"Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much do the same thing." -Meg Chittenden

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Rain is capricious, drivers are impatient, and JK Rowling is a champ

She is. How she managed to keep a full-time job, be a full-time mom, and write an international bestseller is beyond me. As soon as I started my own job, suddenly my time petered out and all I'm left with is a couple hours a day to contemplate writing...at which point i'm usually too brain dead to start. I've determined that Veronica Rossi had the right of it: write it all on your phone during your commute.

Problem with that is that I spend 2.5 hours a day driving to and from work. No chance to write then, unless I manage to get my voice-to-text application to work. Imagine all that time writing, going to waste!

Which brings me to my second point. I heard on the radio a while ago that Seattle drivers are the worst drivers in the US, according to studies. They don't let people in to change lanes, they tailgate, and they lay on their horns for the merest slight. I'm inclined to believe that that's true, except for Bellevue and Issaquah. I can't even count the number of times I'm cut off every day.

Not to mention the fact that no one seems capable of driving in the rain, despite being in Washington, the Land of Perpetual Wet. It can't decide if it's going to rain heavily, drizzle, or simply not rain at all and threaten it instead. I change my wiper speed about fifty times an hour.

And don't even think about driving in the snow. Seattle just shuts down. Probably for the best...

On another note, tomorrow marks the beginning of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. While I will not be beginning a new novel for the "contest", you can safely bet that I will spend much of my time writing. I plan to take less time with the sequel to the Shadowguard than I did in writing it in the first place.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

A Poem, Made Up On The Spot

I'm sitting on the couch, writing for the first time in about a month, and I'm starving. Somehow I can't convince myself to get up though, as I'm sustaining myself on literature. I was staring at the page though, and the first verse in this poem popped into my head, which I then proceeded to make up on the spot (and, of course, post to facebook, because what else do we do with stuff like that these days?). Anyway, here it is.

Home alone with nothing to do. Searching in vain for something to chew.
My stomach growls loud and clear, but I'm too lazy to feed it I fear.
For making dinner requires work, and that is a duty I'm willing to shirk.
But still, I may need to get up soon, 'cuz otherwise I may just swoon.
A lack of food is no small thing, especially when you are STARVING.

*Bows* Thank you, thank you.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

The Best Part of Waking Up

Is soldiers in your cup!
Runny nose, gritty eyes, work in a few, how to survive? When not even the coffee can revive?

Ok, as far as rhymes go, that was pretty much terrible. Not pretty much. It just was. But I think we can all agree that I'm obviously not at my best in the morning.

And, I've made a sad, sad discovery today. The last time I stayed up until 5am with a book was when I got my hands on Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince--incidentally, at 1am (I stayed up for the midnight release, of course. Who didn't?). Unfortunately, that time in my life when I can survive such a dramatic gesture from my love of books has come and gone. Apparently I can't survive the aftermath.

I feel old. I even found a gray hair the other day. No joke.

You see, I have a problem: it's an addiction to books, which means that once I start one that's hooked me, it's nearly impossible for me to put it down. Something really terrible (such as a love triangle) has to happen for me to stop reading. In this case, it was two books. The first, Angelfall, was actually an indie book (which I usually avoid). I really enjoyed it. The problem was that afterward, I was left feeling bereft of a good story (always happens, don't know why it hit me so bad. Possibly because it was midnight). So I started Anna Dressed in Blood. A chilling ghost story if I've ever read one.

I really shouldn't read such scary stories after midnight. My poor health can't take it. It's exceedingly possible that this is where I get my gray hairs from.

On another note, fall has finally arrived, and with it, a nice bite to the air (can't resist a good metaphor, even if it's cliche). It's in the low fifties, sunny, and with a chilly wind. My favorite kind of weather! If only the trees were orange, it would be perfect.

And, as much as I love this kind of weather, it means good-bye to the corn. The spring planting didn't do so well with our lovely, wet spring (wet even for Washington, which is saying something), so the corn was stunted in its growth. It is doubtful that it will come to full fruition before the first frost. One can hope.

