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Yesterday was my birthday.

Yes, world. That’s right. I have made eighteen full circles around the sun, and according to the American government, that’s enough criteria to declare me an adult. It’s time to update my writer biography. It’s time to scare my friends and family with the fact that someone who flails as much as I do can obtain a driver’s license without taking driver’s ed. And it’s time to…keep not buying tobacco.

When my brother was nine years old, I was five. I was also five when I realized that he was the Guru On Top of the Mountain and the God of All That Is Awesome. My five-year-old mind identified these traits less with the fact that he was my brother and more with the fact that he was nine. Nine became my holy number. Contemplating turning nine almost made me wet my pants. To think—in just four years, I would know everything, too.

Whenever he laughed at something and I didn’t, we’d have this conversation:

“I don’t get it.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Will I understand when I’m nine?”

“No.”

But somehow that didn’t discourage me. The day before my ninth birthday, I thought if I stayed up until midnight, I’d be able to feel the knowledge flood my brain. Unfortunately, I drowsed off. In the morning, I tried to think back to all the grown-up things my brother had found hilarious. But I couldn’t even remember one.

I had turned nine and I wasn’t all-powerful.

It was almost as bad as my eleventh birthday, when my owl from Hogwarts got lost on the way. Luckily, only several years passed before Eragon. By that point, I had already decided I was a writing prodigy, and took great pleasure in disparaging the book while devouring it in secret.

“If I can just get published before I’m fifteen,” I used to tell my surprisingly tolerant friends, “I’ll be rich and famous, even if the book’s a mess.”

I started and abandoned a couple of ludicrous fantasy novels. Fifteen came and went. High school, IB, and the college search consumed me. I kept writing, but it was with a hint of manic desperation.

When I graduated middle school, I had sent a letter to my future self, to be opened when I graduated high school (“TOP SECRET!!! DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2012!!!!!”). Last June, on the day of my commencement, I unsealed it with trepidation. This is what I expected:

Dear Beatrice,

If you are not yet published, you have failed me and all my dreams. If you are published, get back to work.

I expected whiny, I expected arrogant, I expected overambitious. Instead, I found a shy young girl, uncertain of what she wanted and uncertain of how to get there. I didn’t say a word about getting published. Instead, I told myself to keep on writing. I told myself to do my best.

And best of all, I told myself never to quit.

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Yesterday, one of my writing club members accused me of abandoning my blog. I peeled my face off my school desk, checked up on the facts, and realized that the Internet hadn’t heard about my life for two and a half months. After some thoughtful consideration, I decided to offer it several things.

1. Apology flowers:

…well, sort of.

2. A two-sentence summary:

“What’s that warm lump on your couch?”

“We call it Beatrice.”

3. Updates:

I survived IB tests. For those of you not in the know, this means almost twenty hours of writing essays about communist dictators, conservation biology, and why paintball is evil (the latter in Spanish). There was not a single airship in any of them. There were several airships in my madcap steampunk Script Frenzy, however, of which I managed to finish all 115 pages within the month of April.

Also, I’m graduating from high school in four days.

4. Confessions:

I went to prom. On a boat. In a dress. And kept having this conversation:

“I’ve never seen you in a dress!”

“Yeea…me neither.”

Our limousine driver was a scary Russian man with dark sunglasses, and I may or may not have worn an Edwardian gown, and there was a sweaty terrifying dance floor which I lingered at the edge of, attempting to swing dance to Lady Gaga songs. I ate so many brownie bites, the laws of physics dictate I should’ve barfed. I guess the only real confession part of this is that, if I’m ever rich, I’m going to choose my limo driver on the basis of their accent.

Secondly, senioritis has struck, late-onset, but deadly as ever. It is a herculean effort to type right now, not to mention make real sentences.

Here’s the last one: this blog post is mistitled. No, I’m not dead—not even undead (come hell or high zombies). But I worked so hard this year, I want to settle in for the summer, grab some lotion, and…keep editing my novel. The thing with writers is, we never completely get off work. But it doesn’t feel too much like work, does it?

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I discovered my magical power at the age of nine.

