Author has written 2 stories for Van Helsing, and Mummy.
I'm an American, born and bred--I grew up in L.A. and now go to school in our Capital.
I'm a creator, whether it be writing, drawing, painting, sewing, building, etc. I love history, the bazaar, the paranormal, the exotic and adventure. Like many writers here, I hope to become a novelist one day and in addition to fanfiction, write a lot of independent stories in the fantasy and historical based genres.
A lot of people I know give fanficiton flack for the quality of the work presented, the subject matter and the overall execution--but I happen to think fanfiction is a great site for aspiring writers. I know that since I have joined and posted up stories, my writing has developed so much more and often at the hands of friends on the site who were willing to read my work and give me good, constructive feedback. I thank the people who come on the site and are willing to help struggling writers or appreciate a turn of phrase.
I've got two fanfictions going right now: Seeker & Blood in Egypt (though I abhor the title, so if you've any suggestions for it, tell me..I'm dying to get rid of it)
Seeker is actually an independent story I put up on the Van Helsing category because I'm using paranormal creatures such as vampires and werewolves and such. Its about the friendship of two girls, in the conflicting world of dreams and reality. I can't give anything more away--so, enjoy the read!
Blood in Egypt details the adventures of the newest O'Connell, Rick and Evey's daughter Amelia. With some friends along the way, they'll be given a great adventure in post World War Two Europe and Middle East.
Independent of fanfiction, I'm writing a fantasy novel and historical novel set in 1655 Caribbean.
I also belong to the most amazing writing group RPG in FF.net, where along with two friends, I'm a forum Admin.
So, if you've got great characters, a love for fun, collaborative writing and want to join, feel free to do so:
The RPG has greatly helped my writing and has also given me a plethora of characters to use (I've created over 38 original characters there)--so pm me or any of the moderators if you've got any Q's.
Bram Stoker's Dracula, The Historian, P&P, LOTR series, Gemma Doyle Series, Sooke Stackhouse Series, World War Z, The Portrait of Dorian Gray, Madame Bovary, Interview with the Vampire, Seek the Darkness, Sword Born, The Heart of A Dog, The Winter Rose, The Tea Rose, Wildwood Dancing, Cybele's Secret, A Song for Summer, Countess Under Stairs, The Dark Mirror, Pride & Prejudice & Zombies, Frida Kahlo's Diary, The Merchant of Venice [the list continues. . . .]
I like waaay too many movies to list them all, but usually like dramas, adventure-romances and horror flicks (as in monster/ghost/spiritsm) stories. ...
I believe in the equality of all human beings no matter their station--I love diverse cultures and ethnicitys and the way these factors interact with the human experience.
1) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, liposuction and air conditioning.
2) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
3) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.
4) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.
5) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed; the sanctity of Brittany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.
6) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.
7) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
8) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.
9) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.
10) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans...
I'm sick of Twilight--aren't you?
Aren't you sick of constantly being reminded of it in every venue of publication or popular culture? How unfaithful the series is to the idea and history of vampirism--how the writing can be flat (paling in comparison to the flatness of her characters) and that when approaching the topic of the vampire, Stephanie Meyers decided not to engage in any research--at all?
Does Bella make you cringe and Edward make you want to toss rotten vegetables at him and laugh as the bits of decaying food latch onto his idiotic, sparkling face?
Does it bother you that girls seem to flock to it, fawning and dreaming and infatuating over Edward and worshiping their heroine--Bella? (Especially when there are waaaay better vampire guys out there to fawn over--Lestat, Armand, Marius, Louis, Bill Compton, Eric, Dracula--he sparkles for christ's sake...come on already!)
It bothers me--it in fact bothered me so much, that I decided to write a ten page research paper on Twilight and the relationship said piece of teen-chic-lit has with the formation and ideal of femininity in popular culture and conversely its role in forming female identity today.
I want to post it up here mainly to share my ideas about the books. In doing so though, I understand that I am posting up my academic piece on public domain.
I implore you, then, to not plagiarize. Please do not bastardize my thoughts, belittle my efforts and my month and a half's work by taking this paper I have put my entire heart into and calling it your own.
Its easy to plagiarize but its as demeaning as stealing material property from someone. If you are reading this, I consider you to have the intelligence and capacity to sit down at your own computer and write out your developed opinions into a cohesive sentence--you shouldn't have to use mine.
To all you Twilight die hards, I'm not really sorry about ripping the piece to shreds but if it bothers you that much, don't read it and flame me--this is my opinion. God did not decree Twilight a biblical cannon. It can be criticized.
