Monday, June 11, 2012

"Hunger Games Trilogy" Review/My Theory on What Makes a Book Popular


Foreword/Disclaimer: I haven't ever done a review on anything in this blog, so look past it if you like or continue to read if you'd rather. I suppose my thoughts are fairly radical, so read at your own risk. The whole thing is probably snarkier than necessary, but oh well. These are my thoughts. Do with them what you will.

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The Hunger Games trilogy. One word: eh.
Allow me to thoroughly explain.

The plot: the storyline of these books (more so the first one than any of them) is absolutely fantastic. The idea is raw and unique, and extremely powerful in its own right. Kudos to Miss Collins for thinking up such a splendid idea. I am envious of this creativity.

The characters: more or less multi-dimensional. At least they were consistent with their roles. I feel personally that Katniss was really boring. And perhaps that's the complete aim of the author. But if Katniss Everdeen existed in real life, despite her "underestimated good looks" and braveness, I don't think I'd like to be friends with her. Not to say that makes up my mind as to whether It was a good or bad book; it's just something else I think about. She seems like a typically dull person. Doesn't smile. Doesn't like to say what she's thinking. These things lead me to believe that Peeta just fell in love with her looks. I mean honestly, folks? They hadn't exchanged a word, ever, until the hunger games and all of the sudden he's been in love with her all this time? Really?

I'm getting away with myself.

The writing: absolutely nothing special. When I read a book, I read it like a writer. I read it as if I'm going to highlight the sentences or phrases or passages that catch my eye or are unique, fresh, and altogether something I'd like my own writing to turn into. (I do actually have a few books on my shelves that have multiple high light marks in them.) So, basing this "writing" scale on that, I would have to say I am thoroughly disappointed with the writing. To be bluntly honest, I only saw two or three things in the entire trilogy that I, had I owned the book, would have highlighted.

Overall comments: Disappointment. All the hype about these books got me excited, and for what? The riveting plot? That's it? There is more to a story than a good plot line, if you ask me. I was told the writing was pretty good and so began reading the novels practically already as a fan of the trilogy. Don't get me wrong; every time I had to stop reading I couldn't wait until I could pick up the book again (from the plot and flow of the story), but at the same time, I continuously wondered if I would ever be completely satisfied (by the lack of descriptive/creative writing).
I also initially thought that maybe the difficulties of writing in first person make exceptional work a hard thing to achieve. (Seeing as twilight is also written in first person and also not written very well.) I thought maybe it was like the plague of writing; if you can't do it 100% "perfectly," you can't do it at all. However, then I recalled that I have a favorite series (Solitary by Travis Thrasher) that is written entirely in first person and I adore it. The writing is fresh, clean, witty (because of the character, mainly), and unique. It's also to the point but at the same time descriptive. This brought me to the conclusion that it was not simply the all-encompassing struggles of first person writing that make it a task to do properly. I in no way claim to be superior in any aspect of the word to these authors in the realm of first-person writing. I find it extremely difficult to write in first person unless it's a non-fiction work that is about me. This is why I choose to use third person in any fictional work that I produce. I realize and accept that I'm not very good at writing in first person and carry on. To me, it's almost like these authors said "this story will sound better in first person" but neglected to think about how precise they must be in order to get their points across in a descriptive manner.

Overall, I tend to read things for their writing, not solely their plot lines; and perhaps that's just me and I'm weird for seeing things that way. Whichever. For those of you who base only on plot lines and don't care about the writing, have at it. You're the reason twilight became so unfortunately popular. I, however, will sit here and attempt to find something to read that is more than halfway decent while at the same time riveting through the plot and the prose. How groundbreaking!

In the end, it's obvious to me that the plot is what made the hunger games so popular. And I see very clearly why; the plot is simply extravagant and amazing. I will not deny that I very much enjoyed it. That much I appreciate. What just gets me is the fact that the writing isn't anything special. That's all.

Miss Collins deserves all the attention and hype that she got; just for the plot line, not the writing.

