The Significance Behind my Pen Name

"Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader - not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon," -E. L. Doctorow

A little Christmas present for all my readers. <3

Olivia J, The WordShaker.

Why, you may ask?

The 'Olivia J' part is because that's my name.  Olivia is my first name, J is my middle initial - pretty self explanatory.

'The WordShaker' is an allusion to one of my many favorite books:  The Book Thief, which is about a foster girl who is taken in by this old couple in World War II Germany - and she steals books.  The background part of is that Max, the Jew the Liesel Meminger and her family are hiding wrote her a small story.

The synopsis is this: Essentially, Hitler - described has having a small, odd mustache and wanting to rule the world - decided that he would do it with words. Not with brute force or guns, but with words.
These words are personified as literal seeds, and he goes around planting these seeds and they grow into trees of his words.  'Farmed thoughts', the book even says. When the word trees were spread throughout the country, he would give certain ones to certain people, along with special symbols.

After a while, there were so many trees with words on them that people had to be hired to maintain them - these people were called Word Shakers. And the best wordshakers were the ones who understood the power of words and knew how to use them. One of these monumental wordshakers was a small, skinny girl  - AKA, Liesel, if you didn't get that already -  and she was hailed the best wordshaker because "she knew how powerful a person could be WITHOUT words". This is the reason why she was the best and collected the most words and climbed the highest. 

From a tear of love and friendship, a seed was born, unlike the ones administered by Hitler, and amidst the other trees, she planted this one. And this tree grew faster and much more wonderful than all of the other trees, and everyone knew that Hitler would come and have it ordered to be chopped down.
He did, and when they took her away from the tree, she screamed - 'You can't cut it down!  Please!' But he ordered for his ax.

Then, the small wordshaker ran to the tree and climbed up in it's branches, and waited for it to fall.  But the blade could not even make a mark in the tree. As one hundred and ninety six soldiers tried to hack away at the tree, stubborn and afraid, the wordshaker remained.

The people wondered how she survived up there, but what they didn't know is that the other world shakers would help her and throw her supplies.
Many days passed, and still the tree grew and the words multiplied, and when the last soldier finally gave up in trying to cut her tree down, he shouted "It's no use - you can come down now!"

But she said, "No, thank you."

But eventually, a beaten down, sad-looking ax-man came into town.  He asked the people where the tree was, and they lead him to it. Instead of hacking away with his axe, he began to hammer nails into the tree and climb up to the branches.

The people thought he was insane, but he climbed higher anyway.  When he reached the girl, he asked "Is it really you?"

And the wordshaker realized that it was from him that she got the seed that grew into this magnificent tree.

Eventually, they came down, and the moment that the wordshaker stepped foot into the dirt, the axe marks began to show, and the tree toppled over into the forrest.  The world shoot as the forest cleared around this great tree, and even if the people could remove the tree entirely, there would always be a path in the evil forrest carved by the wordshaker's tree. And when the girl and the man emerged from the tree, they saw that the crowd that had been around the tree since it's inception were gone.

And the man and the wordshaker left, but every once in a while, they would stop to listen, because they swore they heart the whispers of words, still emanating from the wordshaker's tree.

*squeals in glee*  Can't you just see why I love this story?  I probably don't need to explain to you why I chose this for my penname, but then, why would you be here?

I chose this as my penname because I want to be a wordshaker.  I want my words to have so much power that no one can take them away.  I want my words to have so much power that they will live on after my death.  Because my words are all I have to offer this world, so I must make the best of it. Because all my writing is is a reflection of my creator God, and what He has placed in me to glorify him and help others.

And I will end this by quoting NaNoWriMo's slogan:

"The world needs my story."

~The WordShaker

My Review of 'I'm On Your Side' by Emily J. Vaughan

"Thank you for showing me I could feel as alive as I do in the pages of my books," -Unknown

Disclaimer:  Vaughan contacted me and asked me to give an unbiased review of her novel, I'm On Your Side, in turn for the ebook for free. 

I finished this book in less than 24 hours. Considering that it's more of a novella than anything, this shouldn't be a surprise since I usually zip through anything that I read.  But I can finish anything in less than 24 hours if it pulled me in like this book did. 

Here is the book synopsis:

"When Cassie is placed with her newest foster family, the Benders, she is hoping for nothing more than a place to stay. But when she meets Jeremy she stumbles into a friendship she hadn't realized she wanted. Jeremy might be the one person who can understand her, the only one who's been dealt a rougher hand than she has. When Jeremy finally opens up about his closely guarded past he makes her promise not to tell anyone, and Cassie is left with a choice. Keep her promise and abandon Jeremy to a world that has already taken so much from him. Or don't keep it, and doom him to the life she's been wishing to escape for years."

