Am I Childish?

It's a question that I ask myself a lot.

So, why is it a question that I ask myself so much? Well...I like a lot of stuff for kids. I mean, a lot of stuff. For example:

I collect My Little Pony toys. I reject the appellation of "Brony," though. Not because I have any kind of disdain for Bronies, but because I am not really that into the Friendship is Magic line, which is what Bronies are primarily into. But when I say that I collect My Little Pony, I don't mean I have a few ponies. I have over 350 of them, not counting duplicates. I constantly scout garage sales, thrift stores, and eBay in hopes of finding G1 or G2 ponies to add to my collection. They are all organized in roughly chronological order of release.

After a rough day at work, I like to unwind by watching SpongeBob SquarePants. Yeah. That's right. I like it because it's cute and innocent (for the most part--there are those occasional adult jokes in there). It's mind-numbing and just a great way to unplug my brain for some silliness.

Most of the shows I am currently watching are for children. Star Wars Rebels, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir are the three main ones. The only show I'm following which is not for kids is Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. And when I watch shows, I get really into them. Like, a lot. I tend to obsess a little bit. Which makes me feel especially childish.

I love a lot of kids' movies. One of the highlights of this year has been going to see Zootopia, which I absolutely loved! I love Kung Fu Panda, I love a lot of Pixar movies, Disney movies, and so on and so forth.

That's a lot of kid stuff for an adult to be into. Furthermore, I enjoy YA fiction quite a bit. Something not exactly aimed at my age group. So, yeah. Does that make me childish? 

A lot of people would say that yes, that does make me childish. Not to stereotype, but most of these people are in the Baby Boomer generation. They see youthful interests as an indication of immaturity. However, I think that immature behavior is an indication of immaturity, not choice of entertainment.

I tell myself that no, I am not childish. I cook my own meals, I clean my own house (sometimes), I show up on time to work and work my butt off once I'm there, and I sit down and do a budget with my husband every pay period. I even stick to that budget--something that took a lot of time and effort to finally convince myself to do. At almost thirty years old, I should hope that I am not childish. I don't have the thought processes of a child, at least.

When I really think about what "childish" means, I think of terms like "selfish," "petty," and "irresponsible." These are characteristics that even the most sophisticated and mature individual displays from time to time, since none of us are perfect. Anyone can have moments of childishness, but being childish means having them more often than not.

So if you're in the same boat as me, wondering if you're childish because of youthful interests, then fear not. You aren't childish.

Neither am I.

Welcome to the New Lamps and Mirrors!

So, you might notice that Lamps and Mirrors is a little different. For example, it is no longer Lamps and Mirrors. Now, it is Literature. Life. 

Why the change? Well, I honestly felt that I had pigeonholed myself with Lamps and Mirrors. I had nothing to write about because I couldn't think of anything sufficiently literary or writing-related. Plus, I have The Lonely Young Writer for stuff about writing, so I thought I would broaden the focus of this blog so that I have more to write about. Things are going to have a bit more of a personal touch to them.

What are the kinds of things you'll see on Literature. Life.?

I'll be blogging about books that I'm reading, cinematic literature, and various things about my life.  So, actually, this blog is now pretty much game for any topic whatsoever. I know "they" say that you're supposed to have a blog with a narrow focus, but obviously I've had a hard time doing that.

There's more material to come, so stay tuned. 

Overhaul in Progress

So, you may notice that things look a little different around here. If you were looking for Lamps and Mirrors, don't worry! You're still at the right place! Stay tuned for more updates, and in the meantime, enjoy all of my old posts.

Six Reasons I Won't Water Down My Vocabulary

Almost consistently, the first thing I’m told when any given person critiques my work is that the vocabulary is too advanced, or that they had to look up some of the words.

Apparently, this is a bad thing.

