Strike the match, strike it now//we’re a perfect match, perfect somehow

Strike the match, strike the match now

We’re a perfect match, perfect somehow

We were meant for one another

Come a little closer

Flame you came to me

Fire meet gasoline

-“Fire meet Gasoline” by Sia

How about a sappy post now? A sappy post about pairings in film/TV/literature whose stories and development strike me as compelling. Even if not much development has happened yet (*cough* Kylo *cough* Ren), I still look forward to seeing how their relationship progresses. But most of them have come to fruition and I would call these my “one true pairings”. Yes, it’s possible to have multiple “OTPs”. You must know that in real life I come up with ship names for my friends and their significant others. It is a great source of entertainment, especially to tease my friend/family member. 😉

And some of these couples may surprise you. You may think, “Geez, this girl goes for the dark romances!”

True, true. Most of the time I am drawn to the stories that promise the most development, change, and redemption. Give me a broken human who finds light in another, who is guided back to the right path and strives to care for and love this special person. That special person changes them, alters them forever, and the old way of life becomes like a ball and chain. I like to consider myself an optimist. And yes, maybe a tad idealistic. But I love to see the person in the light (which to me represents God’s goodness and mercy) lift the one crumbling in darkness out of despair and into hope. Is this cheesy?

For some reason I find it extremely inspiring, heart-wrenching, and dear. These are the romances I adore, the ones I hope will happen, the pairings I see so much promise in as a part of the larger picture of the story.

And ironically, a good many of the pairings below contain an NF personality type-which is, one of my own kind, since I’m an INFP, in myers-brigg typology. I will share the characters’ types as well.

Note: Yes, I know I’ve done this before, but this is the list that contains the most gripping sorts of relationships. Also, expect this to be a semi-long post.

The Phantom (Erik) [INFJ] and Christine [INFP]

The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

I read Susan Kay’s novel, Phantom several years ago, and it was probably among my favorites. It was probably melodramatic, in retrospect, but I believe it captured the Gothic elements of the actual story. It truly is a Gothic story, pretty legendary in musical history. The Phantom of the Opera is a dark fairytale, and it follows the trope of “Death and the Maiden.” Christine wears white, a sign of her innocence, and the Phantom is the “Angel of Music” who teaches her how to become a legendary singer. But this Angel is a jealous teacher. And that is the setup for the rest of the story, which entails Christine slowly discovering the warped ideals and damaged nature of her Angel of Music. Both Leroux’s original novel and Susan Kay’s book reveal the layers of pain and hurt and lack of healthy development of Erik, the Phantom. While some would argue that is going out to justify his actions, I believe it is showing a man who since childhood has seen the worst side of humanity. Christine is his idealized project, his very own piece of humanity that is untouched by the cruelty he has always known. She shows him that she has the strength to live selflessly, and it seems like her name is meant to hint at her Christ-like grace and compassion. She chooses to sacrifice herself so Raoul, the man who is trying to court her, can be freed from Erik’s lair. He realizes how truly selfless she is and surrenders her, however much pain it costs him. Yes, he is a damaged soul seeking to grab at whatever comfort he desires. But he learns. He surrenders. He lays down his own need ultimately for Christine.

Kylo Ren (INFP) and Rey (ISTP)

Star Wars: The Force Awakens

Probably one of my favorites. I honestly didn’t even realize the potential for a relationship between these two at first. During the first viewing with my family, my cousin and sister started cracking up because they saw Kylo Ren as extremely ugly. And then I saw a piece of Reylo fan art on the internet a couple weeks later and the realization slammed into me. This could really be a fantastic thing, Kylo Ren the prodigal son of Leia and Han. I never got much into Star Wars until these two. The dynamic and chemistry between Rey and Kylo Ren is definitely there. This story has the potential for a Beauty and the Beast twist that would lead to the redemption of Kylo Ren. I believe the force bond that is probably developing between them will become evident in the next two films. And I sincerely hope they aren’t cousins. But it looks like that theory is null. Here’s to hoping Rey is a Kenobi.   😉