I'm On Your Side by Emily J. Vaughan

Synopsis and cover photo from Emily's Website. 

Like most reviews, I will start out by talking about the things that I didn't like about the book, and reveal my star rating at the end. 

I felt that some of the flaws were the writing.  While it wasn't inherently boring - I kept reading, of course, it never embellished the story like good writing should. In my opinion, the prose of a story should always enhance what is happening, by making something more intense, more heartfelt, more whatever the author is trying to convey via word choice, phrase variation, etc.  And while Vaughan's writing style is functional and there's nothing inherently wrong with it, it didn't add much to the story in the way of a literary art form, as it should. Some moments that should have been dragged out with visceral detail, were written in flat narration. Some moments of expression or feeling could have been enriched with clever figurative language. It wasn't all that distracting, but this novel could have been taken to the next level with a unique writing style. 

But maybe that's just me being picky. 

Another thing is that I feel that this book should be longer.   It felt like it took place in such a short amount of time, and this might be because it's a novella, but everything could have been taken to a much deeper level if it was a full length novel. I say this because I was enjoying myself throughout the book, but felt unsatisfied at times because of it's clipped pace. I wanted to spend more time with Cassie, Jeremy, Megan, and Bill.  I wanted these side characters to be more developed.  I wanted more side plots and insight into their backstories and emotional change and healing. However, this was all limited because the novel was only 44,000 words. The climax would have been more impactful if more time within the story as well as time outside of the story (length) had been taken to develop everything. 

However, I must give Ms. Vaughan props for developing characters in such a tight space. Cassie and Jeremy were wonderful - I fell in love with Cassie's bravery and was pulled in by Jeremy's tender wit. And Cassie's emotional journey was absolutely beautiful and ripped my heartstrings straight out of my chest and stomped right on them. Wonderful characters in this book, and like I said, this might have been one of my favorites if it only had been longer. However, the plot, mystery and journey of the novel was unraveled with skill and care by Vaughan. Those two elements were spot on. 

 Unique and grippingly concise, I loved the theme of 'sometimes being a friend means breaking a promise', as seen on the cover of the book.  This is not seen a lot in YA literature today, and the deviant from the mainstream is admirable of Vaughan. The whole book was a breath of fresh air from the steamy romances and serious dystopian trilogies that pollute YA today. 

Overall, I liked this book, and will definitely read it again. 4/5 stars. 

Contact me at oliviajthewordshaker@gmail.com or @olivia.j.the.wordshaker on Instagram

~The WordShaker

I miss them. (An Update on my Writing Life)

"There's always room for a story that can transport people to another place," -JK Rowling.

I miss them. I miss Wyatt and Terra. I miss Wyatt's dorky humor. His fiery tendencies. His strength. I miss Terra's kind passion. Her bright soul. Her strength.I miss walking with them, I miss watching them interact. I miss being with them as they grew and changed.  And now all I can do is look back on the journey.

The experience of writing this story has been nothing but cathartic. If you know me, this story has reflected my life, struggle, and personal growth over the past year and a half. And it means the world to me.

Though I could read about them forever, since their story can be contained in a hunk of pages, I still miss them. Because my time with them has ended. Because I am not the author of their story - I was just the one writing it down. I don't control them - they roam freely in my mind, living on. However, I am not allowed to follow them around anymore - because their part of the story has ended.

I long to run back to the Arizona desert, back to the unforgiving wilderness and it's deceptive ways.  I long to see them scrounging for food in the damply arid climate.  I long to feel the hot sun baking my skin.  The dusty rocks and the leathery lizards.  It's only now that I realize that it wasn't just Wyatt and Terra that pulled me in, it's the entire desert world that took me by the collar of the shirt and dragged me in. When I was stressed, I could just daydream of my story. If I was sad, I could think of their pain. Every day, I could lose myself in the Sonora desert with two teenagers so diverse yet so alike. And now, there's nothing.

That part of my story is over.  Sure, I can read about them until the cows come home, but it's never like walking with them over those red rocks and eating amaranth leaves in the hot, waning sun.

I wish I could do it all again, because the ride is always so much fun - I could not have asked for better. I walk with them through the ups and downs, and I love it.  Because, my experience as a writer has always been like playing God - since I have *ahem* some control issues.

One of the ways that I have always been able to relate to the vast and endlessness that is God Himself is to compare myself to Him.  Kind of.

For the sake of this metaphor, I'm God, and my characters are the humans on the earth.  I don't control them, but I see and guide and direct - and love.  While we look at each other with contempt and hate, all I see is my precious little cinnamon rolls who are too good for this world.

Because stories are important.  They flow in our veins, and they make us who we are. And I need to get my story out there.

