OH, GOD, YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME.

I just received an e-mail from my friend Nieriel that stated that this very blog now has readers in Ireland! YAY! *victory dance*

I've actually checked the stats for this blog just now, and have seen that I've got readers from all over the globe! *stunned expression*
So, to all my foreign readers, I give you my thanks. *bows*
I love each and every one of you.
(Especially you, Eamonn. Yes, you. *virtual hug* I don't even know you, but you get a special shout-out anyway.)

Much love from the U.S.!
xoxo
Lónannûniel

Inheritance

So, I met Christopher Paolini the other night.

For those of you who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about, here's a brief synopsis: 

Mr. Paolini is the New York Times Bestselling author of the the famed Inheritance Cycle, which consists of the four novels Eragon, Eldest, Brisingr, and Inheritance. On November 8th, 2011, Inheritance was released, finally ending a four year wait for the final book in the series. The next day, Nieriel and I trekked into Philadelphia, as we do, to get our beloved novels signed by the writer himself, Christopher Paolini. 

This is him. Ain't he cute? 

Unlike our last book singing adventure, we were able to get seats in the auditorium of the library, ones that were very close to the stage, actually. *epic squee*

And this time, we heard stories. Not just ANY stories, dear readers, but stories that proved how hard it is to write a novel. Allow me to demonstrate. 

After a brief introduction, Mr. Paolini told us the story of how Eragon came to pass. For those who don't know, Eragon was first written and published when Paolini was 15 years old, right after he graduated from High School. According to the story, it began with a Viking Mead Hall. 

Christopher Paolini: "After I graduated, the only thing on my mind was how great it was to be out of school. That lasted for about two weeks. Then... I got bored. Really, really, really, really, really, really bored. How bored was I? Well, I'll tell you. I was so bored... that I dug a hole. And it wasn't just any hole, this hole was 8 feet deep and 8 feet wide, and I insulated it with hay bales, chopped down some dead trees from the river near my house, lined them along the inside, and covered the thing with an old satellite dish. How did I get into the hole, you ask? I dug a tunnel. And it became a Viking Mead Hall."

(Quite honestly, given the chance, I would have done the same thing. Except, y'know... I would have made it a gaming sanctuary of sorts. With snacks.)

He also mentioned the original name of our hero, Eragon.

CP: "Eragon was not originally named Eragon. I've actually never told anybody this, and I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but... Eragon's name was originally Kevin. *cringes*
And he met a unicorn." 

Needless to say, the audience kind of... well, spontaneously combusted with laughter. 

(Yes, it's possible. Someone ran out of the theatre on fire, and it was funny as hell. This is my story, so shut up.)

A brief Q&A followed, and I actually got to ask a question! :D  

Being a huge fan of Tolkien and his linguistics, I took it upon myself (while trying not to projectile vomit out of nervousness) to ask Paolini about his own language, The Ancient Language, and how he created it.


Me: "After reading your books, and really taking a look at the Ancient Language, I've noticed that it's really similar to Sindarin and Quenya, which are Tolkien's languages. Is language a passion of yours, like it was for Tolkien? You seem to feel very strongly about it."
CP: "My Ancient Language is based mostly on Old Norse, and Tolkien's, I believe, were based mostly on Finnish. There really isn't much of a difference between the two [Old Norse & Finnish], actually. *laughs* But, I wouldn't say language is a passion of mine, seeing as Tolkien dedicated his entire life to his work. I'd like to do something else with my writing. *laughs* I did enjoy creating the Ancient Language and using Dwarvish in my books, though. It was fun."

After the Q&A, we all migrated back upstairs to get our books signed.

What we so hopelessly forgot was that EVERY FUCKING PERSON IN THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA decided to attend this event, and the line to get stuff signed stretched all the out into the alley behind the library.
Thankfully, Nieriel's mom saved us a place in line, but we still had hour wait. (It actually didn't seem that long, though...)
(And I know you're probably reading this, Mrs. Mulreany, so thank you for your awesome spot-saving powers. *virtual hug*)


I'll skip to the exciting part, where I got my copy of Inheritance signed.

(He's actually signing Brisingr here, but IT STILL WORKS.)