Daryl Dixon (ISTP) and Beth Greene (INFP)

The Walking Dead (AMC)

Well. This show has succeeded in rattling me to the core. It’s absolutely tragic and shows us how humans can survive despite all odds. It seems to be a much more intense version of LOST, plus the walking dead. But these two. These two have a unique sort of relationship. While it was never officially called a romantic relationship, what existed between Beth and Daryl was pure, subtle, and emotionally shaking. They are “two sides of the same coin”–she reminds him there is good in the world still and he teaches her to face reality, to toughen up in order to make it in the world. And that is such a beautiful thing between two people.

Sherlock Holmes (INTP) and Molly Hooper (INFJ)

Sherlock (BBC)

Well, I’m pretty sure I started with the hardcore adoration of “shipping” when I watched Sherlock. Now, this is my opinion, but I detected a sweet connection between socially dysfunctional Sherlock and sensitive, caring Molly. They have something, there’s these shared looks and Sherlock shooting off rude comments about Molly’s various boyfriends (JEALOUS?). He always apologizes to her when he says something hurtful or insensitive, and he kisses her so tenderly on the cheek, and once on the lips! I really look forward to seeing where the series takes their relationship. I honestly think it has strong potential for being an example of somebody (Molly) bringing out the best in someone else (Sherlock). And he gives her blunt, but quite insightful, commentary on her choices in relationships and he values her hard work.

Jack Shepherd (ESTJ) and Kate Austen (ISFP)

LOST (ABC)

When I saw this show a few years ago I found it to be rich in storytelling and in how it developed each individual character and their relationships with each other. But best of all, I found a new OTP. Jack and Kate. They complete each other. They are both haunted by their pasts, they both seek to restart on the Island. And in each other they discover a friend, confidante, and eventually love. Complicated, tough, and unbreakable love. Theirs is a roller-coaster relationship. But in the end, they understand that they need one another. They survive together, and they go on together to face whatever J.J. Abrams throws at them. 🙂

“I’ll be the artist . . .”

A recent questionnaire caught my attention, and I decided to just go for it, albeit the fact that I have been scarce, and sometimes I wonder if when I’ll ever get back to writing regularly, with a passion. I think the desire to create stories lies dormant within me, waiting to rouse and spin a shelf of stories. But right now, I think this tag will remind me of why I love to write, who I am as a writer, et cetera. Feel free to join in. I want to read your responses. Comment if you decide to do it! 🙂

