Dissection of the Teen Novel: Generic Plotlines Captivate Teenagers Everywhere

The Teen Novel is a mysterious animal of sorts. It has a job to accomplish: the difficult task of getting the teenage population to read. It is, however, possible… that is, if it is manufactured completely right.

Because all teenagers are ridiculously judgmental and do, in fact, judge books by their covers, the cover of the novel be engineered just right in order to get that teenager to even consider removing a book from a shelf instead of walking right past to go pick up a Seventeen Magazine or something.

A Catchy, One-Word Title

Employed to draw you in, the incredibly sneaky Catchy One-Word Title catches the attention of the teenager (hence the “catchy” part). This One Word Title is typically accompanied by a dramatic, all-telling image slapped on the cover to aid in explaining the purpose, plot, or theme of the novel (the important aspects that aren’t included in the title, for effect of course.) The image must be stylized to represent the complex inner workings of the captivating text within the confines of the cover.

The “Story”

The text, of course, comes next, once the teenager has been lured into picking up the book and opening to the first page (after the title page, the acknowledgments, the contents, and the one meaningless blank page that is always there before the actual story begins). After analyzing, comparing, and computing (gazing at the Young Adult section of Border’s for about two minutes) a great deal of teen novels, three main plotlines seem to guarantee success.

Scenario One: Vampires and/or other mythical creatures interact with adolescent heroine, resulting in sometimes troublesome but most of the time romantic effects.

So, its obvious that everyone and their mother is aware of and in love with Edward Cullen or Jack Black, so I’ll save some time here and not touch Twilight otherwise. Besides, there are a great deal of other stories that fall under the Scenario One section that deserve undeserved recognition and popularity.

The girls in these types of novels discover unexpectedly that they are in love with a werewolf, dating a werewolf, dating a vampire, becoming a werewolf, becoming a vampire, becoming a witch, or dating or becoming a gremlin, a pixie, or a unicorn. Their normal lives change drastically because of their riskiness and how drawn they are to their mythological more-than-a-friend. But will the normal world come between them and their honestly true love and keep them apart forever?

Examples: Betrayals, Need, Wings, Shiver, Twilight, Tempted, Wicked, Immortal.

Scenario Two: A “popular crowd” of some sort becomes problematic for the protagonist, who finds herself repulsed but at the same time somewhat drawn to her school’s elite: causing a conflict for the main character which results in a novel.

Characterized by teenage shenanigans and cat fights that hold more importance than they seem to, Scenario Two novels have very few options as to plotlines, so it’s pretty much a miracle that they are written at all.

At some point, an unexpected relationship develops between the main character and a male leader of the pack, who is somehow deeper than the rest and understands her struggle, because he secretly has a struggle too.

There, of course, has be some variety within the novels, so usually the names of the main characters differ from book to book, along with the school they attend and where it is located.

Examples: Alphas, Private, Privilege, Untouchable.

Scenario Three: A seemingly normal teenager or someone within their family or close inner circle of friends begins to combat an sudden or previously unnoticed social evil, mental or physical illness, or something else really messed up, and their previously perfect lives descend into total chaos and destruction that sometimes gets resolved by the end (but sometimes doesn’t).

Novels in this category exhibit a blatant disregard for the rules, confronting controversial issues like eating disorders, drug use, teen pregnancy, drug pregnancy, anorexic infants, and anorexic drugs. These books are for those rebellious teens who are indeed rebellious (and don’t you forget it), but are just not rebellious enough to open up a book without writing profanities inside of it or burning it.

Examples: Tweak, Crank, Glass, Wrecked, Skin, Skinny, Liar.

Lack of Inspiration Produces Exceedingly Dull Bloggings

Today isn’t a day for blogging. I feel as if my blogging inspiration won’t come back until during or after winter break. Because there is only one week left, I am beginning to feel ever so slightly restless. I am very ready for a break.

I’m excited to make a to-do list for the break, and then check everything off. I plan to finish the book I’m reading, The Stranger by Albert Camus. I checked it out from the school library for a project, and its just about the coolest book I’ve ever had my hands on besides my Natural History illustrated textbook type thing from 1952 and my 1893 edition of Alice in Wonderland (that I got for a steal at 27 bucks plus tax on eBay, and that I have yet to finish reading, which I will also do over the break).

