snekochansworlds

Tales from the Optimistic Pessimist
My Story-less Journal
By: Snekochan

I am a writer. Alright, I’m a wanna-be writer: I have permanent writer’s block; I’ve only ever finished one long story-though that’s not from a lack of trying; I’m not very well adept at art of the short story. (I have a tendency to add too many characters, where, as my father told me, some short stories don’t even have named characters! The very thought of that is horrifying. I guess I like writing for the people.) I’ve been told by some of my earlier teachers that I was writing stories when I was fairly young. Personally, I think I had an overactive imagination, and that if I didn’t write, then my head would’ve exploded. Ok. I guess that’s not true. I don’t explode when I don’t write, but I suppose you could say I implode- or, I get really, really grouchy. If I were a cartoon, you would see immediately when I had writer’s block, or hadn’t found the time to write, because there would be a giant black cloud over my head, leeching out to cover the poor innocents around me. It would actually be a great warning system- oops- big black writer-less cloud over Sneko’s head- run for cover! Stay away! Prepare for glower squalls, rolling eyes and a 100% chance of sulking!- There. That wasn’t so hard, now was it? Problem solved.

Except I’m not a cartoon character. And, as I recently discovered, sometimes, not writing stories can have other effects.

That just goes to show what a pretty pink journal can do for a girl. (Even when she hates pink, with the exception of the journal and the rug -but that’s another topic altogether).

It started with a Christmas gift. A pink, spiral bound (my favourite binding) journal with a rose on it. It was completely different than my normal black or black-and-red journals. I loved it. I just couldn’t write in it, because I already had a journal running- one of my normal black-and-red ones that I spend most of my time writing in. Still, even that was no big deal. I calculated that I had a few days left in my old journal, and then it would be Christmas holidays. A time when I don’t tend to write much anyway. I figured I could hold out. I wanted to start the journal some time special to me- so I chose to start the first entry on my 16th birthday. It made sense to me, and that’s probably what would’ve happened, had I not fallen into my usual habit of writing stories in my journals. It was a habit I hated, because it meant that if I started a journal and carried it around, I’d usually have it finished within one or two months. It was guaranteed that with a date set in mind to start a new journal, I would run out of paper in my old one a week before. No problem, I thought. I can handle that. It’s only a week.

I made it through three days, and felt like I would explode. On January 12th, I guiltily pulled out the stack of journals I’d received and picked up the pink journal to start writing and decided I would challenge myself. I was almost finished my online fanfiction story, and I felt I needed to focus more on reality- and on keeping personal promises.

In the entry for January 12th, I decided that (among other things) I wouldn’t write stories in my journal. I’m pretty sure it was the only one of the many goals I set for myself that I kept. (The plan to write everyday went out the window on my birthday- I totally forgot. Oops.) Because I did keep that goal. From January 12 to April 23, I didn’t write a story in that journal. I finished NTNP on the internet. I wrote out story ideas, which, as everyone knows, are totally different than stories themselves. (That’s what I told myself anyway.) I failed to follow through with the goals I set for my 16-year-old self. (Out of the eleven I set, I failed to do numbers 2,3,5,6,7,8,9 and 11.) But I didn’t write stories in there. I almost did. Right at the very end. Being on the last pages of a journal is hard, because you can’t start anything long, you’ll run out of room, but you want to finish it off so you can start a new journal. A difficult time, indeed, but I succeeded in completing one goal. I. Had. Done. It.

Actually doing what you set out to do is a very strange feeling, I must say.

When I finished, I flipped through the journal, laughing at some of my thoughts- it’s amazing, really, how much you change in a few months. Things you thought were horrid and important, you don’t even remember them. I suppose you could say that I did fail in completing the No-stories rule, because I have a tendency to treat life like a story- always a new page to turn, a new adventure to read, a new challenge to face- the list goes on and on. Speaking of lists, I wrote a new one at the back of that journal. It was full of as many hopeless goals as the first one, but it was better. I also started Sarah’s Journal #2. Like The pink ‘journal # 1” as I called it, I wrote a list of rules on the first page- the only rule was to write whatever the hell I wanted.

I gave up writing in it after three days of mad story-plotting.

There was no challenge in writing a story journal.

Its making real life a story that’s the most fun. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t get into any of the various stories I tried to write from when I finished New Time New Place on. Maybe I had to learn that lesson and move away from fantasy. Will I never write storied in my journal again? Ha. As if. If I have an idea, I’ll write it. But I don’t think I’ll write in in my journal. My pink journal taught me that my life, as mundane as it is, can be a story that I like to read.