For now, I shall let the coffee do its trick (I have high hopes for its effectiveness). Now that I've satiated my reading craving, it's possible I'll actually be able to get some editing done. We shall see.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

In Which I Write About Writing

Today, I was very productive, though not in the way I should have been. I'm taking the GRE this Saturday, and therefore should be studying (I got all questions but half of one right for the verbal reasoning section and all questions but five wrong for the quantitative [math] section in my diagnostic test...you can see where I need the work). However, I was feeling a bit of inspiration last night after writing chapter two of the sequel to The Shadowguard (a title my brother heartily made fun of), so I spent all day working on world building and character backstories.

I now have enough information that I'm not including in the stories that I could probably put together a companion! Not that I'm going to--it's unnecessary for readers, though highly necessary for me. At least, I'd hope so. My hope is that the characters and story will be able to make it clear, though I am of course not the right person to judge whether or not that is true.

So, now, I have the ancient history of the continent (which doesn't have a name, as yet...I simply call it "the island continent", though I should really fix that...), the backgrounds of each important character (and some not-important characters), the first chapter and a half of the second book, and I've created a storyboard for the whole book, so I'm not writing blind like I was with the first. Initially, I wanted to name the book Shades of Gray (or possibly the series), but that was before Fifty Shades of Gray came out. You can bet I scrapped that title in a second! It's not something I want my books associated with. So now I'm brainstorming ideas for that as well.

This time, my editing hopefully won't take quite as long, as I won't have to go back and delete characters or change the plot (since my entire story changed by the end of the book). When I ran out of ideas, I went for a walk through my garden or played with my dogs. It was genius. Don't know why I haven't done this before.

Time to type up and print out my storyboard! Writing to commence almost immediately, and I shall resume editing as soon as I get stuck (which will probably be soon).

Also, I want to say thanks to my BFR's for braving the horrid syntax and plot holes!

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Sticky Note Envy

Don't you just want one?
I'm either very organized or not organized at all, depending on who you ask and how you look at it. My room is nearly always cluttered, but if you wanted me to find something, I could find it for you. When it comes to my writing, everything is stored in nice, tidy file cabinets...in my head. I have a drawer for every story, character, place, and plot, all neatly labeled. However, I can never manage to keep track of minor details. Somehow they get lost in translation.

Enter the sticky note, my idea keeper, my organizer, my life-saver. I use them for everything in writing. When I wake up in the middle of the night with an idea, I write it down on a sticky note. When I want to bookmark a page for future reference, I use a sticky note. When I need to remind myself to edit something in past or future chapters, I write it on a sticky note. Does that make them time lords?

What's not to love about colorful, mildly sticky notepads?

I read once that the man who invented sticky notes was attempting to create a super-sticky adhesive. Instead, he wound up with something only mildly sticky. Not only that, it responded to pressure and was reusable. Talk about happy accidents!

Frequently I find myself getting envious when I see someone with cooler sticky notes than me. It happened today, when I saw a different color-scheme than my sticky notes. I, of course, had to have them, despite the fact that this now brought my total number of little stickies to 7. I have twice as many medium-sized ones, and several large ones of various sizes.

Do I have a problem? Maybe. But I find myself craving those Tetris-shaped sticky notes, because who wouldn't want them?

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Counting Clichés

And so, after countless hours of scribbling in a book, dozens of sticky notes and markers, and much cursing of clichés and repetition, our valiant heroine finishes the on-paper aspect of her editing. On to greater things, such as revising!

In other words, I spent about a month circling stuff that really stinks, and now I've got to go through and fix it all.


One thing I did through my editing process (I can't say I "do" this, since it's the first time I've ever A) edited this far, and B) edited this way) is keep a list of all the words, phrases, and clichés I've overused. There happen to be a lot--more than I expected, but then again, it took me over a year to write this thing. A few times I took month-long breaks, so of course I didn't notice when I repeated myself (from a syntactical perspective). In looking at the big picture, you tend to forget individual things. Oh well. Now time to fix them.

In the meantime, purely for entertainment (and out of curiosity, and maybe a little because I wanted to know for revision purposes), I did a word count on these lovely (not) tendencies of mine. Annnnnnnnnnnd *drumroll* here they are!