  1. How many years have you been writing? When did you officially consider yourself a ‘writer’? I have been writing since I was about four, but my earliest stories were more like visual storyboards–I remember way back then I would scribble on page after page in my sketchbooks, “fan-fiction/art” of my favorite Founding Fathers and Moses and Disney characters. My favorite book characters took a huge part of these early comics. I think I officially began to write when I was about seven, starting with some stories based on the American Girl Kaya, the Nez Perce girl . . . (obviously I’ve always had a strong preference for historical fiction). My best friend Kayla and I wrote about the eponymous Kaya and her own character “Rayla”, both native American girls whose adventures we scrawled on stacks of notebook paper. I kept on writing, and became an avid fan of mystery stories, like Nancy Drew, Detectives and Togas and Mystery of the Roman Ransom (both by Henry Winterfeld), and the Mandie series. It was during this time, from around age 9-11, that I realized that writing meant something to me and it was something I wanted to do forever.
  2. How/why did you start writing? I really wanted to relive all of my favorite books, because the characters became so real to me. I couldn’t just close them up and put them back on the shelf. I went back to them, dwelt on them and their stories, and I tried to keep them alive in my own writings, usually “fan-fiction” of these works. I loved history. George Washington, Paul Revere, Lafayette, the Ancient Romans and Greeks . . . all the books I read began to filter into a creative drive, and I started to write, typing in Word 2000 on my parents’ old computer, until another family member kicked me off if I overstayed my computer time. 🙂
  3. What’s your favorite part of writing? The intimacy of it. I absolutely love to envision the expressions and speech and mannerisms of the people I write about–I feel like I’m really there, seeing all of it, knowing these people. Reading has the same effect, which is probably why I decided to create stories to read. I love the fact that when I write historical fiction, I am sort of time-travelling to a different era, knowing people I would never meet otherwise.
  4. What’s your biggest writing struggle? Ahem, the finishing part is ALWAYS a challenge. I usually lose momentum after the early chapters, but I intend to force myself to finish some older projects soon.
  5. Do you write best at night or day? Definitely at night. Less distractions, less noise and obligations to fulfill when everyone is asleep and I’m supposed to be asleep as well. 😉
  6. What does your writing space look like? (Feel free to show us pictures!) I try to write at my desk as often as possible (or else work on school and art), but most of the time I write in my bed before I go to sleep.10568932_557268047751032_6987686810130708086_n
  7. 1173836_308419322635907_302420527_nHow long does it typically take you to write a complete draft? Six months to a year, sometimes 2. The only two books I’ve completed are a novella, Intertwined Destinies, and a novel, The Wish. I’m pretty sure the first one took about half-a-year and the other one around a year.
  8. How many projects do you work on at once? Umm, three? Sometimes more. It depends. I have been working on the same things the past year.
  9. Do you prefer writing happy endings, sad ones, or somewhere in between? Bittersweet ones are a fair in-between, and definitely the most satisfying for me. I like to be both melancholy and happy . . . how very complicated of me!
  10. List a few authors who’ve influenced your writing journey. L.M. Montgomery-inspired me to change my style and overall story-lines, and her subtlety of writing permeates her tales in impressive ways. C.S. Lewis, David Nevin, Dostoevsky, Harper Lee, and Margaret Mitchell, and lots of history books . . . all of these have played a major part in my development as a writer
  11. Do you let people read your writing? Why or why not? Sometimes. Lately, no, because I have been highly unproductive and the little that I do write is a historical fantasy alternate-universe fiction which I would prefer to keep under wraps. 🙂
  12. What’s your ultimate writing goal or dream? Definitely to become published, and to direct/write/script movies, specifically movies associated with American history (or any other favorite historical people/times) and possibly be a writer and producer for animated films.
  13. If you didn’t write, what would you want to do? Simply be the best artist I can possibly be, explore the animation field, work as a political activist (I mean, get hands-on, not simply write impassioned articles).
  14. Do you have a book you’d like to write one day but don’t feel you’re ready to attempt it yet? Several, actually. :’)
  15. Which story has your heart and won’t let go? Definitely Fortis Corde (Strong Hearts) . . . this one is very dear to me, perhaps since I’ve invested so much emotional energy into it. And besides that, I absolutely love the time period in American history where it is set. It is a very Washington Irving-esque story and something so haunting and rustic about it that i don’t want to give it up. I’m not sure if I’m ready to write it, but I definitely want to finish it someday soon.

I need help in Anatomy!!! :O

 

I managed to subscribe to the new Autodesk Sketchbook and it is pretty nice! I have more to post of art, but if you are interested, I post some of it also on my tumblog.

The first picture features from left to right: Diana, some random girl who has a weird nose XD, and Meriwether Lewis looking pretty moody. The black and white sketches are of Meriwether Lewis with black hair rather than brown, simply because I have read books which portray him with either fair, brown, or dark hair. It gives me artistic license to experiment with his hair coloring. Ha.

I CANNOT wait until I start at UD and get some real anatomy classes. I’ve only taken “art appreciation” which offers hardly any help in this respect, thus my tragic proportions in human figures. 😦 😦

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Heaven Sight

20130925_225058 (1)Work in progress novel Heaven Sight has been sort of on my mind.