When you spend as much time as I did reading fantasy chapter books, you come to expect the Discovery. The Discovery can be anything. Maybe a ghost lives in your bedroom. Maybe there’s a portal in your backyard that allows you to travel through time and space to a different realm. Maybe you can just do something really cool and random, like make fire come out of your hands. Regardless, as the protagonist of my own life, I expected my Discovery would come soon. I was on a summer road trip when it finally did.

My brother, mom, and dad had piled into a car with me, prepared to see everything the Great American West (and Route 66) had to offer. This includes: striking natural beauty, old-fashioned trading posts, exotic road kill, signs for Wall Drug, and a million plastic Junior Ranger Badges, which materialize to this day in my backpacks, couch cushions, and pants pockets.

As anyone who has ever taken an extensive road trip with a nine-year-old can probably guess, the car was packed with coloring utensils, sketchbooks, activity books, books-on-tape, normal books, and an arsenal of road games. We recorded license plates from around the country, and had been waiting on Hawaii to complete our set of 50 states for days. That’s when we came upon a parking lot with—not just one Hawaiian plate—but TWO. We were so jazzed we started a second list.

Even so, the day came when this potpourri of entertainment ceased to captivate my hyperactive young mind. I stared out the window forlornly. And then not so forlornly at all. That’s when I Discovered it:

I wasn’t bored. I had watched the scenery go by for half an hour straight, and was not feeling even the tiniest tug of boredom. Some protagonists discover that they are immune to vampires, fire, or mind-reading, but I had trumped them. I was immune to the greatest plague of all.

I spent last week touring colleges in Massachusetts and Connecticut, and the Seattle-Boston Odyssey means a heckuva lot of flying. But I have been using my magical power ever since that first road trip, more than I ever used my Junior Ranger skills (sorry, park system, you’re still cool). I thought about that fact as I stared down at the vast expanse of clouds below. I thought about my Script Frenzy. I thought about my characters. And I thought about my future.

Sometimes, it’s easy to get caught up in the plugged-in, pre-scheduled whirlwind of life and friends and Facebook and word counts and iPods that blasts us with distractions every day. But next time you feel the words, “I’m bored” about to ooze out of your mouth, take a moment and think. Look around you. Process. Imagine. The world is populated by interesting people, interesting stories, and interesting things.

Just take a moment to see them, and you might never get bored at all.

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Ever since some members of the female half of the species started saying they should be treated fairly, society has reacted with remarkable confusion. In art history last year, while studying feminist art, I had the following conversation with a classmate:

Dude: So…do any of you guys consider yourselves feminists?
Me: Yeah.
Dude: Really??
Me: Why, what do you think that means?
Dude: Isn’t feminism where you like…hate men or something?
Me: Do you think women should be treated as equals, politically, economically, and socially?
Dude: Yeah, I do.
Me: Then I guess you’re a feminist.
Dude: …cool. I guess I am.

In a post-feminist world, it was suddenly not okay to introduce female characters only as harpies, love interests, or props. The way some movies, TV shows, and books dealt with that new standard has expressed itself in several ways:

1. The Multi-Talented Nice Girl

Not only is she a sweetheart, she’s a sexy genius who can beat up bad guys and spew technobabble. Everyone loves her because she’s good at everything, even though she’s too humble to realize it. Maybe she’s even fair-haired, so she can subvert stereotypes about blondes!

2. The Badass

The Badass, like the Nice Girl, is a sexy genius who beats up bad guys. But she has a Character Flaw—she’s an emotional cripple, incapable of committing to the Goofy Hero. In fact, she mocks and degrades him constantly, because she could crush him with her pinky finger. When he saves her from the bad guys she usually beats up without mercy, she may relent and settle for him, even though he is not as smart as her.

3. The Femme Fatale

The Femme Fatale is, in essence, the Badass on a different side. Instead of being sexy but prudish, this villainess has no other personality or skill but her ability to seduce men from a mile away. All of this is okay because she is a ruthless, ice-cold, tactical genius. At least until the Goofy Hero gets the better of her and puts her in her place.