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My Theory on What Makes a Book Popular 

Generally it takes a broad combination of things to get a book to even be eligible to become popular. As in the depth of the characters, the development of them over the course of the story, the flow of the story, the raw plot line itself, the description and use of figurative language, etc.

In the end, after all of that is said and done, I feel like there are two main things that have the potential to make a book popular. They are plot line and writing. Now keep in mind that in this case, one element can exist without the other and still be successful all by its lonesome; however, it is possible to have an equal share of good on both elements in one story to make it successful as well.

Example: Assuming you read the above review on my take of the Hunger Games trilogy, I made it blatantly clear that I am very supportive of the plot but not the writing (meaning style, use of description, figurative language, etc.). (Just like I said above in my review of the Hunger Games: even though the writing was nothing special, I still felt inclined to read because of the plot line; every time I put down the book, I couldn't wait to continue.) The plot has made the trilogy popular enough to be made into a movie for goodness sake. Don't get me wrong, Miss Collins is a genius for thinking up such a unique, original idea, but the plot is all that carried the story to fame. She deserves the fame for the idea, just not the writing. That's all I'm saying.

Now, on the opposite side of the spectrum, if you have really really good writing and maybe not so intriguing/strong of a plot line, it still is possible to keep readers interested enough to continue. If your sentences are bursting with rainbows of description and written with a great, unique style and knowledge of creative sentence structures and organization, it could very well be all you need to have a popular story on your hands. However, this tends not to happen as often as the above example. (Plot over writing as opposed to writing over plot.)

There is one story this theory doesn't quite match up with though...
The Twilight Saga.
I absolutely have no idea what brought this story to life. I'm pondering perhaps the fan base and the age group of said fan base. (I will admit, when the books first started coming out years ago (back when I was in middle school (the main targeted fan base, if you were wondering)) I immediately bought in to the hype and the romance and everything. But back then I was also not a writer and read things at face value, never really digging in deep and picking it apart to see what the raw of it was. Recently, just to test my changes in how I read things now as opposed to 6-7 years ago, I re-read the entire first book, Twilight, and it was absolutely horrid. Stephanie Meyer finally got some kind of idea in how to write in the fourth book, Breaking Dawn.) The plot line I suppose is salvageable overall, although it could do with some drastic changes in my opinion. In the end, it was the fan base, age group of the fan base, the onslaught of sudden obsession with forbidden romance and sparkly vampires, and the poorly-and-yet-constructed-just-enough plot line to hold everything together.

It's things like these that frustrate me as a writer. Authors like this give young, serious writers a bad name (among other things, of course). Again, not to say that I am a professional reviewer or writer and every product I crank out is glistening with golden script. Lots of the ideas I have get tossed into the trash bin almost immediately. However, I do like to think (based on my own thoughts and other people's input) that I can write fairly well, plot line-wise and creative writing-wise. It does, though, take a ton of polishing on my part for me to feel completely satisfied with anything I write.

Anyway, I am basing all of this on solely reading the stories and my own opinions. I'm not in any way trying to bash Stephanie Meyer (or Suzanne Collins) as human beings; it's possible they are charming, lovely people. They're just charming, lovely people who can't write creatively, is all I'm saying. Just because you can't write worth a darn or write well doesn't mean that's the quality of a person you are and that you should be shunned because of your disgusting writing skills, or lack thereof.

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Hate me if you like. These are all solely my thoughts. I gave you the chance at the very beginning to turn away from this blog post, so if you're still reading at this point, just know that it was ultimately your choice to continue. 
(:

Ta~
(/opinionated quips)

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Pageviews by Countries


So apparently now I’ve got people reading my blog (or perhaps accidentally stumbling upon it long enough for the “pageviews” count to pick it up) from not only the United States, but Canada, Belguim, and India. (Oh, and 53% of them use Firefox. Little fun nugget fact for you.)
Somehow I feel like this is just perhaps some screw up of the IP addresses, but who really knows. Maybe there are some curious looney-seeking people out there.
Well anyway, I just thought that was an interesting little morsel.