Anyway, this book has been checked out from Clark High School’s library since 1967, which is incredible in itself. Just imagine how many hands it has passed through… and it has that genuine old-book smell, which is nice. The cover is a lovely limeish green with a sixties kind of pattern. It contains twisted annotations that would send any AP Lang/Comp teacher into cardiac arrest: crossed out words because the reader felt their word choices were more appropriate, and other thoughts containing one “April Butterfield” and a statement about her physical attractiveness to the wielder of the writing utensil. I wonder where April Butterfield is now, how old she is, and the like. Is it possible that the anonymous admirer and Ms. Butterfield have consequently married? Who knows.

I also plan to do more art-related stuff because I haven’t drawn a picture in what feels like a long time. I’ve been too busy lately to be creative, so hopefully that will change this winter break. I would also like to make more bracelets because my favorite hemp bracelet broke recently, so I need to make another one to replace it.

My family and I are attending a Manheim Steamroller Christmas concert thing tonight, which is pretty cool… I’m curious to see how they operate live, because I’ve always been particularly fond of their Christmas songs. I should probably be getting ready to go to that at this very moment. But who wants to read about that, really?

I dislike writing about whatever I would like to do because I find it to be hopelessly boring and completely pointless to any reader. However, I could be wrong. Maybe I have thousands of dedicated fans out there somewhere that are just dying to know my Winter Break to do list is. Until my blog inspiration comes back, these lackluster musings will have to do.

The Downfall of a Blog

Because I am quite busy and have absolutely no time to spare, I find myself with no time to sit and ponder what to write about. For this reason, I must write about nothing in particular in order to check something off of my to-do list, which is literally a page long. (Hooray)

I feel acutely terrible for being generally uncreative with this blog entry, but for the sake of time this blog has become a martyr of sorts. Who knows, perhaps because of its selfless actions it will be celebrated in later years. One can never be sure, but I can vouch for the fact that this blog is kindhearted and truly deserves to be not sacrificed. However, because of self interest, it must be sacrificed anyway. This may come across as unconditionally cruel, and I certainly apologize, but there is nothing that can be done now.

This blog is perishing slowly at a constant rate, like one of those large containers of Ovaltine over a summer. Daily a mother will supply her child with a single tablespoon of chocolate powder diffused into a tall glass of milk. Each day the container loses one tablespoon, slowly chipping away at the whole until it is nothing but an empty shell. Yes, this situation is synonymous with the demise of this very blog. The fall is constant, unless of course the child discovers a stepstool as to reach the counter on his own. From there, the demise would occur sporadically- two or three table spoons one day, varying from the generous four table spoons of the day before. Occurring in spastic amounts, the fall is far more painful- like short bursts of agony. Now the blog’s fate is to be determined by the greedy, insatiable child instead of the level-headed mother.

Thankfully I believe that this blog is in virtually no pain and is at this very moment quite comfortable. I think it may even believe itself to be a hero. I will encourage this blog that it is correct in its thinking, but when I turn around I will cackle devilishly.

I do have a conscience, and it is thudding deeply in my skull, but I logically realize that as soon as this blog is done with I can devote my energies to other areas of study. True, the collapse of this blog is unfortunate, but it is of stark necessity.

Bizarre Flight Attendants

It has been my utter (and occasionally hilarious) misfortune to run into some of the strangest and most obnoxious flight-attendants ever while on planes (if that wasn’t obvious).

The first had an obsession with having all windows closed that bordered on psychotic. She would literally walk up and down the aisles, asking the passengers if they could please, kindly, shut their windows. We (being my mother, sister, and I) dubbed her “The Window Nazi” based on her ludicrous requests. For the entirety of the flight, she just about begged every person on the flight to shut the windows for no apparent reason. My mother muttered the sentiment “I paid for this ticket, and I’ll shut the window if I want to.”

The second flight attendant had a small pet peeve regarding the overhead bins, and she was the one designated to close them all before the flight began. If they didn’t close correctly on the first try, she would reopen them and rampantly rearrange the baggage, and then slam the doors shut as if they had personally wronged her.