"Our lives become the stories that we weave," -Once On This Island

And so this is why I'm considering taking a break from my story. It's one of those things where I get so involved in my work, that everything else falls apart around me - nothing else matters.  In my English Lit class, we recently read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, and a key part of the book is that Victor Frankenstein becomes so obsessed and involved in his craft that he can't see his art with clarity or objectivity anymore. I start to get sick of my story, start to have the words become monotonous and the characters become 2-D. Which sucks.

But the real problem is, is that while I have a few side stories I'm working on right now, none of them are sticking - and I'm still getting inspiration for Wyatt and Terra, and oh, good God, I miss it all, as I have stated many times before.

And I feel that if I let this story go, that it will never come back.  That I'll lose the connection with my characters and the passion for my story.  Which also sucks.

*sigh*

Something that I'm learning about myself is that I can't function without a creative project to work on. Something to throw myself into. And without a novel, I'm going slightly crazy.  My life feels pointless. 

So yeah.

~The WordShaker

Thanksgiving Poem

"An author is in every single character they write," -JK Rowling.

Surprise poem from you to me.

I.

Thanksgiving is not a time for gluttony

Not a time feel guilty about the privileges we have

It is a time to celebrate what we have reaped

What we have been given

A time to relish in it

And then reflect it all back to the giver of all good things

II.

Let us not compare ourselves to the rich, to the poor

But let us focus on what we have been given

and how we can make the best of it

We shall reap what we sow

And let it be indicative of our character, of our hope, of our love

III.

I suggest that we all take a moment to reflect

On how our lives have changed in the past year

For the better, for the worse

And let us thank Him anyways

Through the pain, through the tears

That there is an everlasting hope

Inside of every one of us

IV.

Because this is why the Pilgrims came here.

By grace, through faith

And founded on the Rock.

And they celebrated because of hope

Hope of a new age and a new day

Hope that things would get better

So grab a hold of that thread of desire

And let it unravel

To reveal the glowing prosperity

That we all seek

Happy Thanksgiving!

~The WordShaker

What I Learned From Not Wearing Make-Up

"Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words," -Mark Twain

Beginning sometime in fifth grade, I began to wear makeup.   Lipstick, foundation, mascara, the whole shebang. And every day, no matter where I went, I had to wear makeup. 

In hindsight, it was a crutch. A mask I placed on my face to conceal the raging acne and my morphing and changing identity. What I thought I was doing in good fun was masking and reaffirming my self esteem issues about my looks. 

This was because I cared too much.  I cared about the image that I put off.  I was afraid of being ridiculed for the poor quality of my skin.  Since I didn't feel pretty, I wanted to feel pretty and compete with the girls who had perfectly plump lips and long eyelashes and smooth skin. 

But as I grew older, and I filled in and my face matured - and, more importantly, my hormones calmed down, the makeup reduced. 

But I was still insecure.  I still wore light foundation and mascara every day. Because still, I was trying to prove to girls and potential male mates alike that I was pretty, that I was worthy. 

But it's not until I decided to stop wearing makeup that this all hit me.  Slowly but surely, the foundation faded, and soon enough, the mascara fluttered away.  My much desired contacts even left my eye sockets. Back to glasses and bare faced I was. 

But then, it wasn't until I put all of these things back on me that I realized how awesome I really do look. I was finally able to appreciate my button nose, the rose-bud nature of my lips, the brightness of my eyes, the slope of my forehead. Because that's me.  I wasn't hiding any more, for there was nothing to hide. 

And finally, for the first time in my life, I was able to take out my contacts, wash off the makeup, put my glasses back on and look at myself in the mirror and think: Damn, I look freaking amazing. 

So, take off the makeup and learn to appreciate your bare, raw face.  Because that's what your husband is going to wake up to every morning and he's going to whisper to you in his husky voice over the hot sheets and say "This is when you look your finest."

Actually, just kidding.  The truth is I'm too lazy to wear makeup on a regular basis. 

~The WordShaker

A Letter To An Eighth Grade Me

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say," -Anais Nin

This post was inspired by Maggie's post, earlier this week. You can read it here --> Letter To An 8th Grade Me

Dear 8th Grade Olivia,

On the surface levels, not a whole lot has changed.  Yet, however, in the most basal layers, the core of Olivia has not changed. It's those weird middle parts that have molded and changed.

First, let's talk about eighth grade itself.  The friends you have now, they will change drastically.  People you weren't that close to at Central will become some of your best friends. Some people you would have nearly died for will change and pull away.

But the saving grace of eighth grade year was Mr. Ringle's English class. After finishing the glorious Ten Chapter story, your writing would kickstart, and a year and a half later, you would finish another novel. Mr. Ringle still will continue to influence you for years to come.

You have a blog now!  You have been published in an art and writing journal! You have your own Creative Writing Club!  Your writing will flourish like no other and touch people like never before.  Keep going, because I never could have gotten these things if you never kept on writing.