4. The Klutz

The Klutz is a reaction against the Nice Girl, the Badass, and the Femme Fatale. In fact, she is Just Like You! Only by “relatable” and “funny,” we mean she is cute, ditzy, clumsy, useless, and possibly obsessed with boys. Maybe she even Doesn’t Fit In, even though she seems to have a suspicious number of friends drooling over her.

All of these cookie-cutter archetypes are symptoms of Heroine Disease. Now, even I don’t get most women, and I am one. They are freakishly hard to write. But the answer isn’t to make a heroine all strengths or all weaknesses. People have talents, flaws, vulnerabilities, and motivations, regardless of gender.

Don’t make your character a Heroine. Make her a Human.

Well, unless she’s a Vulcan. They are pretty perfect.

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The problem with the Internet Age is that you can’t tell your readers a dog ate your blog post.

Instead, I’ll say Script Frenzy did. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been brainstorming, outlining, running about in excited circles, and collecting pledges for Script Frenzy. My writing club is doing a pledge-per-page charity drive and donating the proceeds to Heifer International, which provides impoverished families in developing countries with livestock.

Thanks to a similar endeavor during NaNoWriMo, we bought a water buffalo. We assume it looks something like this one:

For those of you not yet in the know, Script Frenzy is a lot like NaNoWriMo, except without as catchy an abbreviation (“Screnzy”? Really?). Instead of 50,000 words in November, you write 100 pages of script in April, at about 3.5 pages per day. Your masterpiece can be a screenplay, a TV show, a graphic novel, a stageplay, or anything else you can come up with. Most importantly, you are not to edit. You are to create, purely, wildly, and with the most possible fun.

You: But…formatting is hard and confusing!

Look! There is this free program called Celtx which is deliciously easy!

You: I should really be working on my novel…

You can be. Last year, I wrote half of my current novel in script format. Instead of spending long, painful weekends cutting out excess description, I added just as much as I needed. And when you have only dialogue and stage directions to work with, you get a heckuva lot better at show instead of tell.

You: I don’t have time.

You have time to sleep, don’t you? (I am a terrible example; you should sleep; sleep is good).

Before you say you’re too busy, you should know that Script Frenzy and NaNoWriMo are very different beasts. My memories from last November are a confusing blur of college applications, caffeinated teas, and this part where I accidentally introduced a cow named Winston as one of my major characters. By the end, I was dead tired, slightly confused, and very ready for winter break.

Last Script Frenzy, however, I finished two weeks early. How? Because 3.5 pages of dialogue is easier to churn out than 1,667 words of prose. Observe:

You: I don’t want to do Script Frenzy!

Me: But you must do Script Frenzy.

You: Why are you always telling me to do things like Script Frenzy?

Me: It’s for your own good.

You: Sleep is good!

Me: It’s Script Frenzy; you may have time for that.

You: Whoa…

Now, that exchange is only 50 words, but it’s nearly half a page in Celtx. I’m not saying that Script Frenzy isn’t hard—it is—but it allows for a more relaxed pace than NaNoWriMo. Plus, when you finish, you can have an awesome victory party in which you act out your writing buddies’ scripts.

To all ye newbies: Join ussssss.

To all ye veterans: Rock on.

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My character was crashing into a heavily guarded facility to save his friends, guns blazing, on horseback. He didn’t know how to ride a horse or fire guns, much less aim either. He had to be yelling something. I just didn’t know what.

I mulled this over for an embarrassingly long time before it dawned on me, in the shower, as do all my ideas. Webb (the character in question) tells it like it is:

“DISTRACTIONNNN!”

And that brings me to the topic of this post. Most folks procrastinate. You are on your computer, on the Internet, reading a blog, so there’s a very good chance you are one of them. The only reason I am writing this post now is that I am simultaneously not writing a world lit essay. Because writers’ schedules are rarely set in stone, we are particularly susceptible. But that doesn’t mean we can’t find ways to deal.