In a convenient table as well! :)
Here's what I saw: Ari suddenly realizes stuff quite a lot, actually. When she does, she gasps in shock, something that I noticed right away, surprisingly enough. Unfortunately, I wondered if readers would stare or if they'd just sigh and ignore it. Before I could question myself too much, I began to circle these incidents. As I read, I continued to notice these repetitions and I knew I'd have to get rid of them. Tiernan is frequently expressionless, even though there are many other ways to say the same thing. I figure I can go back and fix those, and in the future I'll try not to use them so much. Just for kicks, I threw in the word shadow, because I was curious.

You may notice "realize" (or some form of it) is in here twice. That is partially because I saw it a lot, and partially because I didn't notice it when I was writing my list. "I realized" is part of the "realize(d)" count.

Other notes: one word I didn't include in the word count was "but". That is because it more than doubled the next highest word count with 878 occurrences. I'd jokingly call it the 1%, except it's not (quite) one percent of the word count. It's .7%, and that's just sad. 2.4% of the book is the word "and", 4.8% is "I", and 6.7% is the word "the". These are statistics I might expect. "But", on the other hand, must be eradicated as much as possible. It's like a weed that I can't get rid of in my still-rough garden of shadows. Sorry, couldn't help the metaphor (it's a very apt description for how I write). On average, it appears 4.6 times per single-spaced Word page and 36.5 times per chapter. Since those numbers are obviously statistical averages, that means that there are some with MORE, which bothers me more than the averages do.

As far as cliché plot devices go, I haven't quite counted all of them, but (and there she is) Ari falls asleep at the end of a chapter six times, wakes up at the beginning of a chapter six times (not always the same chapter transitions), and she descends/falls/is engulfed by darkness/blackness four times (that I could count--it's probably more). I will update this post as I find more silly plot devices.

Now, on to weeding, in keeping with my metaphor. Someday I'll explain it.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Thursday, July 26, 2012

The Incredible, Inedible Pen

It's that time again!

After an additional six months of editing my current work (tentatively titled "The Shadowguard", though I've had some suggestions to remove the "the"), I've finally sent it out for the initial testing: First Reads! Thank you to all my BFR's, and I hope you enjoy!

For myself, I've printed and bound the book, double-spaced and bookmarked, so I can carry it with me wherever I go and edit with my lovely red pen. 
I really love my red pen.

Pretty soon, I'll be writing query letters and blurbs, all of which I will post here. I'm trying to think of this as similar to a cover letter, except for my book rather than for me. And a bit more creative. We shall see, I suppose.

For anyone interested, I have some nice acronyms for my editing. Here is the key:
AP = awkward phrasing
RW = rework/rewrite
FTS = fix this crap (S stands for something else, but I changed it for euphemistic purposes)
WSE = worst sentence ever
PP = passive phrase
WC = word choice
CC = check consistency

I also tend to circle repeated words, underline or put in brackets things that should be fixed, and scribble things out that suck. Editing FTW!