All I have to do is remember to write it!

After all, what else is a wanna-be writer to do?

Tails from an Optimistic Pessimist
The Black Dress
By Snekochan

I had never heard the saying “Ever girl needs a little black dress” until a couple days ago while standing in a bookstore. In fact, I suppose you could say that I’ve never heard it, seeing as I read it in a little book on friendship.

A little black dress. I hadn’t heard of that concept before, but I did have a black dress. I’ve never worn it anywhere, I don’t go to enough events to do that…plus, I only got it last weekend, courtesy of my mom, who found it. I loved it as soon as I tried it on. Paired with my favourite black and grey striped tights, my black choker necklace (which no one but my immediate family knows about.) and my -virtually un-wearable- clunky black shoes, I looked like a character out of my comic. I looked totally different. (The fact that I’d been wearing sweat pants and a baggy over-shirt earlier may have helped make the transformation more miraculous), and the strange thing was, I felt different too. I stood taller, I was smiling (I do anyway, but it wasn’t my usual haphazard grin), I looked… my age? (Or not. Without the choker I looked older. Thank goodness for the choker!) I felt pretty. Which, I’m ashamed to say, I liked. I’m a teenager. Of course I like feeling pretty. I know it’s shallow, but I’m learning who I am, and clothes are a safe way to do it. They, when you pick how you style and match them, can say a lot about who you are- or what you want people to think. But they can also affect how you think about yourself, which brings me back to the dress.

The dress made me- plain, book reading me- feel pretty. And confident. It was a screw-you-I-can-do-anything moment. (Well, as soon as I could get on a decent pair of shoes. Then I could do anything and not fall over.) It’s a sensation that every woman needs to feel. (and guys too, but somehow I think they don’t wear black dresses to find it. Unless they want to, of course, in which case, go ahead.) It doesn’t have to be a black dress. Any outfit that makes you feel good about yourself is fine. Then, whatever you’re wearing -jeans, sweat pants, swim suits, shorts, nothing- feel that way. The way you felt in your black dress. Put the dress on again if you forget how it feels, but always wear your black dress inside, regardless of what you’re wearing outside, because the black dress is just a light that illuminated some part of you that hides in the shadows of people’s perceptions. Its always there, no matter what anyone does or says, what you wear, where you are. Do you know what it is?
It’s you! A beautiful, wonderful, smart, friendly, fantastic you!
Don’t you dare lose it!

Tails from an Optimistic Pessimist
Jeans
By Snekochan

If you saw me, you wouldn’t pick my out from the crowd as anything other than another, plain, boring teenager. In fact, you probably wouldn’t notice me. I’d be the one hunching my shoulders, trying to disappear. Or I’d be the woman with the bizarre choice of skirts. Or, I could be the one towing around a younger sibling, or chatting with my mother, or just flicking through the selection in the music store, trying to keep my jeans from sliding down too ruddy far.

Jeans.

I love my jeans. I own one pair- I pitched my old ones when they were too small. (Gave them away, actually. You don’t throw out clothes.) Jeans are non-descript. Mine are now a size or two too large, and I always pair them with a long brown tee-shirt or a burgundy sweater. Sometimes I throw in my yin-yang necklace for effect, but that’s what makes jeans interesting. Non-descript and incredibly versatile, that’s probably why so many people wear them. At my school, everyone does.

Including me.

Whoop-de-do-da-day. Another teenager wearing jeans. Big deal, you say.

It is.

For me.

In grade seven, all I wanted to be was un-stereotypical. There were a couple reasons for this, I suppose. For one, I wanted to be different than all the other girls in my class. I was self-conscience, nervous, shy…like most other grade sevens. I hated being the same as other people. Really hated it. I was also considered a ‘booky’ or nerdy girl. (I have no idea why…doesn’t everyone read a novel a day in grade seven? No?) I got good marks. That made me different automatically, but that wasn’t enough. I hated being classified as a nerd- that made me like other nerds, even if nerds were uncommon in my school. So, not only was I trying to be different from my school mates, I had to be different from typical nerds too…while remaining a good girl. (Curse my moral streak. Seriously. It’s unbecoming in a teenager.) So, I did the easiest thing I could. I shunned what everyone else liked. From basket ball (Although I never will understand what’s so fun about throwing an orange with a bad paint job in a basket.), to ball hockey (which I actually liked), to jeans. Yes, jeans fell under that category too. I spent all my time in the library, like a good smart girl, but I drew comics and was strong. (Need that desk moved? Where do you want it?) Now, a lot of that was just me being me, but some things were made more prominent than others due to me trying to break my mould…