Problem:

You probably use a word processor and, subsequently, a computer. This means that whenever you write you have access to e-mail, facebook, webcomics, funny cat videos, and the rest of the Internet’s cornucopia of madness. It’s all too easy, when the writing gets hard, to comfort yourself by typing a message you’re not required to revise for clarity. But the only way to make the writing get easier is by plowing through rough terrain. That’s not going to happen if a moment’s DISTRACTIONNNN drags into an hour…and then several…and then dinner…and then a very guilty crawling-off-to-bed.

Solution:

If you have wi-fi, there is a magic black box somewhere in your house. It has a magic black switch on the side. Turn off this switch, get comfy, and don’t turn the switch back on until you have met a goal, whether that’s a solid hour of editing or a thousand more words.

Solution:

If you live in a house of magic-black-box-worshippers who will tear you apart for such heresy, then disconnect your computer from its network. Whenever you open your browser, it will tell you it cannot connect. Before you fix this, think for a few guilt-trippy moments about why you’re going to break your goal.

Solution:

Go somewhere with minimal distractions. This could mean anywhere from the local library (where, thankfully, the wi-fi doesn’t work on my fickle laptop) to your backyard. Writing outside is a lovely way to spend a sunny afternoon.

There’s always going to be a way to procrastinate. But if you resist long enough, then perhaps you’ll stop wanting to.

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Last semester, my English class watched a documentary with not one sex scene, but two.

Granted, they were very short, and not particularly revealing, and the documentary was about the poetry of Walt Whitman…but still. This is the time of year when, because a Roman who may or may not have existed got his head cut off, we exchange candy and chocolates and candy and valentines. Also, candy. Love is in the air. But what’s its place in a story?

I’ve seen what I’ll call Two Sex Scenes in a Documentary Syndrome before. In an otherwise solid plot with otherwise solid characters, the author realizes halfway through that they could probably throw a romance in. A character appears, has an abrupt, random affair with the protagonist, and then sometimes gets killed, which is dramatic.

I call this Two Sex Scenes in a Documentary Syndrome because, as with documentaries, fiction doesn’t always require romance. The story doesn’t have to hinge entirely on a love interest to justify their presence, but they should be there for a reason, whether that’s a part of character arc or plot.

I avoided romance like the plague until about a year ago. In my first novel, there was too much swashbuckling to have time for it. Besides, my main character Felix was in love with his airship. But by the time I started the sequel, I had grown up, and Felix was growing up with me. I felt safer broaching the topic, despite my inexperience—after all, we’re writers, and even if I’ve never fallen for an arsonist revolutionary, I can try to imagine.

For young writers, Two Sex Scenes in a Documentary Syndrome is  important to be aware of. Spooked by having a platonic story, I almost tossed in an extra heroine. Luckily, I realized before getting too far that she probably would have become the steampunk equivalent of Jar Jar Binks. Only less…hideous and reptilian.

A relationship can add a layer of complexity and intrigue, but it’s not a prerequisite to a good story. If you don’t want to write about romance, then you shouldn’t. And the best part is, you don’t have to—just look at the Bartimaeus Trilogy, by Jonathan Stroud, or To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, or Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll, or any number of other delightful books with plenty of other things going on.

My favorite writing rule is this: Write what you love. It means exactly what it sounds like, and if you don’t love writing about love, then you don’t have to. “Write what you love” doesn’t mean you should ignore your audience, but your audience is smart, and they can tell when you mean what you say.

In any case, I am off to eat heart-shaped candy. And I mean that. Happy Dead Roman Day, everyone.

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My ego is comparable to a tribble: cute until it multiplies. Also like a tribble, it multiplies as long as you feed it, and unfortunately for the rest of the world, I come from a loving and supportive home. I’ve just been recognized in the form of a 7 x 7 Link Award. I gather this is sort of like chain mail, only instead of passing on the threat of a psychopathic clown, you pass on nominations and happiness. The quirky, enlightening History Guffaw nominated me, which is an honor!

The more I thought about this reward, however, the more I began to realize it might be a mistake. Below, I have provided a crude visual aid to help you understand my thinking.

We all know what that equals, right?

But then I took into account the mathematical error.

Obviously, the 7 x 6 Link Award is the first sign that aliens with a British sense of humor are about to abduct me, then take me on wacky adventures through the galaxy, in my pajamas.