Anton Reinhard grew up when the fever pitch of war angst rose high. In 1917, as a small child, he faced the brutal death of his father, in an anti-German riot on the streets of New York. He grew up learning to look after himself, but under the protecting wing of a compassionate priest. As he grows older he develops strongly as an artist, seeking and loving beauty and meaning, but finding only disillusionment in the world around him. As his intent search for Heaven’s sight continues, with the furor of the second World War broiling at a distance, Anton catches frustrating glimpses of something divine in a world catching afire. 

I just came up with the synopsis off the top of my head. I also made a graphic in PS . . . with a quote from Dante’s Inferno.

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I started writing this story a year ago, and now I’ve finally come back around to it. I’ve been in a serious dry spell lately, which is tragic. I will sometimes reflect on the days when I just wrote and didn’t double check every sentence and let the mind flow out onto the page (computer or otherwise). And now . . . maybe it’s just when you get older you get more self-conscious, that’s just me, but it continues, drawing out and reducing me to spinning helplessness and wonder. Where have the words gone, I sometimes ask. Why can’t it be as easy? Why can’t I just churn out the stories a hundred miles per hour and drive on fearlessly?

Honestly, I really don’t know, but I have to tell myself that I’m definitely more of a brooding author type, who takes a while to get things down when the mind is filled with life. Life happens. So, let come what may. I’ve begun to learn that through sunshine and shadow I must write, I must draw, I must devour the thoughts and words and creations of other great artists, because that is the only way to escape the mire.

Part II of this post will feature the snippets I have so far . . .

The Window

//Listening to “My Immortal” by Evanescence//

//My stomach growls//

//Decides to fangirl//

So, I started this series of sketchy drafts of a story I really, really want to make write. It would a pet project, oh yes, but it would just be fun to work on when I’m trying to escape writer’s block. Here is the basic intro/explanation for it:

This small novel was derived from the originality of a train of thoughts. I suppose they are not so original, as they are inspired by one man in history, whose personality and presence in history books has made such a lasting impression on me. I began to speculate on what Meriwether Lewis would be like as a modern man in modern American society. If he were suddenly displaced from his own era, saved by the Grace of God, and allowed to “start over” in 21st century America. In my mind he developed as the intellectual, smart, arrogant, materialistic graduate of the Ivy League, strong supporter of the Left-wing movements, and as a Jeffersonian-Republican-bordering-on-Libertarianism, he would probably be an East-Coast Democrat. I can quite see him as a rationalist, a scientist, who is often coldly evaluating, passionate and stubbornly defensive of his opinions and views. It would be funny, interesting . . . and endearing to use a generated world-melding (in this case, Time melding) plot, wherein a horde of Lewis’s contemporaries and himself are stuck in the 21st century, and for a while do not even realize it. Gradually, as his life tangles and twists, and curves back around in the direction it was going just before he “disappeared” in October, 1809, something begins to happen. A strange young woman walks into his life, the only one who knows who he really is. Strangely enough, Lewis and Clark of the history books have melted into the background, overshadowed by Zebulon Pike. Why? Because the peculiarity of this time warp has caused it, that’s why. But Lewis and Clark really did exist. It’s just that Lewis and Clark themselves don’t remember it. Their lives have suddenly been moved to the 21st century. And it will take a lot for them to start remembering their real lives back in 1809.

I’ve already written quite a bit for it. *Blushes*

And maybe, I’ve even gone on Pinterest, and found a dreamcast for it. Gosh. What is wrong with me . . . I can’t even . . .

But namely, I discovered Tom Mison (Sleepy Hollow), and I did experience a frantic moment when I lost my breath for several minutes . . . .

tumblr_lrwgbazDQa1qekb10o1_500-2I began to write. And it flowed out, me grinning at the laptop screen, because, well, I relish this little fan-fic. The only fan-fiction I’ve ever written has been for my historical crushes. Yep.