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Let it Rain


             “Hey, Cam, what do you think the winning Lotto numbers are?”
            Cameron looked up at me, her blue eyes vacant. “Huh?”
            I knew that would be my answer. “Well, it was worth a shot.” I ripped the red-inked paper in half and tossed it into the recycle. Cameron beamed at me and I half-smiled back. “What are you going to wear today?”
            Still grinning, she pointed at her rubber dinosaur boots and Morton-salt-girl rain coat. “Rain!”
            A glance outside revealed a cloudless July sky. “It’s summer.”
            “Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain!” Cameron chanted, happy as a clam at high tide. She slid yellow-stockinged feet into her boots. Experience warned me away from an attempt to convince her to change her orange leggings. If she wanted to look like a du ck, then she would look like a duck. End of story.
            “Where do you want to go today?” I asked as I pulled on a tank top and shorts. I considered flip flops to show off the pedicure I’d given myself that morning, but reconsidered. If Cameron was wearing rain boots, then I wanted real shoes.
            “Park!” Cameron crowed. “It’s raining in the park!”
            Our apartment was three blocks from the park. I doubted it.
            “Well, finish getting dressed! We don’t have all day, you know.”
            She pulled her bright coat on over her mismatched light and dark green skirt and shirt. I buttoned it up for her while she put her hat on just right.
            “How do I look?” For the first time her eyes showed an emotion other than cheer.
            Her hat was crooked, her hair tangled, and she looked like a giant Starburst wrapper. “You look great, Cam,” I replied, and grabbed an umbrella on our way out the door.
***
            “Kayleigh, you can’t sit there, that’s the stupid table.”
            I’d been about to place my lunch tray next to Cameron’s. At my new friend’s words, however, I straightened back up. “What do you mean?”
            She pulled me aside. “Those are the retarded kids,” she whispered. “They aren’t like us.” Her face was serious, completely contrary to her flowery pink dress and beribboned braids.
            I looked between Cameron and my new friend, made just that morning in Mrs. Beck’s class. She gave a little tug on my arm, spilling my cup of juice and urging me to come with her, to get away from the “stupid kids”. I took a step in her direction, then looked back at Cameron. She was watching me silently, a hazy kind of hurt in her eyes.
            “No.” I tugged away from the girl whose name I forgot later that day. “You aren’t like Cameron.” I sat stubbornly at the stupid table while the girl marched away in a huff.
            Cameron seemed happy, but I ate my lunch in grumpy silence. When I saw how people avoided me afterward, as if I carried a disease, I came to two conclusions: first, that I hated school lunches; and second, that Cameron would be my only friend ever.
***
            It was warm and sunny at the park. The air smelled of lawn clippings and salt air, a sure sign of the season. It seemed doubtful that rain was on the way. Still, Cameron had never been wrong when it came to weather.
            Delighting in the fresh green surroundings, she took off with a Xena yell. Women pushing strollers glared in our direction. A jogger stopped to stare at the crazy girl in the rain coat running full-tilt toward the nearest tree. She blazed past him while he gaped.
            When she hit the tree, she began to climb, raincoat and all. It was an old maple with plenty of branches, but as soon as her feet lifted off the ground I ran toward her. “Cameron! Cam! What are you doing?!
            “Climb!” she ordered when I arrived, panting.
            “No, you come down.”
            “No, climb!” She was moving further up into the branches, surprisingly agile. Her boots had no traction against the branches but that didn’t seem to affect her. I just knew that she would get stuck on her way down.
            Setting my hands against the branch over my head, I lifted myself off the ground and began to climb.
***
            “Camie, look!” I shouted.
            Cameron looked up at me. She was wearing a red-and-white striped shirt over blue jeans and was sitting in a pile of oak leaves we had raked earlier, searching for galls. I perched in the tree right above the pile, over Cameron’s head. She grinned and waved, but was not distracted from her hunt for long. She picked up another leaf, inspected it, and put it behind her.