While it makes sense not to use advanced language in children’s books and most young adult books, books which are aimed at high school upperclassmen and older should be free to use whatever type of vocabulary the author wants.  Here is my reasoning:

1.  Just because a word is uncommon doesn’t mean it should not be used.

 The only way we learn new words is by being exposed to them. By refusing to use ‘big’ words because many people don’t know them, writers are purposefully limiting our audiences. We are basically assuming our audience is dumb, and that is a grave insult.  Reading is supposed to expand the mind as well as entertain; writers are in fact in the position to educate. We should embrace this power, not fear it.

2. Sometimes the bigger, more uncommon word is the best word.

Hemingway once famously said that you shouldn’t use multiple words where one word will do. If a ‘big’ word replaces a concept that takes 10 smaller words to describe, the big word is obviously superior.

3. Readers are not idiots who need to be sheltered from the evils of big, scary vocabulary words.

People who read for entertainment are already most likely of a higher education level. When people come across a word they don’t know while reading, they do one of three things: look it up, guess the approximate meaning based on context, or ignore the word.  The first two options allow you to help broaden your reader’s horizons, and who doesn’t want to do that?  The third option isn’t bad either. People skip over stuff all the time when they read, and usually, a handful of words they didn’t know isn’t going to prevent them from understanding the tale at large.

4. Looking up the meanings of words is literally easier than ever.

It used to be that if you didn’t know a word, you would have to haul out a dictionary and leaf through the pages to find it. Nowadays, we have dictionary apps that allow you to look up words in less than sixty seconds, and almost everybody has a smart device with them at all times. If you don’t have an app, there’s Dictionary.com.  Nobody has an excuse anymore, and pausing your reading to look up a word is not the end of the world. Yes, it might temporarily ‘jolt’ somebody out of the story for a minute, but if it allows them to learn something, that’s not such a bad thing. Most people will figure it out from context or just ignore it, so it actually doesn’t make much difference in the long run.

5. E-Readers have changed everything.

If you have a Kindle or a Nook, all you have to do is tap a word and the built-in dictionary tells you what it means. Let me say that again. All you have to do is frickin’ tap the screen. It could only get easier if you had dictionary software implanted in your brain!  As more and more people are switching to eBooks, the excuses for purposefully limiting vocabulary become more and more ridiculous.

6. If somebody dislikes my writing because of my use of ‘larger’ vocabulary words, then they weren’t part of my target audience to begin with.

This is not to say that I write only for elite, erudite audiences. I write for people who are okay with expanding their minds. Heck, My Little Pony frequently uses words that kindergarteners wouldn’t know – like precipice, for example. If My Little Pony can do it when their audience is little children, then certainly I can do it when my audience is high school upperclassmen and older – or do you give more credit to little kids than you do to adults? Entertainment can expand our minds. Why should we try to curb that? The highest indicator of student success is teacher expectation. I see no reason why that can’t apply to readers and writers, too.

Furthermore, using ‘big’ vocab words does not limit my shot at becoming a successful writer. Best-selling author Stephen R. Donaldson is notorious for his use of ‘big’ words, as well as archaic words.  And, as you might guess from the fact that I called him a best-selling author, he turned out to be a best-selling author even though he uses ‘big’ words.

I’m not going to water down my writing. Yes, most people don’t have higher than a sixth grade reading level. But it’s not like I hunt through a thesaurus trying to find the biggest word for everything. Most of my writing scores no more than a fifth grade level, according to the Flesch-Kincaid rating system. Yes, that’s even my works that have the big, scary vocabulary words in them!

So, no. I’m not going to cut out all the advanced vocabulary from my work. I’m going to fearlessly continue using whatever words I think are best for the situation, whether it’s a three year old character saying, “Mama, bells go ‘ding, dong’!’” or a wise old Oxford professor saying that he remembers the tintinnabulation of church bells. I don’t care if you didn’t know the word before you read my work. I don’t care if you choose to ignore it.

But if I both found the perfect word and helped you learn something new, then I don’t think any writer could ask for more. 

What do you think? Is using 'big' words elitist and snobbish, or is it beneficial both to the writing itself and the readers? Sound off in the comments. 