It was almost as if it happened in slow-motion. I remember standing in line, and a woman taking my books and placing them on the table to be signed. My heart raced, like I was preparing myself to jump off a cliff. My hands started to almost tremble as the people in front of me moved on. I was repressing nervous giggles and excited squeals as I tapped my fingers against my thigh. 
He then called my name, a huge smile on his face as he said it. I made eye contact, briefly, but immediately looked away, almost as if I'd be turned to stone if my gaze lingered.
As he signed my book, our 'conversation' was as follows:

CP: "So, have you started the book so far?"
Me: "Oh, yes, I'm about ten chapters in, and so far, it's absolutely brilliant!"
CP: *laughs*  "Well, thank you, very much. Thanks for coming!"
Me: "Oh, it's no trouble...!"

Wow. I sounded like an idiot. *facepalm*

You have no idea how fucking excited I was when this was taken.
And, in case you care, it says Mein Teil on my hand. It mean's 'my part' in German, and it's also a song by Rammstein. Just in case you give a shit.

You probably don't.

Dark Horse

Music has always played a huge part in my life. As long as I can remember, my Dad has always played guitar, and his dedication to the instrument has always inspired me in my playing and love of music. I can still smell the strangely calming aroma of stale cigarettes and laundry detergent from our basement where Dad used to practice every night when I was little.

I remember the first time I picked up the violin, my first guitar; Listening to almost every type of music ever composed, and adoring close to all of it. 

Whether it be the wail of an electric guitar, the haunting sound of a sitar, or the enticing melody of an ocarina, the soul that is behind music is what makes it great.

Music that speaks such wisdom to me is the work of George Harrison.

George's work has always held a special place in my heart. With every song, he put his love, dedication, wisdom, faith, and humour. Listening to songs like Isn't it a Pity and Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth) bring tears to my eyes, simply because of the heart and soul behind it. What speaks to me is not only the love within, but how George had changed millions of lives, including my own, with something as simple as song. 

"Love one another" 

Three words, their meaning clear as day.
Beautiful words from a beautiful man.
Spiritual in the truest sense of the word, though I myself am somewhat off the beaten path when it comes to religion, George Harrison gave me faith when I needed it most.

Music has an odd way of releasing emotions, no matter what they may be. When you're sad, you listen to mopey, sappy songs; When you're angry, you listen to hard rock and kick random shit. (Or I do, at least...)
When you're happy, you listen to music that makes you feel good. (As I write this, I'm listening to Layla by Derek and the Dominos, which, ironically, is about Eric Clapton's borderline obsession with George Harrison's then wife, Pattie Boyd)

Songs like this, with such feeling behind them that you can close your eyes and almost see yourself standing next to the musician in the studio, is what makes life so great, in my opinion.

If one can realize the true beauty of music that speaks not only to the heart, but to the soul, then one has truly reached a state of bliss, forever immortal in the romanticism of rock and roll's poetry.

George, you've changed my life. Rest in peace, love. 

Oh, hello.

You scared the piss out of me.

*sips tea*

So, I haven't written in a while. Apologies. 

My computer's an arrogant little *mumble mumble* and took a month to be fixed. I just recently got it back about 2 days ago, and have been pondering what exactly I should write about, now that I actually have the ability to blog again. 

I still have absolutely nothing to write about, which is exceptionally unsettling. Usually, I've got a few witty remarks that might make for a good article or two, but today... nothing.

That's what royally sucks about being a writer. Some days, you can't think about anything but writing. Most days, you know exactly what you want to write, but you can't get it down on paper...

Today, I've got nada. 

I've literally spent the last hour procrastinating on my homework by staring absentmindedly at this stupid computer screen, listening to The Who and pondering why this country is so fucking entranced by Nutella spreads. 

Writer's block is one of the most infuriating things I've ever encountered, and it seems that it gets its sick kicks by infesting my mind like a parasite whenever I sit down at my keyboard.

Usually, music helps me get rid of it, but not even Pete Townshend is helping me now, which he usually does. (Damn you, Pete. You and your adorably gargantuan nose. *weakly shakes fist*)

I keep hovering my hands over this stupid keyboard, waiting for my fingers to just make a masterpiece on their own. I've examined my bitten nails about ten times now, noticing every time a difference in the pattern of my chipped nail polish. There's still ink on my hand from where I smeared my biology notes today. My hands are cold. I have to re-paint my nails. I should really do my homework. My dogs need to shut up. 

t';]6\-04r67

I just smashed my head onto my keyboard. 

**47 MINUTES PASS**

I have completed my homework. Did you guys know that Nikita Khrushchev was an arrogant little man?

**12 MINUTES PASS**

I have learned that President Theodore Roosevelt was known to swim naked in the Potomac River in the wintertime.

I have also learned that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was forced by his mother to wear a dress until he was five years old.


...I am bored and my tea is now cold.