Now. With that being said, you can take a peek at my paper:
“Because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. If I fail, no one will say, ‘She doesn't have what it takes.’ They will say, ‘Women don't have what it takes."
~Clare Boothe Luce
I was born into a house full of women. My mother has managed to sustain, under one roof, my elderly grandmother, older brother, myself and my dog—Bella, also of the female persuasion, I might add. And that’s only when our house was at minimum capacity. There is also the times where my mother’s house became a Hotel California of sorts, when my Aunt would live with us in six month stints before being drawn back down to her life in Mexico, and of course my six female cousins from up north and my other two female cousins from Mexico who would come a-knockin’ whenever the moment seized them.
I suppose I understand then, considering my childhood being characterized vastly by an array of colorful female characters, why I today find myself pre-occupied by what exactly it means to be a woman. When the word ‘woman’ is uttered, I find myself flooded with different images, ideas and memories—mostly of my mother. And what became painfully clear to me as I was growing up and pouring over my collection of Disney princess stories, is that my mother was not in any single one of them.
My own mother—my hero who endured and overcame the most incredible experiences I can imagine—never sat around waiting for a prince to save her, she didn’t have time to twirl in revoltingly bright pink and blue dresses or share lively jigs with forest creatures—my mother was busy raising my older brother and I by herself, working full time and for a time, even going to school. If that isn’t a hero, then I do not know what is.
Yet Disney and their equally female-ignorant predecessors, the Grimm Brothers, didn’t seem to care about what image of the female hero they projected and continue to project onto their female audience. They were preoccupied with instilling within their soft-minded potential Disney investors the traditional gender dynamics that have been established and put into play since the Middle Ages; that where the man is active, the female is passive and remains a flat caricature, an empty shell, an object—always to her man’s disposal and to whatever degree of devotion he dictates.
Even at a young age I was perturbed that Aurora and Snow White found themselves in a deep sleep, waiting to be awakened by their Prince Charming’s true kiss or that the only way Jasmine could best Jafar was to seduce him—only to have Aladdin save her and the entire city of Agrabah in the end anyways.
What I have come to see so clearly is the deficit of women protagonists in youth literature. As Kathleen Ragan puts so pointedly, as she opens up her pro-female anthology for children: Fearless Girls, Wise Women and Beloved Sisters, a hero “is a masculine noun. . .a heroine, on the other hand, is the female equivalent. Or is she really his equal in the epic? We might as well have called her a hero-ess or a hero-ette, some kind of diminutive subset of real heroes.” For when I read a classic fairy tale, or watch a Disney Princess movie, or even (to my astonishment) pick up a contemporary story about a teenage girl, called Twilight, I see no real protagonist, but instead “the heroine . . . who carries the spears but does not hurl them. The one who dresses well but does not dirty her nails in the fight. The one who lies down in a glass casket, until revived by an awakening kiss” (Ragan xvii).
And perhaps the most perturbing realization of all is that many of my fellow sisters whole heartedly embrace this portrayal of the heroine, and thus its subsequent ideal of womanhood. “We, the reading and viewing public” in accepting this bastardized Victorian ideal of femininity, which is reinforced everyday the Twilight Saga remains on the best-seller’s list, “then accepted whole cloth that in folklore, as in life, everyone but the heroine is a capable being”—perhaps not even a being at all (xvii).
I will paint no illusions—I too had once succumbed to the Twilight delirium that currently has a choke hold on teenage and pre-teen girls, as well as middle aged women. Being an admitted romantic and vampire enthusiast, I was spellbound by the enigmatic Edward Cullen. Yet, as time passed and I continued to read the series, I found more and more problems with the story—namely it’s two principle characters, protagonist Bella and eye-candy, undead-hero Edward—who “renders her nearly speechless by his spectacular beauty” and changes her life forever (L. Miller 1).
My problem, you ask? Meyer’s romance is an existentialist Victorian fairytale disguised in realism that dupes both old and young women alike into believing that Edward is the ideal male, that happiness is found in finding that ideal male, that in order to find this male one must become submissive like Bella, and that Bella and Edward’s love is the idea of what love should be. But most importantly, that female identity, self-worth, happiness and purpose within life is and will always be found outside of the female herself and instead found in a man.
Meyer’s work represents the “resurrection of the most old-fashioned incarnation of romance novels,” the sort that were published as periodicals in Women’s Magazines to enforce proper Victorian values and ideals in women during the 19th Century. “They summon a world in which love is passionate, yet (relatively) chaste, girls need be nothing more than fetchingly vulnerable, and masterful men can be depended upon to protect and worship them for it” (1).
