2. I'm assuming this includes other books I have read this semester. One of the books I have read are theScrewtape Letters. They are a collection of journals by a Uncle demon, Screwtape who writes to his nephew, Wormwood. They write about how to tempt people into doing the wrong things and what the humans are doing to stop the demons. Another book I have read was The Shaping of Middle Earth. It basically discusses the basic history of the geography of Middle Earth and talks some about the Elves and what part the Valar had shaping the Earth.3. Through this blog, I have definitely learned that everyone does not hate my writing! I felt like my style is so different from what most people normally like, that they would not enjoy my writing at all. I was wrong. My mind tends to think about the more philosophical things of life using parables and stories that might seem creepy to some people, but they all have a much deeper meaning. My favorite author, Ted Dekker is like that too. He uses phrases like "the skin of this world" and "cleanse yourself in the waters so that you may be made new". I guess my title reflects off of Dekker's idea of digging deep into who we are as a person. Being able to notify the falsehood that is around us so that we are not blind to the evil around us. Dive deep then rise again with open eyes to see the reality under the skin of this world. I do not know who would want to read my blog. Perhaps people of the same mindset. Or people who just like reading stories with mo definite end, because in reality, no story has an end with no remaining questions. I may continue to use it. I may start a new one. I do not know yet.
4. There are a lot of things that is in my journal. Pretty much everything that we had to write about in class is in my journal. A couple of things I did go more in detail, like about the dream day we wanted where money is not an option. I honestly do not know who would want to read my journal. It isn't the most interesting. My parents might want to read it, but I tend to not let anyone read my work, with no exceptions. I might not use that exact journal to write in, but on my own, I do journal quite a bit. I do not write much about my life, but I write stories with made up characters in a world that is fiction that reflect my life and my feelings. I want to be a novelist to the extreme, even if I'm not a famous author like J.K. Rowling, I want to write stories for me and my family. But if my work does become popular, that would be a great bonus.
5. I will write out my perfect day. It is different than most peoples because they would spend a ton of money, but I just want a good, simple life for myself (in the future).
6:30-8:00 Wake up and take my kids to school.
8:00 drink tea and eat breakfast looking at the hills of Scotland.
8:30 run to the farmers market if it's open.
9:00 begin to write.
11:00 Take a break.
11:30 Eat lunch with my husband at work.
12:00-1:00 Meet with my agent and publishing company about my next work.
1:00-2:00 Work more on my book and edit previous work from another day.
2:00 Make some more tea and groom/feed my horse.
2:30 Go to pick up my kids from school.
3:00-4:00 return home and make sure my kids get started on their homework.
4:00 start dinner.
5:00 eat dinner with my family5:30 Get ready to leave for conference.
6:00 Be at conference.
7:00 Speak at conference.
8:00 meet people and sign books.
9:00 go home and tuck my kids in bed.
9:30 get ready for bed.
10:00 Drink tea with my husband before we go to Narnia and ride unicorns.
10:30 Go to Narnia and ride unicorns.
10:31 Return home and go to bed.
6.My name is Jencie and this is my story. Beyond the tall mountains and past great forests and streams, lay a little white flower on a soft grassy hill. This little flower does not stand more than a couple inches tall. It has five delicate heart shaped petals with specks of hot pink in the center but its scent is a warm vanilla and spice.
You Might be thinking, what is so special about this little white flower? You see, this is no ordinary flower. In this world we live in, very few people know of this flower. It is hidden from all who desire greed and power. Those very few people that know of this flower call it The Flower of the Mind and Soul or The Flower of Dreams. I like to call it The Flower of the Way it Should Have Been. Call it what you want. It is one in the same.
I picked the beautiful flower. When I did, the clouds piled up, blocking the sun and the wind picked up greatly. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there. After a short moment, the wind died down and the clouds left as quickly as they came. I continued to stand there, trying to comprehend what just happened. All I knew is that I heard music playing. Upbeat music. Happy music.
I followed the sound. I walked down the grassy hill. A stream greeted me. I followed it downstream and was welcomed by a sight I never saw in my whole life. Colorful trees. They were all sorts of colors. Green, blue, orange, purple. Along with the music, I began to hear laughter from children. And sure enough on the other side of the stream, there were children no older than ten chasing butterflies with their hands up and their little feet galloping. Just the thought made me smile. There were women washing clothes in the stream, the children were most likely theirs.
Up in front of me lay a painted white bridge that went across the stream. I walked up to it and placed my hand along the railing. I slowly walked up as the bridge rose and walked faster as the bridge fell. I was under the colorful trees now. I had just realized how tall they were. I looked in front of me and saw little cottages. Because of the size of the trees, they looked to be houses of faeries. I walked closer to the village and the sound of the music still continued to grow. I could tell that the houses were made of straw as well as their roof and the doors. The cottages were still not very big. There were probably no separate rooms. I looked down and the floor turned from grass and dirt to a cobblestone road. Few people were on the streets. They all seemed so happy and walked to the beat of the music. I continued to walk down the road and the further I walked, the cottages grew in size and some were made out of wood. More people were further down the road. It all looked like I stepped back in time, one thousand years. I still continued to scan the village. There was a blacksmith building, a jewelers, even a bakery.
I followed the sound. I walked down the grassy hill. A stream greeted me. I followed it downstream and was welcomed by a sight I never saw in my whole life. Colorful trees. They were all sorts of colors. Green, blue, orange, purple. Along with the music, I began to hear laughter from children. And sure enough on the other side of the stream, there were children no older than ten chasing butterflies with their hands up and their little feet galloping. Just the thought made me smile. There were women washing clothes in the stream, the children were most likely theirs.