The third, who I encountered yesterday while flying back from Denver, might have been the most hilarious flight attendant I have ever had to share an airplane with. I never saw this woman’s face, but learned enough about her through her speeches over the intercom to take her about as seriously as I do something that I do not take seriously at all. The first thing she did was tell as all that safety was her main priority.

She pleaded with us to please not get up when the seatbelt sign was on, for it was unsafe. She had already said the word safe about twenty-three times when the turbulence started. She came over the intercom, telling us to please fasten our seatbelts. I grasped my armrests in mock horror. The Safe Nazi said we were also going to have to put away our electronic devices early, because it was unsafe. She seemed rushed and anxious, as if we were experiencing a true crisis. She told us we weren’t allowed to use cellular phones until we landed, which we were all perfectly aware of. I put my hand on my mothers and said sarcastically, “Oh, good. I can’t wait to call our relatives to tell them that we are okay.”

When we finally landed, she began the spiel about “thanking us for our business.” Then she implored us to be cautious while in Vegas. She said to be careful with money, not to spend it all at once, and then to be especially cautious while driving, because “people drink here, y’know.”

This sent me as well as the people who I sat near into laughter. Because, obviously, Vegas is the only place where people drink. A boisterous man seating in front of me laughed loudly at the absurdity of her statement. An older woman beside me said “I think she just likes to hear the sound of her voice over the intercom.” I agreed with her. I wondered if the flight attendant noticed the distaste of her passengers, and hoped she did and would therefore stop being an infernal nag.

This experience set me to thinking. Do flight attendants become annoying deliberately? I can imagine that the job becomes tedious at points, and to break the monotony, perhaps flight attendants decide to do strange things in order to gauge the reactions of the people on the flight. A different personality every flight- that would certainly be interesting. But all in all I believe that maybe being in such high altitudes for countless hours, days on end, can turn young women into crazy old flight attendants with acute obsessions.

Image: http://brooklyn-newyork.olx.com/flight-attendant-training-course-online-iid-5178087

The Volvox: A Love Story

Looking back on myself as a bumbling freshman, I consider myself to have been one who held very few interests that intersected in any way with the academic studies undertaken in the high school environment. However, there are always exceptions to any standard set in place by The Man, and my exception was the Volvox.

Formerly unaware of the existence of this fascinating microorganism, I felt a fleeting spark of interest enter my mind when my Biology teacher first introduced to me this Volvox thing. It all began with a black and white diagram on a piece of printer paper, detail skewed and significance muffled by the grey residue which accompanies an image copied many times over. That, and a brief description of what the basic functions of a volvox include, a synopsis of its reproductive abilities, and other minor details concerning its existence.

In comparison to the multitude of other microorganisms we were studying, all of which accompanied the Volvox on the sheet of paper, one would think the volvox was as typical as its diminutive counterparts. However, I had an inclination that there just might be something special about this one, and thoughts of the volvox engulfed my brain for the remainder of the lecture.

We had the opportunity to see the microorganism of our choice by means of a microscope slide, and I knew what had to be done. I strode to my teacher’s desk and asked boldly if I could view the Volvox. She handed me a microscope slide which help a single drop of water in the center, which was plastered underneath a protective sheet. As I made my way toward a microscope, a great exhilaration passed over me and into the volvoxes which inhabited the slide I grasped with my fingertips.

I felt as if I wasn’t yet worthy of the honor of observing such a creature, shrouded in magnificence. After all, I had only read about them. Yes, I had seen the basic diagram, but I thought myself no expert in the ways of the Volvox. My hands were practically shaking. I was about to meet the Volvox, and I was thrilled.

I became further intrigued with the Volvox from the moment I laid eyes on it through the microscope eyepiece. The way they rolled around so blissfully- the effortless, soothing motion- in company with their almost fluorescent yellow-green hue was somehow breathtaking and charming. It was algae working in tandem, groups of cells coexisting together to create one being. It was a colony. It was brotherhood. And it was beautiful.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I stared with enchanted incredulity for a long while, mesmerized by the rhythmic revolutions of the round chlorophytes, until, unfortunately, I had to return to my work. But I will never forget and will remain forever changed by my enlightening day with the Volvox.

Antiques..