Flash Fiction: The Parlor Alexander the Great

So, I did another writing exercise to loosen the bonds of writer's block. Luckily for you (or unluckily, depending on your perspective), I decided to share it here! I did this one using the same title generator as last time.

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"The Parlor Alexander the Great"
© A.L.S. Vossler 2015

Rae sat down in the luxurious armchair in Mrs. Mulway’s house. She always loved coming here; Mrs. Mulway had a constant supply of delicious cookies. Currently, Mrs. Mulway was in the kitchen boiling water for Rae’s tea.

“Are your parents still fighting, dear?” Mrs. Mulway’s voice came from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Rae said. Mrs. Mulway didn’t know the half of it, but Rae didn’t want to talk about it. She hadn’t come over here to talk about her parents; she’d come here to get away from them. For just a little while, she could look over the nifty things in her elderly neighbor’s parlor. For just a little while, she could forget her parents’ screaming. For just a little while, she could forget the sound of her step-dad beating up her mom. She could forget how much she hated him.

The room was filled with all kinds of curios, some of which were under a considerable layer of dust. As Rae’s eyes traveled across the mantelpiece, she saw something new: a glass dome display case containing an 11-inch figurine, a little man who was dressed like he was from ancient Greece. Rae got up and stood on her tiptoes so that she could peer at the inscription that was on the base plate: Alexander the Great.

Rae tilted her head from side to side. He would have made a good friend for one of her Barbie dolls. Barbie probably would like his fancy armor. Rae glanced over her shoulder. Mrs. Mulway was busy in kitchen still, but the kettle was beginning to whistle. It would be less than a minute before she would come back into the room.

No. Stealing was bad, and Mrs. Mulway was nice. It wouldn’t be right.

Rae turned back to look at the figurine again. She almost screamed when she saw that the little man was pressed up against the side of the dome. “Help me.” His voice was muffled through the glass. “You have to help me.”

“What will you do if I help you?”

“There is nothing I cannot do, young mistress. I conquered all of Asia Minor ere my eighteenth birthday!” He put his hands on his hips and struck a confident pose.

A sense of power swept over Rae. She wasn’t sure what Asia Minor was, but she knew what Asia was: it was the biggest continent in the world. A man who could conquer Asia was the most powerful thing there was, especially if he was so tiny. Forget not stealing. Forget right and wrong. “You’ll do anything I ask you to?”

“By the gods, I swear I will.”

Rae gritted her teeth. “I want you to kill my step-dad.”

Criticism (constructive or otherwise) is welcome in the comments.

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Flash Fiction: A Steam-Powered Rat out of Treasures

If you ever frequent my other blog, The Lonely Young Writer, you may have seen my post on generating ideas. In that post, I recommend using a random title generator such as this one, and then write for ten minutes using that title as the prompt for your story.

The result is, more or less, flash fiction.

I was feeling stuck yesterday, so I decided to loosen up the writing muscles a bit by doing this exercise. The title generator spit out this monstrosity of a story title: "A Steam-Powered Rat out of Treasures." I was a bit flummoxed at first, but highly intrigued. I ended up spending 25 minutes or so writing it, rather than just ten, but I think it was well worth it.

As the story is speculative in nature (it has steam-powered rats; of course it's speculative), and as I haven't posted anything here since November, I thought I would share it. Constructive criticism is encouraged and welcome.

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"A Steam-Powered Rat out of Treasures"
© A.L.S. Vossler 2015

Pain is all it knows. It sits in its glass prison, waiting, watching, hoping that the water dish and food will be returned soon. Instead, the people pour water into the reservoir on its back and shut the lid.

It hates the thing on its back.  The thing on its back makes it hot, makes steam, and makes the metal legs move.  It misses its old legs, the legs it could feel with, the legs it could move by itself. But the metal legs whirr and click: whirr like the tiny rotary saw tied to its metal tail, click like the buttons on the controller that moves them. They reach in with big forceps and lift it out, checking to make sure the limbs work.