“Would you like some poppy-seed bread, child? I just pulled it out of the oven!” The voice broke my thoughts.
Standing to the left of me was an elderly man with silver, stringy hair that was pulled back in a bun. He was not a plump old man, but rather fit for his age. He wore a manila colored apron that covered a brown tunic. I looked at his face and he bore a kind smile and shiny light blue eyes that smiled with his mouth.
“I don’t have any money, sir,” I said, holding my left hand up.
The man giggled and looked down for a second before turning his gaze upon me.
“Dear,” he said, “here, you don’t need money. Everyone that is a part of this place doesn’t need money. People can have as much bread as they want. Because I give out bread, I get a place to live and clothes on my body as well as protection from those outside. Who needs money when there are more important things to worry about? We are a family and we want to stay and work together. Take it, child,” Once again he lifted the bread towards me and smiled as if giving me the bread meant the world to him.
I took it and dipped my head, “Thanks.”
“Anytime!”
I continued my descent into the city. I glanced back at the friendly baker and he waved me goodbye.
People were gathered around four men and a woman. Two men were playing the fiddle. One was playing a guitar looking instrument, the other man was beating a barrel, and the woman was playing an instrument that looked like a flute. They were all assembled at the corner of a street that split in two. The people were clapping and singing an optimistic tune. I took the path to the right. Almost immediately after turning right, two men ran past me with knifes strapped to their sides. They ran through a doorway with a fence surrounding it.
I walked over to the fence to look in between the wooden strips. On the other side, there were both girls and guys, most likely no older than 25. Most were gathered to one side of the stadium. Some were sitting on pews overlooking the stadium.
I walked through the doorway that just a couple seconds before the two men walked into. I stopped walking when I was through the doorway and sat down at the pew that was right by the doorway. I was looking down into the field. Two men were fighting with swords. Were they soldiers? I continued to watch as they were stopped by two older men that looked like they were instructing them.
In that instant, I heard a horn. Arrows were flying from the trees and the people on the field moved almost instantly. They ran up the stadium seating and to the several doorways on the sides of the stadium. Was I supposed to go to?
I heard voices of the people saying things like “It’s happening again” and “bless the people of the village, bless our weapons”. I even heard one person say, "Grab the unicorns!"
“Come on, miss. You better be on your way,”
I looked up at this boy who was probably a little older than me, a sixteen-year-old girl. He offered me a hand. After a slight hesitation, I took it. His grip was strong. Together, we ran through the entrance. He led me a different way than the crowd of armed people were going to a house.
“I know you’re not from here, but you should be safe here,” his voice was kind. The smile upon his face made me think everything was alright, even though I had absolutely no idea what was going on.
Faster than I could think, he drew his sword out from his sheath and turned around. Aping sound was made. He was not fighting anyone sword to sword, he blocked an arrow.
I just stood there.
“Go,” he deflected another arrow off of his sword. He turned his face to me. “Just promise me you’ll come back,” the soft blown color in his eyes drilled into mine. I slowly shook my head.
I wanted to ask him what he meant by that promise. Was I about to leave the wonderful world I stepped into?
He winked at me then left. I ran into the house. It was a cute little house.
“In here!”
Two people with hoods covering their face ran towards the house that I was in. I crouched down behind the wall and placed my head in between my knees. My hands were shoved into my pockets of my purple laced jacket.
I felt something. Something was in my pocket.
The flower.
I took the flower out of my pocket and lifted my head to be able to see it. I smelled it. The smell reminded me of my grandparents’ house. I closed my eyes and hoped to get out of this sticky situation.
I heard a song. A whistle of a bird. I felt the wind. I opened my eyes. I was standing on the hillside I started out on. The city was gone. The colorful trees and the children chasing butterflies. But then a second after feeling bliss, everything went black.
The old rocking chair squeaked as Grandma slowly stood up.
"No Grandma! The story can't end there! I wanna know more. Who were the bad people? Who was that boy? What did you ever eat the bread? Grandma please!"
The little girl jumped up and down to try to get Grandma to stay. She grabbed on to Grandma's night gown. Grandma turned around and bent down so she could be at eye level with her granddaughter.
"Delilah, the rest of the story, well that's for you to find out," Grandma smiled and looked up above her blackened fire place where a small glass frame sat on top of the ledge. There, in the small glass frame rested a little white flower.
7. I do plan on writing fiction on a regular basis. If I was not wanting to, I would not be telling you I want to become an author. I get pleasure out of writing creatively. It makes me feel happy, to imagine a life that I never had. It all feels so real to me. My writing is me and who I am without it, there is a part of me that is missing. The last question can be interpreted differently, I guess. I want to make creative writing my life, so it really does not differ. I guess the main difference between school writing and creative writing is that one has feeling and excitement and is meant to entertain and the other is meant to inform rather than entertain.
8. I came into this class expecting this to be writing whatever I normally write. Nothing new, and I was perfectly okay with that. Though I am good at writing, I never, EVER, let anyone read my writing unless they were judges in some far away competition. Being able to post things on this blog was almost scary at first, knowing that my work was out there for everyone to read. But instead of being intimidated by other people, scared that they would not think highly of me, I felt wonderful knowing that other people said so many nice things about my work. Everybody in this class has definitely boosted my confidence in my own writing abilities, and as for me only writing what I know, this class and everybody in here made me adventure in the writing world and try new things. Everybody here has written so many amazing pieces that completely blow my mind. It world be very sad if people stopped writing outside of this class. Keep on writing!
7.
