newly-grown-up me.

Well today, I have had an equally staggering revelation.

Yesterday, Betty was me.

Tomorrow, will I be Betty?

Just a snap of the fingers back in time, and Betty was barely nineteen—on the threshold of adulthood, overwhelmed with the immensity of life and all its brilliant promise and anticipation. Where I am this instant. Where Jaelyn will be the next.

And now, her nineteen has turned inside-out and become ninety-one, and she’s no longer on the same threshold. She’s come full circle.

I don’t have long to be nineteen.

Today is already almost tomorrow.

I vividly remember sitting in the car as a six-year-old with the knowledge that at eleven years old, I would need to get certain medical shots. I hated shots.

But that’s okay, I thought with relief. I will never be eleven.

Guess what. Eleven came and went so fast that I’m still kind of freaking out about it. And every single year, month, day, hour moves progressively faster, or at least seems to. When I look at somebody like Betty and think, But that’s okay—I will never be ninety-one, I am suddenly overwhelmed. Talk about a freaky déjà vu. Because I was so wrong when I thought that about eleven, and I know I’m even more wrong to think it about ninety-one.

I will never be ninety-one? Swell, Randi.

Try I will never be nineteen—ever again.

This is my one shot.

I only have one chance.

If I blink, I’ll miss it.

I’m not going to miss it. I’m not going to blink. I’m going to aim my one shot at life with everything in me at the bull’s-eye, and I’m going to hit it.

I’m going to shoot for the moon. And you know those cute little journals and inspirational cards that say, “Don’t be afraid to shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars”? Well, as a good friend of mine taught me to think, if I shoot for the moon, I’m dang getting the moon. Or even further—as my cousin would say, not if but when I shoot for the moon, I’m passing it.

Big claims, I know. But if I don’t make those claims now, if I don’t seize the day now, I won’t stand a chance. And ninety-one will find me dazed, befuddled, and not prepared. I don’t mean to be arrogant; I mean to live. Really live.

Catch me when I’m ninety-one. Let’s both find out how this story ends.

When Nature Gets Dicey

“Did you see the sunset this morning?” my friend asked at lunch today.

We laughed very hard.

So this blog has to be about nature. Not hard—I love nature. I love sunsets (when they come in the evening); I love wind in trees; I love playing rivers. But the thing is, I don’t really just love to be alone and think quietly in nature. That kind of thing is wonderful, and I do it sometimes, but mostly I love nature because of the adventure it holds. And most definitely adventure with people. Sorry, Henry David Thoreau. No Walden for me, thank you!

Take lakes, for example. Sure, I could sit on the shore of a lake with the dewy grass underneath me and the breeze lifting the ends of my hair, and I could look out at the sun setting in liquid fire at the edge of the water. And that would be nice.

Or—I could climb into a bobbing three-seated inner tube on that lake and intertwine arms with two fellow adventurers, gripping the rough handles with everything in me as adrenalin floods my veins and the boat begins to tow us. I could let the wild spray of the lake rush against me as I fought a war against the raging water to stay on that tube. I’d launch into the air and come thudding back down onto the water’s rough surface; I’d be whipped in great flinging curves that suck, suck, suck to pull me off. Meanwhile, I’d be laughing and screaming and clenching my teeth with my companion fighters. And in the end, I’d be ripped from the tube and crash down against the water, tumbling over myself multiple times with my velocity before finally dropping beneath the water’s surface.

Afterward, I’d be sore and sunburned and shaky and yes, even bleeding. And happy—oh, so happy.

Yeah, I choose Option 2.

Moonlit rivers, whistling graveyards, chalky ravines, rushing whitewater—it’s hard for me to get away from remembering that some of the happiest moments of my life have come to me during adventures through nature with close friends. Some have been simply pleasant, and some have been frighteningly thrilling (that graveyard I mentioned? Oh, yes). Some have scarred me for life. Yes, that’s a joke…I have scars on my arm from one traipse down a river in particular.

And that’s all I have to say on this subject for the moment.

The Nasty Side of Blogging

What they don’t tell you about blogging is the battle behind it. I’m talking about the gut-wrenching, heart-pounding, nail-biting inner battle that rages inside you every time it comes time to post. You think I’m joking. I’m not.

Tell me this isn’t traumatic: in exactly thirty minutes is midnight, the deadline for your class-assigned blog post. You have 1,800 seconds (give or take) until a piece of you, a representation of your skills as a writer, a sample of any potential you hope you have—or lack thereof—will be smeared over the internet for the world to see. Yeah, you just tell me that’s not terrifying.

Your friends know your blog site. Your Facebook friends know your blog site. The entire planet can find your blog site. And in now twenty-five minutes, you will be made vulnerable on your blog site. You won’t be able to hide from anybody.

 You sit in a drama rehearsal, looking at the clock anxiously. Who can focus on a drama rehearsal when there’s a blog due in twenty-one minutes? And the topic—oh, how the topic pressures you. Oh, this isn’t any ordinary blog; it’s a requirement for one of your classes, and it’s got to comply with a weekly topic. So—get this—you have to earn credit for the class and desperately try not to look lamer than a clod of moon dirt to your friends. Possible? The jury’s still out.