Meyer does all of this rather skillfully by doing something rather simple, she merely constructs her protagonist, Bella, as an existentialist character. In the tradition of Camus’ Meursault, Bella is “stripped down to a minimum, lacking the texture and idiosyncrasies of actual people. . . she is purposely made as featureless and ordinary as possible in order to render her a vacant, flexible skin into which the reader can insert herself and thereby vicariously enjoy Edward’s chilly charms . . . to delight in marveling at his beauty, being cherished in his impermeable arms, thrilling to his caresses and, above all, hearing him profess, over and over, his absolute, unfailing, exclusive, eternal and worshipful adoration” (2).
In doing so, Meyer creates a story written for young girls where the protagonist is “directionless and unsure of herself, her only distinguishing trait is her clumsiness, about which she makes frequent self-deprecating jokes” (2),
“Well, look at me,’ I said, unnecessarily as he was already staring. ‘I’m absolutely ordinary—well, except for bad things like all the near-death experiences and being so clumsy that I’m almost disabled. And look at you.’ I waved my hand toward him and all his bewildering perfection.” (Meyer 210)
In fact, we know quite well of Edward’s ethereal beauty, how his “skin literally sparkles, like thousands of tiny diamonds are embedded in the surface” (260). The reader is acutely aware of his physical perfection from the very first moment we meet Edward in all of his “inhumanly beautiful . . . airbrushed” glory (19) and every moment that proceeds it. Edward is the modern embodiment of the Adonis, laying “perfectly still in the grass, his shirt open over his sculpted, incandescent chest, his scintillating arms bare. His glistening, pale lavender lids were shut, though of course he didn’t sleep. A perfect statue, carved in some unknown stone, smooth like marble, glittering like crystal” (260).
And what can be said of Bella? Can we describe her appearance? Can we put a face to her name, seeing as no identity exists? No, we can not. Bella is merely pale and dark haired. Even in referencing her own physical description in narration, Meyer craftily diverts the focus away from Bella. Our experience of her physicality is only found in contrast to Edward’s in such deprecating statements as, “why did he have to look like a runway model when I couldn’t?” (253).
In Meyer’s existentialist fantasy, as Laura Miller points out, “Bella is not really the point of the Twilight series; she’s more of a place holder than a character” (L. Miller 2). A place holder that allows the American female to escape into her individualized, subjective fantasy. Because Meyer does not endow Bella and her world with any vivid sketch, the reader makes of it what they please. Aside from Edward’s precise beauty, he too “lacks dimension. His inner life and thoughts are known to us only through what Bella sees him say or do” (2). There becomes no doubt in the reader’s mind that Edward is telling the truth when he whispers, “For this one night, could we try to forget everything besides just you and me? It seems like I can never get enough time like that. I need to be with you. Just you.” (Meyer, Eclipse 435). Because the reader is surely lacking this selective attention in reality, they readily accept that when Edward says this, it is a mark of his undying, pure love and devotion. Surely a fantasy, considering that “such statements rarely issue from the lips of mortal men, except perhaps when they’re looking for sex,” (L. Miller 3).
This is where I find conflict. In Camus’ existential novel, The Stranger, Meursault’s void of a character, I find, is constructed in the purpose of reflecting reader identity. In directing Meursault through a journey of isolation, he achieves solidarity in his own identity and existence, freedom in the idea that both are removed from the constraints of the living, thinking, and judging world. Therefore, the reader endures a similar experience and is liberated. In Meyer’s existentialist romance, Bella and company merely serve as the construct for female escapism not as a means of achieving identity; all the while initiating a cycle of destructive formation of the female identity. Just as the reader endures the trials of Meursault’s storyline, so too does the reader endure Bella’s experience of being loved by Edward—and it is fantastically perfect. Meyer constructs a situation wherein her protagonist (and thus the reader) experiences the sinful pleasures of infatuation in a realistic setting. For readers unsure of themselves (a pre-teen girl, for example), this is dangerous—they lose themselves in the labyrinth of this warped fantasy and begin to believe that it can be made a reality if they embrace the norms espoused in the book—thus adopting Bella’s character arch and behavior as their own.
Meyer’s presentation of the folkloric ideal hero and hero-ette also further serve to deconstruct her existentialist novel. Because Edward is perfect, and he assures Bella with a sweetly deceiving smile that “she is the opposite of ordinary” (Meyer 210), Meyer presents a female and male paradigm whose love is perfect, harkening all readers to mimic and search for this perfection. This within itself, defeats existentialist thought because existentialist thought depends on the fluidity and ever changing perception of the world. There can be no concrete, perfect, right or wrong anything in existentialist reality because it relies upon a disunified reader interpretation—thus revealing Meyer’s best seller for what it truly is: a Victorian romance which upholds the traditional, disparate gender roles and the dynamics they form in society, all the while undoing a hundred years of feminist struggle. The existentialist confusion in Meyer’s Twilight therefore serves not only as a means of escapism for women but also a debase and subservient model for which young girls to model themselves after.