They say it cannot lose the fight this time.  It is better than last time.  They will surely win.

The fights are the worst.  Others similar to it, some with extra legs and big, sharp metal ears, or their jaws replaced with powerful vises, are put into the circle. It is made to fight with the others – fight with the others, or it is hurt by the others: scratched, cut, bitten, stabbed. Fight or die.

They say that it is time for the fight. They put it in the smaller cage and carry it away.

All it wants is to hide in the soft nest it once had; a soft nest lined with tufts of polyester and old gum wrappers. A warm and comfortable nest, surrounded by abandoned tops and jacks, a shiny tab from a pop can, balls of paper, a doll’s head, an old plastic ring: a beautiful nest filled with beautiful treasures.

A big voice echoes as they bring it into the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for the battle of your life: incumbent champion, The Big Cheese, faces the challenger, The Packrat! Will The Big Cheese’s reign of terror end, or will The Packrat be nothing but a smear of blood and fur on the floor?”

It hates the fights.


As always, constructive criticism is welcome in the comments.

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Image credits: The image is a compound of "Silhouette Mouse Sitting," courtesy of Piotr Siedlecki at PublicDomainPictures.net, and "Steampunking It," courtesy of Randi Klugiewicz at PublicDomainPictures.net.

Accusation: A Short Story

Image courtesy of Jack Sparrow at PublicDomainPictures.net

Well, I realize it's a day late for scary stories, but I hadn't posted anything in a while and I felt like I ought to.  I had one story I was working on, but simply didn't have time to finish.  Perhaps another time.  However, I remembered a short story I wrote back at Community College as a school assignment, and since it was a response to a literature assignment with a speculative fiction spin, I thought it would be perfect for Lamps and Mirrors.

In my class "The Short Story and the Novel," we read Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung). Now if you ever want an intersection of literature and speculative fiction, there it is. I absolutely loved it.  For our assignment, my super awesome teacher Doug J. gave us two options: write a brief response paper, or, using Jane Smiley's "Gregor: My Life as a Bug" as an example, write a "sequel" or continuation of The Metamorphosis.  If we chose the latter, we were to use it as a sort of explication of our understanding of the story.  So, preferring creative writing to academic, I chose the second option.  The following short story is the result of that assignment.

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"Accusation" 
 © A.L.S. Vossler

Her screams jolted him out of sleep for the sixth time that week.  She often behaved like this at night, seemingly deaf to her own screeches—and anything else around her—for despite his attempts to wake her, her eyes remained tightly shut and she continued to moan in terror or pain.  Her flagellating arms and legs could not be made to lie still, and combined with her swollen belly, she reminded him forcibly of insects that, once laid upon their backs, cannot right themselves. 

The first convulsion had happened on their wedding night, and it had frightened him to be certain, but he was of the philosophy that auspicious beginnings were a luxury in this day and age, and a working man simply had to take what he could get.  He occasionally prided himself on his courage—after all, any other man would have already divorced the fragile young thing; but he, ah, he would stay beside her and somehow make everything right.  He had watched her convulsions again and again, night after night; never seeming to come closer to discovering the cause behind them.  She would always awake as her phantasm left her with a final shriek; trembling, she would cling to him and weep, all the while whispering, “Forgive me, forgive me.”
   
He always forgave her.  But this was not the cure.

When he had first met Grete Samsa, she was a rosy-cheeked, beautiful creature: the daughter of an associate at the office.  Mr. Samsa, by all accounts, had recently escaped some kind of medical misfortune; for where he had seemed wan before, he now appeared to be the picture of health.  His once-rumpled uniform was now pristine daily.

“You look well as of late, Mr. Samsa,” he told his colleague one morning shortly after this peculiar metamorphosis.

“Thank you, Mr. Anklage,” replied Mr. Samsa, with a wide grin.  “We have had a recent happy event at my household.”

