The whole world was in darkness, until the Savior said,
"Let there be light," and suddenly, all the shadows fled.
Don't you think that if He can fill the entire Earth with light,
That if you simply pray to Him, he can help you make things right.
One girl with God is an army alone, and while armies of men might fall,
God can take it the rest of the way if you're willing to do your all.
He is the light at the end of the tunnel, let Him be the light at your feet,
If you keep one eye on His glory, you will never see defeat.
The Lord has lit a fire, and it is always there,
It's light is very beautiful, and wonderful to share.
Light your torch from the Lord's fire, and never let it dim,
Because you are always beautiful, when you reflect the light of Him.
The Sick Power of a Writer
If I included myself in one of my stories, I would be the villian. And for once, the main character would lose the fight. How can one defeat someone who can, at will, change you, kill you off? I simply am too powerful.
For instance, is one character getting too strong? Would they make for a boring story with an obvious end? Change them. Better yet, trash them, forget that I ever thought of them.
Is the villians motives too convining? Make him the hero, instead.
Too funny? Add a tragedy to their early life. Too sad? Give them a sheltered life. Too smart? Find a reason for them to skip school for a few years. Too dumb? Throw in a parent with high expectations.
Like a tornado, I wizz through their world, tweeking and changing the fundamentals of who they are, what they know. It's like a game- Suit My Needs or Playing God.
I imagine what it would be like if I were to pit myself against one of my characters. Perhaps Sam- a super genius who controls fire. I would mentally pluck him from his story, (I probably won't finnish it, anyway.) and put him in a whole new situation. The plot seems obvious. He would discover my presence with the help of one of his inventions; a device that picks up on radiation. He would slowly deduct that I was there by peicing together clues I would leave for him, like mysterious telephone messages, or bookmarks in encyclopeidias. He would go bravely to my lair- an underground mansion, thinking that he could destroy this evil. Then I would toy with him, create some tension. Slowly, I would make him go insane. In the end, he would die of a cancer he never knew he had, in the liver, lets say, one that I had placed in him. I can see the last sentence now (from Sam's point of veiw-) "I closed my eyes, defeated for the first and only time."
Come to think of it, that would make a good story... look out, Sam! I'm coming for you.
For instance, is one character getting too strong? Would they make for a boring story with an obvious end? Change them. Better yet, trash them, forget that I ever thought of them.
Is the villians motives too convining? Make him the hero, instead.
Too funny? Add a tragedy to their early life. Too sad? Give them a sheltered life. Too smart? Find a reason for them to skip school for a few years. Too dumb? Throw in a parent with high expectations.
Like a tornado, I wizz through their world, tweeking and changing the fundamentals of who they are, what they know. It's like a game- Suit My Needs or Playing God.
I imagine what it would be like if I were to pit myself against one of my characters. Perhaps Sam- a super genius who controls fire. I would mentally pluck him from his story, (I probably won't finnish it, anyway.) and put him in a whole new situation. The plot seems obvious. He would discover my presence with the help of one of his inventions; a device that picks up on radiation. He would slowly deduct that I was there by peicing together clues I would leave for him, like mysterious telephone messages, or bookmarks in encyclopeidias. He would go bravely to my lair- an underground mansion, thinking that he could destroy this evil. Then I would toy with him, create some tension. Slowly, I would make him go insane. In the end, he would die of a cancer he never knew he had, in the liver, lets say, one that I had placed in him. I can see the last sentence now (from Sam's point of veiw-) "I closed my eyes, defeated for the first and only time."
Come to think of it, that would make a good story... look out, Sam! I'm coming for you.
The Making of a Writer
I was destined to be a writer from the start. I was only three days old when my parents started reading to me. Before long I was following their pointer finger as they underlined each word they said. I stared in wonder and confusion at the lines on the paper, trying to figure out how my mother got those words from the book.
When I was three, my mom started something that would start me on the story-making path forever. I was a fan of Winnie the pooh. I knew every character and how they knew everyone else. Every night I would ask my mom to tell me a story. Every night, she would do just that. I don't know where she got this idea, but she would go over the events of that day as if Winnie and his friends were with me the whole time. It seems silly now, but I really got into it. I would ask her what a specific character thought about something, or what they had all done together.
Not much after that, I started writing my own stories. I got a notebook with a space for pictures on each page. One of my parents would write as I talked about my day, and then I would color a picture.
When I was in first grade, I don't remember having many friends. But that turned out to be a good thing. I already loved reading by then, and my favorite series was the rainbow fairies. (It's embarrassing, but I have to tell this story right.) Every recess, I would conjure up the fairies and imagine that I was one of them. I would use the people from the book, but I would also add new ones, like when one of the fairies had a baby brother who could time travel.