            Farther out on the branch, there was a rope with a tire attached to it. Angry that Cameron wasn’t looking, I crawled farther out. Dirt and moss from the limb clung to my scabby knees and my shorts. I ignored this, although it was itchy. “Camie, I’m gonna climb down the rope!”
            Cameron nodded, but didn’t look up.
            Infuriated, I took hold of the moldy rope. It was at least twelve feet long, which was plenty of length to reach Cameron. I used my weight to start rocking the tire swing in her direction, hoping to bump her head so she would watch.
            The swing was heavier than I had thought. I was able to bring its momentum up enough so that it moved back and forth a few feet, but it wasn’t enough to hit Cameron. This only made me madder. I shifted my position so I was lying down on the limb, holding on to a smaller branch for support while I grabbed farther down on the rope.
            This was a mistake. The mossy old branch was not meant for all the gymnastics I was doing. My handhold snapped, and down I went.
            I didn’t have time to scream. My hands grasped for the rope but I was falling too fast. Heat sliced through my palms. If it hadn’t been for the tire swing, I would have landed on my chest and probably broken some ribs or my spine. Instead, the big black wheel knocked me to one side so that I landed on my leg instead, which snapped with a crack like a gunshot.
            I laid on the ground for several moments, dazed, while the tire swayed back and forth over me. When I looked for Cameron, she was lying in the leaves, bumped over from the force of the swing. Her eyes were closed, and I started crying.
***
            My knee was scraped, my hair was covered in leaves, and I was trembling by the time I reached Cameron’s perch. She sat with her legs crossed in front of her and her back to the trunk, grinning like I’d just given her a Christmas present. With one last heave, I brought my leg over the branch in front of her and straddled it. We stared at each other for a few minutes. Then Cameron laughed.
            “This is fun!”
            “That depends on your definition of fun. Better than having to work though, huh?”
            “Work is fun too!”
            To her, everything was fun. I glanced down. We were at least fifteen feet in the air. With a gulp, I turned my face back to Cameron. This was not my idea of fun.
            “When is it going to rain?” I asked to distract myself.
            Cameron shrugged. “I don’t know.” She was still smiling.
            “Since when did you start climbing trees?” So much for a distraction.
            She paused to think about my question, though I knew perfectly well what the answer would be. “Today,” she said.
            Of all the luck. “Think we can get down now?”
            “Yes!” she said. “Me first!” Before I could protest, she was down to the next lowest branch, her skinny arms holding on to the trunk almost carelessly.
            “Be careful!” I shouted as she hopped her way to the ground. Her feet touched the grass safely, and she looked up.
            “Ok, your turn!” she said with a big smile.
***
            I clutched Cameron’s hand tighter under the table as my boss looked her up and down. “Cam’s the best typist you’ll ever meet,” I told her as seriously as possible. “If you ask her to type something up, she’ll do it with enthusiasm, and there won’t be a single error. She’s got ninety words per minute.”
            My boss glanced at me, then back at Cameron. “And you say she won’t be a disturbance?”
            “Not if you tell her not to be.”
            Cameron smiled at my boss, who raised an eyebrow at me. “She certainly is cheerful.”
            “Never a down day,” I agreed.
            She considered for a few more minutes. “We’ll try her out. If she doesn’t fit with the company, she’ll have to find new employment. Is that understood?”
            “Perfectly.” I stood up and tugged Cameron to her feet. “Cam, remember what we practiced?”
            Cameron nodded happily. “Thank you for this opportunity,” she enunciated, slow and careful to get each sound out properly, and held out her hand to my boss.
            She smiled and took it. “I look forward to working with you.”
***
            The bark pressing into my face was sure to leave an imprint on my cheek for the rest of my life. Is this what a tree hugger feels like? I wondered.