“There is definitely a resemblance,” Lewis said blankly, staring at himself, painted in oil.
                “Yeah,” said Mr. Payton, with a small grimace. “It’s pretty spooky.”
                Lewis looked at him quickly. For the first time in a while he thought over what he was going to say next. And then—he said it. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to take inventory of that painting.”
                “Thought you’d maybe like to buy a print of it in the gift-shop, show it around to your friends,” Mr. Payton mumbled.
                “No.” Lewis struggled to steady his voice. He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. His mind reeled, and almost went off balance. “Three hundred?”
                Mr. Payton stuck out his lower lip. “I might get yelled at.”
                “Make up an excuse,” Lewis snapped. “It was a mix-up, or something.” He felt himself begin to shake and sweat, though. His rough voice might not hold out. “And the other one—with William Clark.”
                “Not that one!” Mr. Payton’s right eyebrow went up high on his forehead. “The Clark family comes in here regular—they’d throw a royal fit if his portrait disappeared.”
                “Oh, and my—um, the Lewis family wouldn’t react?”
                “I don’t here of many Lewis’s coming into this museum. The curator, he says most of them living out West now.”
                “Oh.” Lewis felt himself deflate.
                “Look, you seem like some pretty important man, sir, but I’ve got to get back to work. The boss, he gets around this place, I’ll tell you—”
                “I’m not that important. And you’re an a-hole if you tell me that three hundred dollars doesn’t mean anything to you.” A hot flame of desperation began to work its way up Lewis’s spine. It spread sort of like a rash over his face—an odd, chemical rash he could not control. He thought, ‘I get frustrated rather too easily, I guess.’
                “Offering me three hundred dollars to lug an old painting to the basement? If you don’t call that—”
                “Never mind.” Lewis scanned the portrait again—and again. A part of him wanted to turn and hurry from the building. Another part of him wanted to stay and stand there, gaping at the uncannily similar man who was supposedly dead. Dead for two hundred years. 1809. And now, it was 2009.

 

He tried to act normal, as he smoothed himself over on the threshold of the little house. He promised himself that he would thank the gods every day on New Year’s Eve for a friend like William Clark. And then he laughed at himself.
                “Open the damned door, somebody,” he said through gritted teeth, as water droplets spattered on his forehead. His seventy-dollar coat from his designer on Pennsylvania Avenue was becoming damp, quickly.
                At last the door opened, and there stood the Clark’s trim housekeeper. Her lips parted into a polite smile, and she stepped aside for him to enter. He handed her his coat, and turned his head to survey the quiet foyer.
                “Mr. Clark is in the living room, with his baby boy, and Mrs. Clark is in the kitchen.”
                “Thanks,” Lewis said briefly, and headed towards the dim living room. All of the windows were opened, their maroon curtains setting a wine-red glow upon the leather couches.
                “Merne!”
                Lewis peered around the high coffee table and pack-and-play to where a large, red-haired man and plump, red-haired baby sat together on the floor. The baby leaned against his daddy’s chest, a complacent smile on his face. It didn’t go without mentioning to say that the face of that baby matched his hair. Lewis could not help but grin at the scene, although he lowered himself down several feet away on the couch. He squeezed his hands, twisting them back and forth, and didn’t even catch himself like he tried to do, in public. Somehow, he felt that he could be sincerely nervous or tight-strung or critical with Will. Will would understand.
                But the strange thing was—Lewis could never bring himself to discuss his love life—he couldn’t start talking about it now. Especially now. He resented the fact that he usually spent his Sunday nights at the Clarks, for lack of anything better to do. It truly hurt to admit that, and he rubbed his knees, while simultaneously rubbing at his brain. His brain could ache from all this reflection. It was aching. And Lewis wished vaguely that he had not gone out the night before.
                “Ribs for dinner tonight,” Will said, looking up from baby Merne.
                Lewis permitted the corners of his mouth to turn up. “A delight,” he replied.
                “One of your favorite things.” And then Will laughed.
                “What?”
                “I just can’t imagine you telling the Senator and his friends about you eating such a finger-food. They’re the kind of people who take mimosa and shrimp, or tofu.”
                “I have certain . . . digressing . . . tastes.”
                “Digressing!” Will gave a loud laugh, and baby Merne looked up with startled eyes. “I’d call ‘em revolutionary.”
                Lewis might have been sarcastic towards anyone else who laughed at him. But he just smiled and chuckled with his friend now. They always shared a moment of hilarity. It was nearly a tradition between them.