“Might I inquire as to what that might be?” Anklage asked congenially.

A shadow crossed Mr. Samsa’s visage.  “Well, perhaps it is of little consequence after all.”  The lines that traced his brow furrowed, as though he was straining after a memory, but age or some other agent prevented it from being recalled.  It was at that moment that Grete entered the scene, her rosy cheeks glowing with all the vitality of youth, carrying a basket which presumably contained Mr. Samsa’s midday meal.  She kissed her father as she passed him the basket, but her eyes lingered with a bashful curiosity on Anklage’s face, and her rosy face turned a deeper crimson shade.  Mr. Samsa smiled knowingly, and with a charming smile proceeded to ask Anklage to dinner.

Things between Anklage and Grete proceeded in clock-work fashion, and within months their marriage was in order. Everything seemed perfect, and Anklage could do nothing but predict for himself a happy and fulfilling marriage.  But hardly had their blissful lives together begun when these ferocious dreams began gripping Grete during the early hours of the morning; after she awoke, she could say no words other than “forgive me.”

During their waking hours together, Anklage was loath to bring up the matter, for if he even mentioned the nighttime outbursts, Grete would cry out, bury her face in her hands, or in the most extreme case, take her fingernails and dig them into her own flesh until her blood, dark with unbalanced humors, formed stains of penitence on her white blouse.  At times like these he attempted to restrain her, but she would not be appeased until the blood had successfully made its mark.  Fearful of her reaction, Anklage kept the matter to himself. 

As the months of their marriage progressed, Grete seemed more and more plagued by her nighttime visions, which now occurred six nights a week.  Sometimes, she burst into silent convulsions at the breakfast table after a peaceful night; every muscle in her body grew tense, and her jaw locked; until a small trickle of blood (from her tongue which she had managed to bite into) emerged at the corner of her mouth.  Then, only then, the fit passed.

Anklage’s alarm only continued to grow with Grete’s announcement of her pregnancy.  He begged that she see a doctor for the convulsions, but she refused and started clawing at herself so fiercely that he was terrified to bring up the subject again for fear of his child’s life.  As the baby grew inside her, the visions came with a startling new frequency; sometimes twice a night. 

Now, as he watched her, swinging her arms about wildly as always during the paroxysms, he could do nothing but pray for the preservation his child and his wife.  Her time was expected any day now, and he was afraid that she might go into labor at any moment.  He spoke soothing words and stroked her swollen belly as the spasms racked her body, forever hoping that he might reach her.  He could feel his unborn child too, suffering from the same agitated dreams that plagued its mother.   The characteristic final shriek shook her, and she opened her eyes, terrified, and looked up into her husband’s eyes.

“God Almighty!” she cried.  “Gregor, open up!  I’m pleading with you!”

The atypical words affected Anklage with such shock he could barely react.  “Who is Gregor?”

“I—” Grete’s eyes darted to and fro madly.  “I don’t remember!” she screamed, and began digging her nails into her large belly. 

With a bellow of terror, Anklage grabbed his wife’s hands away from their defenseless child.  But only blood would appease her, and she fought him with preternatural strength.  He allowed her nails to scratch deeply into her legs until she drew blood, yet even after this she still screamed as madly as ever.

“I killed him!  I killed him!  We all killed him! And did we weep in his passing?  We were overjoyed!  And he delivered us from debt, from debt...my brother...!   Forgive!  Forgive!”

“I forgive you!” shouted Anklage, over the noise of her shouts.

“Your forgiveness has no power!  His blood is on me, my children...my children!  We who destroyed him!”  She began to scream unintelligibly, her body shaking as it had never done before, her voice attaining an unearthly, inhuman pitch; until with a snap, barely detectable amidst the chaos, her womb burst, and a cascade of polluted amniotic fluid spilled onto the bedcovers.  Silence struck the room, as Grete’s panicked face froze.     

Something inside of her distended body was stirring, ready to leave its prison.

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Comments or constructive criticism are welcome in the comments.

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