What a laugh. Looking back on it now, in tenth grade, I can’t help but smile. I trapped myself into habits. In order to surprise people, I had to put them at ease by doing something the same for as long as possible- like not wearing pants for weeks and then suddenly coming in jeans, or wearing dozens of barrettes in my hair after months of double braids). Then, I just stopped changing what I was doing. What was the point? I was invisible no matter what I did. I settled into my habits and remained there. Essentially, I was in a rut. My class wouldn’t notice me no matter what I did. I pretended I didn’t care what they thought…but I did. It had to change.

When did it change?

I haven’t a clue.

In grade nine, I started to talk to people. One girl, one who used to give me a hard time, turned out to be quite nice once we put or arguments behind us. I started to relax, and chatted with people a bit more… and then I don’t know what happened. By the end of grade nine, I was happier, but it’s really this year that the biggest change happened. I don’t know what did it, maybe being in high school. I joined (the horrid) Student Council- my mortal enemies from years past. (I hated student council fun days. I thought they were stupid…) No one else was willing to, so myself and another girl were elected as class reps by default. Then, low and behold, I made a friend. A real friend. I got my first crush. I stopped trying to be different. No, I didn’t give up my individuality. I still wore skirts…some days. I went to the library…some times. I wore barrettes in my hair…some times. What’s funny is, when I stopped acting different, and acted like myself, did what I liked to do, laughed at what I found funny…I was different in the real sense. I was me- the booky girl who likes ball-hockey as much as reading, comics as much as chemistry, music as much as gardening. I was myself, like every other person in my school, and in the world can be. If I like something, than I like it. I don’t care if my friends do or don’t. I’m entitled to my opinion. So are you.

So now I wear jeans when I want (Well, if I’m allowed. Time and a place and all that. I guess you can tell I‘m not rebellious.), if I want.

So what do you like to do?

Tales From An Optimistic Pessimist
Doodles
By Snekochan

I’m a person who loves information. There’s no denying it. I like knowing things, I like being right, and I love learning things. That, for many years, made me a school-person. I like school, I really do. There isn’t a subject in school that I don’t like (with the minor exceptions of gym and career development, but only because you never do anything in them. If we studied careers in career class, maybe I’d like it better.) However, just because I like a topic, that doesn’t mean I like the class. As much as I try to over-achieve at school, there’s some subjects that make my eyes glaze over.

Enter, the Doodle-Metre 87621! (Where ‘doodle’ means ‘little scribble drawing, ‘metre’ means a way of measuring the amounts of doodles and ‘87621’ is a random number that came up when my cat walked across the key board and sounded more interesting than 3000. Ahem.)

I like writing, but I also like drawing. Which is where my doodle-metre comes in. For me, it’s a way of judging if a class is challenging me enough or if I should bring something else to class with me to work on. (That ‘something’ usually being a journal. It’s kind of hard to work on a sculpture in the middle of Canadian History class, although that would be fun…) For example. If you were to flip through my chemistry note book, you might find one or two doodles where I finished my work early or maybe the teacher left the class room for a moment. That’s a very low score on the doodle-metre (a one), because it’s a subject where you have to constantly pay attention or you miss something. Chemistry is a challenge, so there are few doodles.

Now, to level two, Canadian history. If you were to go through that exercise book, you would find notes, neatly written out and surrounded by scribbled out drawing of my characters or characters from animated shows I like to watch. The Doodle-metre shows I have extra time in that class, or I don’t have to work very hard, which means I should bring in that journal and work on my stories, or read little bit of my novel, or plot world domination. (But that’s boring and cliché. Do you know how many kids plot world domination in Canadian History Class? So many there’s even a magazine put out for them. It’s called Seventeen.) So I bring a journal and write. Sometimes I even get a couple words that make sense.

My Career exercise doubles as a sketch book (That’s level three); I could write the next Great Canadian Novel in it if I wasn’t using it to finish chemistry homework before three o’clock. (Still, someone else could use the class to do that. It’s a great pastime, even if its not a great novel. Or if you’re not Canadian.)

Those are the three major levels of the doodle metre. There are other factors too, of course. Teachers, what period it is, what day of the week, etc, but that’s how I figure out which classes I can use to catch up on missed writing time.