 

Lewis groped for some form of control of the situation. The only thing that he saw, possibly attainable, lay in her extreme sensitivity. But he had never been too adept at reading women. Somehow, he always mistook a glance to be a stare, a smile to be a telling expression of come-hither interest. Well. This young lady took herself seriously. He thought so at first, in spite of her timidity, her quietness, and the way her eyes frequently brightened with whimsical sparks. He opened the door for her, a gesture that he hoped would impress her.

 

“Memorium Press?” The very name was blatantly old-school. Lewis could barely suppress a smirk, even though he couldn’t take his eyes off this quiet young woman. Everything about him struck him as Conservative—her jacket, her black skirt, her blouse with its flowing front. Nothing showy, but it all came together, the colors complementing her dark eyes and hair, her creamy olive skin emphasized by the blackness of her skirt.
                “Yes—Memorium Press,” her tone was low, but firm. She gave a quick smile, thus showing the twin dimples in her cheeks.
                “Well.”
                “So,” she exhaled, and it struck him that she was nervous. Very nervous. “I asked for an interview.”
                “I can,” Lewis said, in his warmest voice. She glanced at her hands, then right and left, and at last back up at him. Her thick black lashes fluttered. Lewis wondered if that was purposeful, but doubted it when her expression became sober.
                “Really? Oh, thank you!” She said coolly, and shook his hand. For some reason, he bowed slightly, and crimson rose into her cheeks and temples.
                “Tonight? I could take you to the new club that just opened on Congress Avenue. It would be no problem.” He decided to disregard her obvious Conservatism. No doubt, she was strongly Republican, some little girl from the Mid-West. He could tell as much by her accent.
                She gave a quick nod, and her flush deepened. Lewis decided to take command of the situation. “I know what Memorium Press puts out,” he said, rubbing at the leather of his jacket’s sleeve. “I daresay,” he grinned, in his most charming way, “that you will be fair, and not present me in a slanted light.” He tried to sound almost jocular, but she most seriously replied,
                “Oh, of course Mr. Lewis. Memorium Press is determined to present things—as they are. No personal bias.”
                Lewis could think of a sardonic response, but he refrained. He did not want to turn her off. If she was as honest as she said she was (and working for such a factual newspaper) she might very well describe him as a derisive egotist, one of those cocky Government bigheads. Sometimes he might have to slip into that role, but he wanted (women especially) to see him as a dedicated scientist and man of exploration. And of course—a man who was getting ready to settle down, still in the public life of course, but with an attractive bride to show off, some kids to boast of, for their intellectual competence–this lacking brought him up short
                “That is good to hear,” he said warmly. “I haven’t heard of Memorium Press yet, so excuse my—ignorance.”
                Her lips curved, for she caught his sarcasm.
                “I’m only interning for them right now,” she said frankly.
So they sent a little intern across my path—far too impertinent and full of themselves to send one of their better journalists. An intern! She’s just a kid—a college student. His warmness began to fade, maybe a little too rapidly.
                She lifted her head. “I’m a college senior—this is one of our credits, to graduate. Intern at a newspaper, local—well, Memorium Press is sort of local.”
                “UV?”
                “Patrick Henry.”
                He vaguely remembered hearing that name. But he was wont to shrug it off. He studied the young woman a bit more closely.
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