While I’m waiting, here are seven old posts for your viewing pleasure…

Most Beautiful Post: Kidnapping, Theft, and Other Creative Forms
Because…I love my Grandma. That story by 2-year-old me is still on my desk.

Most Ridiculous Post: The Misfit Brigade
This category was a bit of a toss-up, considering my usual content, but all in all, I think the award goes to the post in which I left matters to my characters. Then they threw someone off an airship. My mind works in mysterious ways.

Punniest Post: Edvard Munch is Rolling in His Grave
My brother called me a cad for this.

Most Popular Post: The Bitch is Back
I wrote this while I was still psyched from the trip, and I think it showed. My Mom and I have, arguably, way too much fun.

Most Helpful Post: Things People Say About Writing
I wish people had told me these things three years ago.

Most Earnest Post: I came, I wrote, I conquered
Man, I try so hard to be inspirational.

Most Sweated-Over Post: The Debut
When I started this blog, I was making things up as I went along, and it took a few edits and some deep breathing to work up the nerve to post this baby.

Now, because I am supposed to spread the love, I nominate this delightful blog, Writing Between the Lines. Each post is hilarious, helpful, and tells a story. And I’m not even saying that because it’s written by my mother!

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In Seattle, snow is a big deal. Adults hoard shovels and soup cans, students post in all caps on Facebook, drivers are legally required to forget how to drive, and the city sends out, in random directions, a fleet of lost and confused people driving snowplows.

Suffice it to say, snow days are awesome.

Instead of doing a timely blog, as per my New Year’s resolution, I played in the snow…all day for several days. I worked manically on the schoolwork I had put off until I couldn’t put it off anymore. And then I cheated briefly on my novel with a new sci-fi idea. But despite these confessions, there’s good news too!

I spent last week editing furiously. I edited in the car, in my bed, and in most of my classes. I even discovered that one can, indeed, type on a laptop whilst carrying it through the halls of school. My mom had gone through my manuscript one last time, and I was combing through her comments. Editing can be grueling at times, but it’s always brightened by the way she responds to any jokes. Mostly I find a little “Ha Ha” scrawled in the margins. When she writes, “Ha Ha Ha,” I know it’s pretty good. And “Ha Ha Ha!!!” is for real.

I have also been cultivating my raw talent for snow art and punnery, all at the same time. Observe this little masterpiece:

The Ice Scream, by Beatrice Garrard

We’d gotten an extra dusting since my Mom took this picture, and I was working on a bit of art restoration when my neighbor (perhaps four now?) wandered over to watch. He asked what I was doing and I told him. He remarked that my snowman’s head was an oval, glanced up at me sadly and asked, “Was that the best head you could make?”

I tried telling him about The Scream and Norwegian symbolism and then he left.

There’s probably a moral or two in this. The first is, one person’s modern art is another person’s ugly snowman. The second is, four-year-old boys don’t care about Norwegian symbolists.

Have you guys had a resolution fail yet?

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1) In honor of a blog stalled by one visiting brother, four throbbing wisdom-tooth-holes, two seasons of Avatar: The Last Airbender, and seven college applications, I shall, come hell or high zombies, post once a week!

2) I shall start practicing this strange ritual the natives call “sleep.”

3) I shall write a novel or two. This resolution includes finishing the final edit of the first and buckling down on its sequel. They are both swashbuckling, and the characters are constantly talking at me anyways, so this should be my most fun resolution. Though school and life and other such distractions make it the hardest, too, I’ll try to write an hour each day to achieve my goal.

4) I shall reconcile numbers 2 and 3.

5) I shall survive the apocalypse the Mayans did not, for the record, actually predict. If you’re carving a calendar out of solid stone, are you really going to bother with those few extra centuries, just to keep your crazy buddy in 2012 from building a concrete bunker underneath his backyard? There’s a point at which an ancient civilization just has to say, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

6) I shall use the Internet less (See Resolution 2).

7) I shall encourage everyone who reads this blog to make a writing resolution (See Resolution 3).

8) I’m already done with 7.

9) Happy New Year all!