Of course, there are personal things that should be taken into consideration. If subject is so easy you could sleep through every period and still get a 80+ mark, you should have an 80+ mark in it before you start plotting world domination. Challenge yourself to get the best mark you can in an easy class. Just because it is easy doesn‘t mean you should slack off. Do a little extra credit on the side, make it interesting. If something is a Doodle-metre level three, find a way to make it interesting. It’s making boring things interesting that makes fascinating people! In history, look up a person mentioned in class, in career, look up a job you’re interested in, in math, find applications for what you’re learning. There will always be something you can do to make boring things interesting. You just have to be creative and find it!

Are we interesting people! Hell yes! So let’s make life interesting, shall we!

Tails from An Optimistic Pessimist
Ice
By Snekochan

In Newfoundland, if you think that spring is coming, and you dare to mention it aloud, rest assured, that the next day, the weather will do it’s best to prove you wrong. After living here my entire life, you’d think I’d know this by now, but no. Apparently I don’t, because on the third warm day in a row, I made the mistake of making a note of the warmth in my journal.

So, of course the next day it was snowing! Cursing my brilliance for mentioning the weather in my journal- I know it’s bad luck to do that, the next morning before school I stepped outside to walk the dog, lifting my face to the tiny falling stars, smiling. As much as I like spring, winter is still a wonderful time, and standing there in the shadows that exist before sunrise, I couldn’t help smiling, catching a flake on my fuzzy mitten before calling to my dog and skidding towards the harbour, still grumpy, but much less so. Something about snow always makes me smile, even when it doesn’t stay on the ground.

The ground was bare, covered in thick, frozen mud and lumps of gravel stuck together beneath the alders. It was cold, that icky damp cold that wiggles right through you. I glowered at the mud as my dog snuffled about in the field, my eyes drifting to the puddles that formed in the tire ruts and pot holes. During the night, the mud puddles had grown a skin of white ice, the kind I used to love when I was younger, because when you stepped on it, it made fantastic cracking noises.

I lifted my foot over the puddle, laughing. I hadn’t done it in years. Cracking ice, that is. I lift my foot to walk every day.

But then I stopped, bending over to look at the ice, formed like lace around the pebbles. It stretched across the puddle, white and crisp, turning into stained glass as the sun peeped from behind the point. I hesitated. If I didn’t crack it, it would be melted by mid morning. The temperature was already rising, and the snow had stopped. No one would notice if it was there, and no one would notice if it wasn’t. If I did crack it, no one would really care.

I ran my finger over the tiny layer of ice, watching the colours trapped in the triangles.

No one would care if I broke the ice. No one would notice. It would be gone before I left for school, or one of the boys would get it.

I turned and called to my dog, waving her towards home.

I left the ice glittering in the dawn. It would melt, but I wouldn’t be the one to destroy it. There are some many things in life like ice, glittering for a moment then gone before anyone notices it’s there, vanishing in a moment of heat or crushed in the glee of a child’s game. There’s nothing wrong with that, that’s how life works. That’s how we work. We’re here for but a moment, then like starry snow flakes we melt away.

That’s why we must glitter when we can.

Tales from An Optimistic Pessimist
Hands
By Snekochan

I love lifting heavy things. It may sound weird coming from a girl who spends a lot of time reading, but personally, I really don’t care. I just love lifting things. Picking them up and moving them, feeling the pull as my mind drifts to other things- thinks like stories, the book I’m reading, the episode of Danny Phantom I’ll tape this week. It’s brainless, in a way, and I love doing it. That’s why it always bugs me that when the teachers needed help to carry chairs, or desks, they would always ask the guys to do it.

Guys.

Not girls; not everyone; not people; not class. Guys. As if guys were the only one’s who could do it. It used to make me so mad! That’s why, whenever I got the chance, I’d help the janitor (a woman, I might add) with anything she needed carried, which is how I ended up helping to carry the desks back to classrooms after mid-term exams. Supposedly, we were all expected to help carry the desks back- one for each of us. Apparently, most of the other people were less interested in lifting things than I was. By the time homeroom rolled around, I was the only one left hauling the things to class. The teachers thanked me, and said they could handle the rest. I went to class, tired, but happy. I had French first, I’d brought my journal, all that fun stuff. Humming, I shouldered my bag, flexing hand which had fallen asleep, greeting my teacher and dropping into my chair. Ah French. I loved it! I love French, I love languages. I just wish I could speak more or them. I fumbled picking up my pencil, dropping it. Laughing, I picked it up, only to drop it again. No big deal, I told myself, you’re just shaky from carrying more than normal. I got the pencil onto the table and pulled a packet of lead refills from my bag, still trying to flex my hand.