High school will be good and bad to you.  Security and safety will be found in the art department and in Mrs. Stafford's room/the Creative Writing Club, and in that little circle table in the back corner of the lunchroom. However, disarray will ensue in every other aspect of your life, and, nine times out of ten, it will suck.

But never give up hope, because, while high school will feel like the bane of your existence, it's only four years.

But truthfully, if I could only tell you, eighth grade Olivia, one thing, it would be that you will overcome. Those sleepless nights weren't all for nothing. Those feelings would be released.

And even when their screams would never cease, peace would come.  Not for years, but it would come.  So, no matter how bad you want to, never give up.

Because if you do, I'm going to kill you in my next novel. ;)

~The WordShaker

Death Begs Existential Questions

"Three words for a writer: Make Me Care," -Buffy Andrews

The trees are bare, and the flush of life on earth is at it's end.

And so was my Uncle Tim.

No one knew he was feeling this pain.  I saw him less than two weeks ago, and we never knew.  I never would have had the slightest inkling that he was depressed much less that he would kill himself with the weapon he used to gather his own food.

It would have been different if he died in a car accident.  No less tragic, but different.  It would have been different if he died of a heart attack.  No less tragic, but different.

Because instead of dying from the outside in, he died from the inside out.

Except the decay was not visible.

Until it was too late.

Now all that's left is the past.  All that's left is the memories and the words left unsaid.

~

I remember our last conversation about what praying mantis egg cases look like. He lead me around the back of the house, narrating the first time he found out that these pine-cone like structures were actually the nurseries for little baby praying mantises.

You never know which conversation will be your last.

I never knew him that well. I never thought he much liked me, being creative and sporadic and pensive.  I remember spending holidays where we barely spoke a word to each other - mostly because we never had much to discuss.

He was always one of my hardest relatives, a tough nut to crack - at least, in my book. I could never find much to connect with him, but it seemed I was getting over that hump, and, occasionally, we'd have good conversations.

But now those are lost words and lost causes.

And I regret it with my whole being.

~

The known haunts my past, but the uncertain terrifies my future. What will change? How will my family make it through each grueling day?

Funerals and pain mark what I forsee to be the future of my family. Black umbrellas and rainy eyes.

~

I can't - won't -  believe it until I see it.

But why.  I don't understand.  Why did he die?  Physically, what caused his heart to stop and for you to take the last breath from his lungs.  Why did he die?  Spiritually, what was your purpose for plucking his life back into your hands.

What is death?  Where do we really go?  Does any of this matter? Heaven, Hell, everything in between. Death begs existential questions, that, quite frankly, toy and spear through my feeble mind.

What really is any of this?

My mind floods with many thoughts that can never be translated on paper.  My heart bursts with many emotions that can never be expressed in words.

And what am I to do with them?

I just hope that Uncle Tim is up there with you, God.

USA Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

~The WordShaker

Writing a Novel is Easy - It's the Editing that Sucks.

"I try to create sympathy for my characters, then turn the monsters loose," -Stephen King

Something I've learned about myself is that I can write a first draft in a breeze. About a year, and I have a mess of a first draft - but it's done.  Full of long and hard hours of cranking out emotions and characters and words.

And I thought I would just have to polish the plot, add a few things for depth, and clean up the grammatical errors and such.

But no.  Editing sucks so much.  It's boring.  Clicking through paragraph after paragraph to just change a word.  Formatting?  Shoot me in the foot.  Spelling? Gag me with a knife. And don't even get me started on the actual hardest part which is cutting scenes, reworking paragraphs, changing backstories, adding scenes.  Pounding and melting and shaping my story like metal in a hearth.

I hate it.  I hate it because it's boring.  I hate it because I love developing a story, I love writing scenes and spending time with my characters.  But with editing, I get to do none of that.

One of the reasons that I have been spending more time with my blog is because now that I have finished my story, I truly have nothing to write. And I have to write.  It's a way of life. If I don't empty my mind, I'll surely go mad.  And without a story, it feels like I am on the brink of insanity.

And having nothing to write fills me with an odd feeling.  Without a story to weave, what is my purpose?  It feels like everything meaningful in my life has been sucked away now that I no longer have a novel to focus my energy on.

Writing it is the easy part.  Because that's exactly what I am - a writer.

Plotting is slightly harder, since we're fabricating something from nothing.  But it's doable.

Editing is shit. It's unfun and dull and boring. Devoid of emotion and like sweeping a floor. Menial and awful.

The only way that I can keep myself motivated to edit is the potential my story has.  If I keep my eyes on the prize, maybe then the bloodshot eyes and hunched shoulders and unenthusiastic work wouldn't be so menial.

Because my words are anything but.

~The WordShaker