Second grade rolled around, and I had a new make-believe story. My dad is a big fan of basketball, and had given me a bobble head of one of his favorite players, Lauren Jackson of the Sounders Storm. She was on the girls team, and for some reason, it struck me as revolutionary that a girl could star in a sport. This inspired Action Jackson, a super-strong, super-fast superhero girl, who went on loads of adventures with other power-packed people, (and me). Action was real to me. I colored a place mat for her at our dinner table, and I dished her up some 'food' while really just waving the spoon around.
My first semi-serious attempt at writing a story came in forth grade. I wrote a short (really short,) story about a were-wolf named Sara-lee. I cringe looking back on it. It was horrid. But I had to start somewhere.
In fifth grade, my moms old collage roommate and her family came to visit us. I bonded with her daughter, who was a year older than me, almost instantly. We both loved writing, thought boys were stupid, and we both hated tomatoes. We wanted to write a story together via the wonders of the internet. My first idea was to e-mail each other a chapter at a time, but mom (man, she is really important in this story!) had a better idea. Thanks to her, we made a blog. It's called young authors ink. (don't try to find it, my mom made us put up a password.) That blog is still going, though not on the same story. We haven't finished a single one because we have short attention spans, but we'll get there.
My first poem came in 2011. It was based off of something I saw on discovery channel on vultures, as well as musings on a tree full of crows. It was titled 'Ode to Vultures and Crows', and it detailed why these black birds are so great.
Just this year, I discovered TeenInk. I have put all my best work, new and old, there. It is the first time I've had my work put out where everyone can see it and rate it, and so far, I'm like'n it.
I really hope this story isn't over. Maybe someday, I'll dig this out of the computer and continue it. But until then, I guess this, my first autobiography, is another step down the road.
When I was three, my mom started something that would start me on the story-making path forever. I was a fan of Winnie the pooh. I knew every character and how they knew everyone else. Every night I would ask my mom to tell me a story. Every night, she would do just that. I don't know where she got this idea, but she would go over the events of that day as if Winnie and his friends were with me the whole time. It seems silly now, but I really got into it. I would ask her what a specific character thought about something, or what they had all done together.
Not much after that, I started writing my own stories. I got a notebook with a space for pictures on each page. One of my parents would write as I talked about my day, and then I would color a picture.
When I was in first grade, I don't remember having many friends. But that turned out to be a good thing. I already loved reading by then, and my favorite series was the rainbow fairies. (It's embarrassing, but I have to tell this story right.) Every recess, I would conjure up the fairies and imagine that I was one of them. I would use the people from the book, but I would also add new ones, like when one of the fairies had a baby brother who could time travel.
Second grade rolled around, and I had a new make-believe story. My dad is a big fan of basketball, and had given me a bobble head of one of his favorite players, Lauren Jackson of the Sounders Storm. She was on the girls team, and for some reason, it struck me as revolutionary that a girl could star in a sport. This inspired Action Jackson, a super-strong, super-fast superhero girl, who went on loads of adventures with other power-packed people, (and me). Action was real to me. I colored a place mat for her at our dinner table, and I dished her up some 'food' while really just waving the spoon around.
My first semi-serious attempt at writing a story came in forth grade. I wrote a short (really short,) story about a were-wolf named Sara-lee. I cringe looking back on it. It was horrid. But I had to start somewhere.
In fifth grade, my moms old collage roommate and her family came to visit us. I bonded with her daughter, who was a year older than me, almost instantly. We both loved writing, thought boys were stupid, and we both hated tomatoes. We wanted to write a story together via the wonders of the internet. My first idea was to e-mail each other a chapter at a time, but mom (man, she is really important in this story!) had a better idea. Thanks to her, we made a blog. It's called young authors ink. (don't try to find it, my mom made us put up a password.) That blog is still going, though not on the same story. We haven't finished a single one because we have short attention spans, but we'll get there.
My first poem came in 2011. It was based off of something I saw on discovery channel on vultures, as well as musings on a tree full of crows. It was titled 'Ode to Vultures and Crows', and it detailed why these black birds are so great.
Just this year, I discovered TeenInk. I have put all my best work, new and old, there. It is the first time I've had my work put out where everyone can see it and rate it, and so far, I'm like'n it.
I really hope this story isn't over. Maybe someday, I'll dig this out of the computer and continue it. But until then, I guess this, my first autobiography, is another step down the road.
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