            Below me, Cameron was singing to herself. Occasionally she would smile up in my direction and give me helpful advice. As said advice was usually “just jump!” I ignored most of it. I clung to the trunk and tried to use it to help my descent. It took me ten minutes to get to the next branch down, and once I was there I couldn’t convince myself to try again.
            A male voice below startled me. Someone was talking to Cameron.
            When I peaked down, trying to ignore the dizzying drop, I saw two faces looking up at me. One I recognized, one I didn’t. Cameron pointed at me while smiling at the man, who looked like he was trying not to laugh.
            “Need a little help?” he called up in a friendly voice.
            “Not from you!” I shouted back, though I had no idea who he was. I just wanted him to leave us alone.
            “Of course not. Hold on. I’m coming up.”
***
            Cameron and I were on our way home from work. She was skipping and singing, carrying a purple owl purse that held all her essentials: pen, notepad, ladybug stickers, and pre-paid cell phone. The notepad, I knew, was mostly filled with random doodles, but she used it to take notes on occasion.
            We’d left later than usual, so the sun was already down over the water, but the air was warm for a February evening and I’d stuffed my heavy jacket in my backpack. Since I usually kept my knife in my coat pocket, it was impossible to get at when the attack came.
            They grabbed Cameron’s arms and pushed her to the ground. She fell without a sound. I yelled and rushed for her, but they got me too, and forcefully wrenched my backpack from my arms. They searched my neck, wrists, and ears for jewelry, but found only a cheap ring I wore on my right hand. This was left in the street.
            When they were gone, I dropped at Cameron’s side. There was blood on her neck from the necklace they had pulled off, and she was sobbing. I sat with her head in my lap, stroking her hair back slowly until she cried herself out.
            “Those people were mean,” she hiccupped.
            “Yeah,” I replied, staring out at the water. “Mean people.”
***
            He was up on my branch in less than a minute. “Go away,” I told him, still turned toward the trunk.
            “Now, is that the way to greet a friend?” he joked.
            “I don’t have any friends.”
            “That nice girl down there looks like one.”
            “That’s different.”
            “Now, I’ll understand if I’m not your type,” he said with a grin as I turned my face toward him. “But you should just say so. Don’t leave me hanging here.”
            I groaned at the pun. “People aren’t my type.”
            “That’s the spirit! Now here, grab my hand and I’ll help you down.”
            He held out an overly-large hand. It seemed disproportionate with the rest of him, which was tall and skinny. I looked down again, shuddered at the potential fall, and took it.
            Step by step, he coached me down until I was firmly on land again. I could have kissed the grass. Cameron hugged me tightly. “You did it!” Then she stood and danced around me, singing a tuneless victory song.
            The man jumped down beside me. He grinned. “Well at least someone’s happy!”
            Cameron hugged him too. He hugged her back, even going so far as to pick her up and twirl her around like a girl. This was quite the feat, as she was at least twice as wide as him, though not nearly so tall.
            “Thanks,” I said softly.
            “Climbing trees is my specialty,” he said, though I hadn’t meant the tree. “Call me Luke. Either of you up for ice cream?”
            Cameron jumped up and down. “Me! Me, me, me, me, me!”
            “We should probably be getting home, Cam,” I said softly without looking at Luke. She looked so disappointed, but it was almost time to make dinner. “Thank you for the offer though.”
            “Anytime. I suppose I’d better be off as well. If you ever get stuck in a tree again, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll see you around!” He tipped an imaginary hat in our direction and sashayed away, whistling the theme song for Chariots of Fire.
            “C’mon, Cam,” I said, taking her arm. “Let’s go.”
            Hand-in-hand, we strolled from the park. I glanced back once to see if Luke was still nearby but he had long since left. Shrugging, I faced forward.
As we left the rolling lawn, the skies opened up and it began to rain.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