You start to sweat in that drama rehearsal as your mind takes you scary places… Say you publish a stupid blog. Somebody reads your stupid blog. Not only do they never read your blog again; they also turn up their nose when your wannabe-writer self finally breaks into the business and publishes a book. But worse, they come across your future book while meandering through Barnes & Noble with a friend, and they tell the friend they know you, the author of this book—and they tell the friend they don’t want to buy the book. So then the friend refrains from buying the book and tells another friend not to buy the book. And then the other friend tells another friend who tells another friend who tells another friend who tells another friend. And your book barely sells because nobody wants to buy it. And then your publisher refuses to take another manuscript because your sales record is so bad. So then you never get a chance to become a #1 New York Times Bestseller.

All because of the stupid blog you published.

If that’s not pressure, I don’t know what is. Man alive, the freaky part about blogging is the part they don’t tell you about—the war you fight to blog without crushing your delicate future career.

And then the clock chimes midnight. Heartbeat hammering inside your chest, you close your eyes, suck in your breath, bring your arrow over the fateful button, and PUBLISH POST.

Once My Name Was Iron Woman

Iron Woman. That’s what my family used to call me. (Incredibly sweet and feminine nickname, I know.) I was Iron Woman because after fighting strep throat a whopping nine times in kindergarten, I never got sick again. It was as if my immune system had fought a death-struggle with any illness above the little nuisance of the common cold—and had won. When the stomach flu—or anything else—raked my house and literally up to all six of my family members fell prey to its mayhem, I’d stand tall and healthy.

“Wash your hands!” people would warn when the wind changed and sick season came around.

Oh, sure, I’d wash them, but I’d laugh inside as I did so. I wasn’t getting sick, and I knew it.

Alas for Iron Woman.

One year, the stomach flu (one illness in particular that delighted in plaguing our house year after year) apparently got fed up with my iron-like qualities. It knew my masterful white blood cells had raised me above its villainous reach, and it hated me for that. Unfortunately for poor stomach flu, there was nothing it could do about me.

Or so I thought.

After sweeping through my family with full force, the stomach flu left that year in a rage. As usual, I’d scoffed in its face, washed my hands before eating, and remained agonizingly healthy. Everything was entirely, hopelessly normal.

Such was the sob story the stomach flu tattled to its big bad brother, the flu. Yeah, you read that right. I mean the flu. No twenty-four- or seventy-two-hour vomiting mess here—think bubonic plague. Black Death. Influenza. It’s not a pretty thought.

Unfortunately for me, influenza took up the case of his poor little stomach flu brother and set out to get me. When I came home one Monday afternoon in November of my eighth grade, I began to feel odd. I imagined I was restless. In reality, I was meeting influenza while the stomach flu watched and laughed.

I remember irritably flopping my history book on the floor that day, unable to focus. My head felt hot. What do you know, I discovered that I was running a fever. Not a bad one, but a fever.

Foolish Iron Woman…it was so unusual for me to actually be sick that I was happy at first. After all, a little fever for one afternoon can be worth the pampering it comes with, if you’re in the eighth grade.

But the next morning, I was still sick. Now this was strange. In fact, I wasn’t just still sick; I was worse. To my own astonishment, I quickly sank onto the sofa in the living room and did not get back up. I didn’t eat (and for stocky little me, that was a huge deal). I could hardly think.

Rapidly, life turned into a nightmare as the flu wreaked havoc in my body. In the mornings, I would hobble out in my pajamas to the sofa to escape my dim room. Then, literally, I would languish on that couch all day long, growing weaker by the minute. Sometimes I lay limp. Sometimes I writhed. My fever skyrocketed to peak at times at over 104°. I’d eat almost nothing all day, knowing I was weakening but unable to strengthen myself, miserable in mind and in body.

Days passed. A week. Nothing got better.

By the time the week mark passed, I had pretty much made the record for the sickest ever in my family, at least among my siblings. Meanwhile, they quietly carried on their lives around me.

Healthy.

The stomach flu laughed harder.

And yet my war with influenza was far from over; a second week of couch-ridden agony stretched out before the nightmare finally began to fade. Even when those two dreadful weeks were over, though, I could hardly function.

A monstrous two weeks behind in school, I tried that third week to begin to catch up. Fail. Though at last the flu had released me from its talons, my recovery was excruciatingly slow and almost as miserable as the two-week-solid illness.

By the end of the third week, I was at last a bit more of my old self—and I do mean a bit. I was very nearly literally half the girl I once was. My body had changed from vaguely resembling a marshmallow to the spitting image of a string bean in a scant three weeks. Almost overnight, my appearance was completely different. I could almost go swimming in my jeans. Though I would go on to gain back a healthy portion of my prior weight, I would never be the same again.

The next year, when the stomach flu washed over our family, I still washed my hands. I still didn’t get sick. But I never laughed at it again.

So much for Iron Woman.