My mother and I frequently go on “adventures.” We enter any store we find interesting, threatening, or anything else that sparks our curiosity (pawn shops, “psychic” book shops, consignment stores, antique stores, Goodwill, and Summerlin furniture stores far out of our price range just to mess around, etc) These “adventures” usually consist of going on errands to find something generally out of the blue (and there is little chance we actually find it). This weekend, it was a chest of drawers.
The drawers in my room broke more than a month ago, and are now jutting out at strange angles. Not to mention, I can’t open the drawers and put my clothes inside, so the floor surrounding is stacked up with various articles of clothing. I never imagined how difficult it would be to find a replacement- something unique, preferably paintable for the sake of personalization, the correct size, and not hideously expensive.

So far we’ve had zero luck, and have gone out searching for said chest of drawers every weekend for nearly a month. This weekend my mother proposed we go downtown and check out the thrift and antique stores to see if we could find anything of interest.

We passed a large antique mall, and decided to venture inside. They didn’t have what we were looking for, but they had just about everything else one could possibly imagine.

Antique stores are inspiring in a way, and the items there spawn questions in my mind as I look at them. I am quite fond of old things. Old books have an exquisite, unique scent and are genuinely charming (Where were they shelved before this? Who read them?), old dolls are wonderful (Who played with these throughout the years? Who was this special to?), old photographs are enchanting (Who possibly could have parted with these? How did they end up here? Who are these people and what were they like?), and whatever I decide to purchase (if anything) makes me feel like I’ve come home with a miniscule slice of history, however worthless it may be.

Needless to say, it was nearly impossible for my mother to pry me from the store. It seemed to continue endlessly: I would spend a long while inside any particular section, gazing at perhaps old Star Trek figurines, and then something like an old telephone would catch my eye from across the room, but on the way I would just need to stop and look at a nameless woman’s ancient wedding photos, strewn helplessly among the lost articles of other people, fractions of unknown lives- an eerie sort of memoriam. Entire photo albums- the year 1927 of someone’s life, photographs paired with cursive-penned descriptions: a year lost and now stacked among musty bags of Marvel comic books and old postcards.

The Past 18 Minutes

Yesterday, when I plugged in my computer to the power strip sitting beside my bed, an error screen materialized after I turned on my laptop. It stated that somehow the power source was messing up or something, and wondered if I wanted to continue on down this seemingly threatening path.

Because I had never received such a message before, I was curious to see if I could discover the cause. So I checked to make sure the power strip was plugged into the wall completely, which it was. Then I checked to make sure the thingy that connects the laptop to the power strip was plugged in completely to the power strip, which it was. Finally, I checked to make sure the thingy that connects the laptop to the power strip was plugged in completely to the laptop which is was…n’t.

Actually, it was. However, the black covering had been bent to such extremes that it had ripped, revealing the wires underneath. Not the greatest of signs. Because of its potentially hazardous state, I resorted to using my computer’s battery instead, which is something I rarely do. Close to never. I only use my battery when I need to bring my computer elsewhere besides my all-too-comfortable bed, where it is about 99.7% of the time. (I understand that keeping a laptop in one place continuously defeats the purpose of even having a laptop, but that is an argument for later date.)

Using the battery causes the screen of my computer to become perpetually dim, which is disappointing in comparison to the brightly-colored and stimulating graphics that typically accompany the usage of my laptop. Instead of a pure, mind-boggling white, the background of this Microsoft Word document has a twinge of sickly grey, which looks downright unhealthy.

I do not use to battery frequently for that reason, along with the fact that using a battery instead of a constant power source can be utterly unnerving. I find my eyes constantly darting to the bottom right corner of the screen, checking to see just how much time I have left. The battery icon empties spitefully, its life shrinking down to nothingness, and it mocks me so cruelly: Only thirty-seven more minutes, Julia. Thirty-seven minutes until the end.

This was my experience today, when I opened my computer and turned it on to realize that I had but thirty-seven minutes to spit out this article. Now the malicious battery reads that I have twenty-four minutes until oblivion. Twenty-three now. Twenty-two.

So, I guess I will have to come to terms with the fact that my computer will look unwell and that this battery-anxiety will plague me until my mother can locate for me a new power-cord. (Twenty-one.) That, or I can risk electrocution by using my power-cord, which I am now (Twenty.) considering.

Nineteen.