We Are The 99%


            Sarah has been driving me crazy lately.
            We’re sitting in my room as I get changed for work—a low-paying waitress gig downtown that takes care of my half of the bills. She glances up at me once from her mad texting on her iPhone. “I mean, come on,” she says in an exaggeratedly annoyed tone. “It’s not like I’m asking him to commit or anything. It’s just a rally.”
            “Mmhmm,” I murmur.
            “Don’t put your hair in such a tight ponytail, Emry, it makes you look like you’re bald. I told him the same thing and he totally freaked.”
            “That he shouldn’t put his hair in a ponytail?”
            “No, about the rally.”
            “I don’t think he really cares about the occupy movement.” I ignore her comment about my hair. My mom says the same thing.
            “Ugh, exactly,” she says. “I don’t think this is going to work out. He’s too boring. I need excitement in my life, you know?”
            “Sad,” I reply noncommittally as I grab my purse and house keys. It is sad. I actually like Hugh, but Sarah never keeps boyfriends for long. I’d seen this coming since she first started dating him. “I gotta go,” I tell her as she opens her mouth to complain some more. “See you in a few.”
            “Have fun at work!” she says cheerfully and bounces up from my bed. “Don’t forget about the party when you get home. You promised you’d go this time. No ponytails, I mean it!”
            I don’t argue, just smile and wave as I leave our apartment. She’s been begging me to go out with her for weeks now, and I finally relented, but only because my exam was moved to Thursday, and I had the day off tomorrow.
            Work is the same as usual. I manage to snag a few bucks in tips, apparently impressing the parents of three and the groups of college buddies with my “cheerful, upbeat, helpful smile, to go that extra Luna mile.” Counting later, I find a nice chunk of cash, enough to pay for my power bill for the month.
            “Score,” I say to Deb, the other part-time waitress on shift with me. She high fives me as we go our separate directions, me to the bus stop and her to her car. She honks a cheerful goodbye as she passes, heading for home.
            Sarah is gone by the time I reach our apartment. It’s probably only around eight, but she’d mentioned something earlier about going to a friend’s to get ready. Showering only takes a few minutes, so I decide to let my hair air-dry. Sarah wouldn’t like it, but at least it’s not in a pony. I play a few rounds of Freecell while I wait for the clock to tick down.
            On my desk, my phone jumps. It’s a dinosaur of a phone. Every text message makes it freak out like the apocalypse is coming. I snatch it before it can vibrate again and flip it open. It’s from Sarah. R U coming?
            Yeah, be there in a few, I text back with a sigh. It’s go time.
            “This place is sure hopping,” I say as I finally find Sarah scrunched up on a couch placed inexplicably in the kitchen. It blocks access to the refrigerator, but not the all-important freezer, where the booze is stacked haphazardly. As I watch, a guy opens the door, catching the bottle that falls out with a practiced ease.
            “It’s early, don’t worry about it,” she replies. “I can’t believe you actually came!”
            “I said I would, wouldn’t I?”
            “Yeah, but you’ve said that before. Hey, c’mon, I want you to meet someone!” She jumps from the couch and nearly yanks my arm off as she tows me toward the living room, where the music is almost too loud to hear anything. A few people are standing about, mingling, but they ignore us as we pass through towards the front door.
            Once we’re outside, she lets go of my hand. “David, over here!” she shouts, waving at a guy in jeans and a Tool shirt. He is with a group of friends who are all smoking Marlboros and holding sketchy red Solo cups, sometimes talking and sometimes not. He nods in our direction, but doesn’t leave his friends.
            “Let’s go,” Sarah says impatiently, and walks towards the group without checking to see if I’m following. I do.
            “Hey, Babe,” David says, sliding his arm around Sarah’s shoulders. She giggles and leans into the embrace and I think of poor Hugh, who was probably dumped a few hours ago. “I was just talking about you.”
            “I hope you weren’t scaring anyone,” Sarah replies with an easy laugh. The others follow suit. “This is my roommate Emry.”
            There is a chorus of “hey”s and “Nice to meet you”s. I smile, but don’t say anything beyond an initial “hello”.
“We were talking about the rally on Thursday,” David says. “We’ve got a caravan going to drive to New York City and we’re going to pool our money for the gas. Plan is to meet in front of the Stock Exchange and slowly work our way into city transit. You down?”
            Sarah is delighted. “Of course! I was just trying to get my ex to go with me!”
            The friends grin. “Sweet!” a girl says. Her right ear is pierced at least a dozen times. She flicks her cigarette but into the bushes next to her. “We’ve been trying to get a huge group. Occupy Interstate Eighty!” she jokes. Everyone laughs.
            Sarah looks at me. “Want to come Emry? It’ll be fun! New York’s only like what, hundred miles?”
            “About a hundred fifty,” David corrects. “With all five of us, it should only cost twelve bucks or so.”
            Everyone is looking at me expectantly, with varying smiles on their faces. Sarah’s is hopeful, David’s wide and sure. Ear Piercings is giving me a “what are you waiting for” look, and the other two, a guy with sandy blonde hair and a girl with a perpetual scowl just raised their eyebrows, twin looks of expectancy.