It wasn’t working.

Needless to say, I was more than a little worried. It turned out to be fine, the teacher sent me from the classroom to see if it would clear up, which it did in the course of about half an hour- well, it probably should’ve taken longer, but I got sick of sitting in the principal’s office with nothing to do, so I went back to class as soon as I could hold a pen. I never was able to read the notes from that class.

My hand’s fine. By the end of the day, I was drawing and typing as well as normal, but I’d gotten a good scare.

I think we forget, frequently, how fragile our bodies are. Mess one small thing up, like pinching a nerve, can cause effects all over. In my case, it affected my hands, to my mind, my most important thing, seeing as I spend most of my time drawing or writing , or working with miniatures. If there was any part I’d be lost without, it’d be my hands. We have to watch ourselves. It’s well and fine to push ourselves, but if we’re not careful, we’ll pinch a nerve and lose our hands, or our feet, or our world, because we’re not the only system that can have a pinched nerve. Our families, our towns and governments, our friends, our world, any of these things are things we might take for granted, but if we’re not careful, we could pinch a nerve and be without our hands. We’d be lost. So be careful, but also, be thankful for what you have, and be mindful of what we have. Like your body, every relationship must be cared for and respected, be it from mind to hand, you to friends, humans to the world, it’s all the same. We’re all the same.

Tales from an Optimistic Pessimist
Elbow
By Snekochan

I hate student council. I hated it in grade six when I moved to a school that had it, I hated it when I went to the area’s combination junior and high school. I hated the stupid “Spirit Days” on Fridays where you were expected to come to school dressed to match some stupid theme or idea, like ‘bad-hair day’ (I had a permanent one. No problem there), ‘pyjama day’(Uh-uh. I refuse to wear bed clothes to school), ’jersey day’ (Sports jerseys, not the cows. Pity…), etc. So how was it, that after four years of steadily hating the very institution, I ended up on the student council?
Being considered a serious (It‘s true. They think I’m serious.), responsible student has some major drawbacks… which is how I ended up outside a large garage on a blustery Tuesday afternoon.
A Christmas parade.
I didn’t even know there was one. Now I had to help work on a float. That was a very…interesting adventure in itself. (I permanently terrified all my fellow student council members by cracking off the bottom branches of our Christmas tree -barehanded- so it would fit in a stand (it never did). Seriously people. Big deal! Then there was the tinsel incident, and the boxes, and the branches, and the wrapping paper tubes…) Finally, two hours later, (After bickering with my best-friend-to-be, Awanchan) I found myself outside with the two who were giving me a ride home. Board and very hyper after the whole (pathetic) float thing, we found ourselves deciding to race to the far wall. Feet pounding across the unpaved parking lot, we laughed, our breath turning into silvery clouds in the dusk. I was in the lead (By all of a foot too! I’m such a slow runner it’s not funny. In a movie, I’d be one of the first one’s x-ed off.) Unfortunately, I spotted a large (ice covered) pot hole directly ahead. Quickly, I glanced over my shoulder to see if I could cut around it without knocking one of the others over.
My foot hooked in a rock.
Never look back.
Wham!
Gravel makes a very uncomfortable landing surface, I must say. I said I was fine and went to the tiny bathroom inside to pick the rocks out of my hand (left, of course- I’m left handed). After I’d cleaned it up as best I could, I went out and got the ride home, joking with the others and ignoring the burning in my hand. I was lucky, I decided. I had both decided not to wear my coat while running, which was good (if I has, I would’ve been impaled by my scissors, hammer, screwdriver… yeah. I was a regular tool kit) and I had worn my red hoodie. No blood stains! When I got home, my mom brought me upstairs to get me cleaned up. (Rubbing alcohol. OW! That hurt more than the stupid fall) Which is when we discovered I had taken a gouge out of my elbow. For about an inch, there was just…a hole. (I never feel cuts like that. I did something similar to my knee). When my did got off work, we went to get it patched up (and to get the gravel removed from my hand). I was fine. It didn’t actually hurt. It was just kinda messy.
So that’s what I got from joining student council. It marked me! But do I regret joining it? Not a chance! We never do anything, and we disappear at Grad, but it’s got its moments!
Besides. Never look back. There’re always good things to be found. We can’t change the past. All we can do is look ahead and cherish the present!

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