EDIT/UPDATE:
I was just looking at pageviews for the week! The screenshot now is of all time!  Russia takes second place under the United States? Bizarre. I love it though. (: My day had officially been made.

Ta~

-V

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Photographic Obsessions

On our way to VA beach - the sunset across the bridge.

Pretty kitty. (Blue eyes=deal maker)
 These are just some choice photographs that I've taken within the past half year or so. I'm fairly proud of them, but they definitely aren't my "jewels," if you know what I mean. Hopefully you do. Perhaps you don't. Oh well.
Anyway, enjoy this little collection. All of them belong to me, no stealing, yadda yadda.

Photographs (c) Me
Taa~
Grayscale towels. Macy's Bed & Bath section. Yeah. I'm that girl.

Abandoned paper mill sunset.

Intriguing word choice to print on the side of a cardboard box.

Night tree.

Triplets. (Fun with clones)

...don't ask.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

"Murderer" is spelled C-R-A-Z-Y


She was bleeding beneath him.

He licked the blood off the knife like a red Popsicle and it dribbled down his chin.

“Does it hurt yet, love?” he whispered, biting her earlobe with his canine until it was punctured. Her lip was seized between her teeth and he could see crimson lining it.

“No,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut.

He smiled wide. “Good.”

He plunged the knife into her stomach for the third time. The wounds made a small triangle just below her rib cage. He watched in sick satisfaction as her muscles clenched and her back arched, her fingernails digging into the dirt below her while it caked her clothes and hair into a matted mess.

“Scream for me,” he cooed into her ear, running the blade softly down her neck.
And she did.

She gulped down the chilly night air in an attempt to soothe her sore throat, raw from torment, but it did nothing more than hurt worse.

“Honey,” he murmured while grabbing her wrist. “You’re bleeding quite a lot.” He held the warm flesh tightly in his grasp, flipping it so that her palm was facing him. He could see the color fading from her face, her lips turning paler as the seconds ticked past.

Her eyes rolled around in her head while she panted hard, trying to restore the depleted oxygen in her lungs. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt heavy as lead. She cringed and groaned at the knife cleanly slicing away the tender skin of her wrist. Blood poured over his hands and onto her shirt.

“Are you going…to kill…me…?” she gasped when he slid the knife down her leg just hard enough to break the jean material and skin that lay beneath.

“No,” he whispered plainly. He took her trembling hands into his bloody ones, wrapping her fingers around the handle of the blade. “You are going to kill you.”

Fear flashed in her eyes, but before she could summon up enough strength to stop him, he shoved the knife down.

Right through her left breast.
She cried out, wriggling feebly under the knife that pinned her to the ground before lying very still. Darkness poured in on her and she couldn’t escape it.

He chuckled and twisted the knife, laughing louder at the blood that squirted out at him. “‘It’s all your fault’; I can hear you say it. ‘Jay, it’s all your fault. You did this to me. It’s always been your fault.’” 

He tugged the blade from her body and wiped the crimson on her tattered jeans. “Well darling, I’m sorry to say that it’s not my fault. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because, guess what?”

He burst from laughter, clutching his stomach as tears filled his eyes. “You’re dead!”

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Yeah, the title kind of sucks, but oh well. 
 I can't remember what state of mind I was when I wrote this, but I do know it wasn't recent. Almost a year at this point I would imagine. Maybe I was having some crazy dreams. And maybe I was just channeling the inner-psycho that was brought out while watching The Uninvited. Who knows. Those darn scary movies don't scare me; they make me scary. Interesting how that works.
See? Looney bin.
Ta~
-Vicki

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Burning Truth


Her legs wouldn't support her and her breath wouldn't fill her. There was far too much ringing silence in her mind to allow thought. Her body ached and stomach convulsed until she ceased to feel anything at all. The dark wall she stared at became fuzzy and out of focus, turning darker still as chaos roared through her head, consuming everything in raging fire and leaving nothing but smoldering ash in its wake.