            “I can’t,” I say. “I have an exam in the afternoon, and I have to work after that.”
            They all groan as one. “Can’t you get the day off?” Sarah asks pleadingly. “I already asked Midge and she said to go for it.” Midge is her boss at the coffee stand on campus.
            “I’m covering for Deb,” I explain.
            “Bitch,” Sarah mutters faithfully. “Can’t even give you a ride home after work and now she jumps the gun on the biggest day in history. Seriously, Emry, why do you let her walk all over you like that?”
            I don’t let Deb walk all over me, but this is an old argument. I remain silent.
            “Man, you have a job?” the blonde dude asks. “I’ve been applying since like, August, and I still can’t seem to get hired. All the openings on the school’s job listing site get filled before I manage to get to them.”
            “You should try some of the places downtown,” Sarah pipes in helpfully. “It’s easier to get a job if you go in person to check them out.”
            “Yeah, but it still isn’t enough to pay the bills.”
            “Fucking corporates,” the scowling girl says. “Root of all our problems, I say. After the seventeenth, though, they’ll be singing a different tune!”
            “Amen sistah,” says Ear Piercings, raising her Solo cup. “I’ll drink to that.”
            For the rest of the week, David is over almost every day. He brings with him Ear Piercings (whose actual name is Amber), scowling girl (Trista), and Sandy Blonde (Daniel Eureka, though his friends call him Hoover). They’re scheming for their trip, making signs and slogans on Walmart brand poster board. They research signs from other protests and try to get creative. Sarah posts a bunch of those pictures of herself holding a note on Facebook. Her latest one reads, “I am a 21-yr-old college student pursuing a BS in psychology. It costs me 7.5k per year to attend my chosen school. I sit in lecture for 18 hrs per week and I study for 2 hrs per class per day. I am paid $290 per month, which doesn’t cover my tuition and bills by half. I am the 99%. Occupywallstreet.org”.
            I tried telling her on Monday that her sign shouldn’t count because her parents are paying her tuition and bills, but she told me it didn’t matter. School is a full-time job, and she does that and has a part time job on the side, and still doesn’t make as much money as the top one percent.
            “You should be agreeing with me,” she added. “You’re affected most of all by the one percenters! I still can’t believe you aren’t going.”
            “Some of us don’t have time to waste on rallies,” I countered, offended that she thought she could dictate my opinions. Sarah doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the day.
            On Thursday, I am woken up earlier than usual by raucous laughter in the living room. I open my bedroom door blearily to see Sarah and her friends jumping on the couch and firing those party poppers at each other, laughing gleefully.
            “Almost time!” Hoover says loudly, grinning.
            Sarah is laughing, and doesn’t notice me glaring in the doorway. Last night I’d been up late studying for my test, which she knew very well.
            “God, it’s early,” Amber says. “I vote a Starbucks stop on the way out!” This was followed by cheers.
            Suddenly David sees me. “Oh shit, sorry Emry. Did we wake you up?”
            It’s obvious that they did, so I ignore him and head for the bathroom. I hear muttering behind me, and Sarah’s voice on top of everyone else saying, “Don’t worry about her. She has to get up in twenty minutes anyway. A few extra minutes of wakefulness can’t hurt her. Emry!” she calls down the hallway. “Want some coffee? We’ll bring you back a cup to make up for waking you if you want!”
            “No thanks!” I call back, and shut the bathroom door.
            After a few minutes, the noise picks back up as they get ready to leave. “Don’t forget your iPod!” someone calls. “We need tunes for the ride!” Someone else makes a joke I can’t hear and they all laugh. The door slams behind them.
When I come out into the living room, the carefully crafted signs that read “WE ARE THE 99%. OCCUPY WALL STREET” and “WALL STREET AND CORPORATIONS HAVE CORRUPTED POLITICAL PROGRESS” have disappeared. My favorite was the one that said “THAT WE’RE YOUNG ONLY MEANS WE HAVE THE MOST TO LOSE BY STANDING IDLE.” It too is gone, stowed away in the back of David’s Honda Civic.
            Grumpy and tired, I use Sarah’s KitchenAid to brew some of her Safeway Select French vanilla coffee, deciding that she owes me for the abrupt wakeup. If she notices, I’ll tell her it’s cheaper than her buying me a coffee from Starbucks and driving it all the way back here.
            With a slight eye-roll at my now-peaceful apartment, I hop in the shower to get ready for my day.
            Sarah texts me at noon. OMG look @ FB. Just posted pics of D & me!
            It’s my lunch break so she knows I’ll be in the library, doing some last-minute studying. She let me borrow her Macbook for the day, so I reluctantly pulled it out of my backpack and opened it to her Facebook homepage. Sarah and David are taking up the entire top half of her news feed with pictures of them shouting and cheering, holding a sign together. They are surrounded by other protesters. Underneath the pictures the caption says “Sent from my iPhone”.
            She’s also posted minute-by-minute updates to Twitter. I only have a few minutes to spare to read them, but I do. One says she wishes her bestie was there with her.
            Sounds like fun, I text back, and turn my phone off. I need to get back to studying. I power off her Macbook and slip it back into my bag. Time to get to work.