Everything she ever cared about was gone.

And he had taken her heart with him.

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Thoughts. Think what you want of them.
-Vicki

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Failure

Lately I've been wondering if anyone reads my blog. I'm thinking 100% absolutely not. No one reads it. I have two followers (ooh, two followers!) and I'm pretty certain they only "followed" me out of pity or obligation and that they never care to read what I put out. No matter, though. I don't really care. My life isn't all that interesting and I don't tend to write about it anyway. So if anyone likes random snippets of story ideas, then this blog is for you. Otherwise...I guess just tip your hat and carry on.

It's like a pitiful version of Facebook. Everyone posts statuses and expects everybody else to read them, but let's face it people, that just doesn't happen. Facebook is all about the person who's name is in blue bar at the top right corner of the page. It makes people incredibly self-centered. Instead of posting pictures just because you want to, you post pictures and have an expectation in your head that it "needs" to be "liked" within the first half hour of posting it or else it sucks or you're not pretty or whatever comment you're striving for.

Facebook is a big fat life-waster and ego-inflater. And I absolutely despise it's addictive power.

Yeah.

So I thought, what the heck? What if I posted some of my deepest, darkest thoughts on here? Still, no one would read it. Maybe that's what I should do, though. Since no one pays any mind to these blocky, virtual journal postings, it wouldn't make any difference.

Still, though, I won't do that. If I posted that sort of thing, someone may, by chance or destiny, stumble upon the blog and seriously consider whether I belong in the looney bin.

So, adios, I suppose. I'm sure I'll write soon.

Or probably not.

Friday, March 9, 2012

The Stuff of Night Terrors

Bleed Out My Decay

I didn't know where I was; all I knew was that it wasn't anywhere safe, it was nowhere I wanted to be. Panic choked me, leaving me helpless, as quiet tears streamed down my battered cheeks. I had an impending sense that any second I was going to die.

A scream left me when I looked down at my hands. Blood began to gush from my nail-beds, dying them crimson. It felt like someone had lit the tips of my fingers on fire, burning like some kind of macabre candles.

I couldn't stand and I couldn't speak. I could only scream and whimper.

Blood flowed faster than I thought possible, coating my palms with sticky red and making my cries louder. My skin started cracking like scorched, parched earth and more blood spilled from my pores. I couldn't stop staring as my body slowly died.

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Forsaken and Falling

I call out, screaming into the darkness. I stretch my arms forward, grasping nothingness, but wishing for a familiar presence. I know nobody is there, not close, not anywhere; I can sense the vacancy, but my hope runs away with me, and I shout louder, wanting to pierce the never-ending quiet and blackness, to not feel so alone.

I lose my balance and slowly I begin to fall backward, as if the ground just crumbled away beneath my bare feet. There's no stopping this. Bending back, I take a deep breath before the free fall begins.

I don't know where I'm going, racing headfirst through the pitch blackness like a stray bullet, unable to see the bottom of the canyon. Is this where I die? Where I've finally reached my limit and can take no more? What a pitiful death; to lie crumpled at the bottom of a ravine with no one to ever find you, to ever bring you back home. The casket will be closed and empty while my family weeps and my friends wonder.

I clasp my arms tightly about me, wishing one last time for a comforting embrace. Why couldn't my ending be happy? Somehow I knew it never would be. The realization turned my heart into a stone. I always told myself if I was loyal enough, if I loved enough, I'd get my fairy tale life and the career I continuously strove for.

That's why I can't help but write sad endings, I think as I close my eyes against silent tears, the air that rushed about me whipping them away.

Solid ground quickly came up to meet me.


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I was half asleep when I wrote these. I'm sure it's easy to tell. Anywho, these are the kinds of things I've been dreaming the past few nights. Perhaps that's why I've felt so gosh darn tired lately.