Congratulations Stephanie Meyer, you, along with Disney and the Grimm Brothers have succeeded in programming a generation of women and now, adolescent girls into believing they “are helpless ornaments in need of protection,” (Ragan xvii).
Where Meyer’s 130 million dollar franchise, spawning an entire genre of like-minded paranormal romance novellas, have done damage is in the miscalculation of their audience. They’ve rewritten the vapid, unrealistic, puritanical romance fantasies of old and placed them within the context of contemporary realistic society—presenting it to a group of girls who lack the self knowledge to understand that their focus in life is and should not be guy-centered but rather self searching. The simple regurgitation of old gender dynamics and typical damsel role models directly contradict the world that has been evolved and developed since then.
Twilight essentially tells the story of Jane Eyre, where Edward Cullen becomes the “prototypical romantic hero. .Mr. Edward Rochester,” admittedly a character Meyer based Edward off of, being the 21st century interpretation of the “handsome predatory nobleman.” Bella conversely becomes the “underdog strange girl’ who gets plucked from obscurity by ‘the best guy in school”—essentially the 21st century “version of the humble governess who captures the heart of the lord of the Manor” (L. Miller 3).
Many parallels can be drawn between Brontë’s masterpiece, Jane Eyre and Meyer’s cash-cow, Twilight. Both are written in Gothic overtones, both exhibit Victorian themes, in both Brontë and Meyer’s world the fantastical, dark and mystic commingle with reality and the norms of society. The heroes of both romances are considered dark characters.
So what sets them at opposite ends of the board? What is it that divides these two, and in my opinion creates a disparity in merit? The simple and acute fact that Brontë was writing in her time and in retaliation of her station in life—she was a feminist fighting for the right to be something that men had denied women in the centuries that preceded her—the right to be a human. In writing Jane Eyre, Brontë upheld the ideal for women existing in an oppressively patriarchal society to mimic—to not settle for marriage with out affection, to search for one’s equal but most importantly—to search and understand one’s self.
Abby H. Price, in addressing her colleagues at the Women’s Rights Convention in 1850, once said, “Man inflicts injury upon woman, unspeakable injury in placing her intellectual and moral nature in the background, and woman injures herself by submitting to be regarded only as female.” Meyer, in my view, has been such a woman. Every facet of her novel that can be analyzed is decidedly traditionalistic. Like the man inflicting injury, Meyer is irresponsible in creating such a monster where the main character—the hero to which young girls would look to find inspiration and direction is completely empty and helpless—her intellectual, moral and self worth set in the background for the mere pleasure of the romance to such an extent that it is as debasing as pornography.
The fact that so many parallels can be drawn between Meyer’s work and Brontë’s automatically draws attention to the flawed and misleading concepts within Twilight. Why? Because Brontë was actually writing in the Victorian era for young girls and women who were faced with only two options in life: marriage and spinsterhood. Marriage was not even the context we have the liberty to experience today. Marriage in Victorian Europe and the generations that preceded it was “a means of uniting, not so much two individuals, as the estates that were attached to them, and the income and political influence that went with those estates.” Let’s keep in mind that in such a time women “could not own property, unless as a widow she inherited that of her late husband. Daughters were, legally speaking, themselves property of their fathers, wives the property of their husbands” (Irvine 22). It would be an understatement to say that much has changed since then. But if so, why does Meyer only offer her character these same two options of spinsterhood and marriage?
It is out of this historical context that we can claim Brontë a feminist and Meyer a traditionalist. As Laura Miller points out, the outlining difference between the two stories is that Bella and Edward are not equals, whereas Jane and Edward Rochester are. The dynamics of Edward and Bella’s love are superficial and flat in comparison. How can love not be when the lovers themselves are unequal and when neither of them have a clear sense of identity? Their “romance is basically them staring at each other and engaging in halted, awkward attempts at conversation about how unhealthy their relationship is. If the majority of your relationship involves talking about your relationship, that’s not healthy” (Mendelson 1). But healthiness is not the object of Meyer’s romance—another point which leads me to believe Bella and Edward’s romance is a sham and as unreal as the existence of vampires. Edward is overbearing, constrictive, manipulative and controlling—Bella yields to his every whim with out question—their dynamics are abusive—and yet it seems excusable, their relationship seems desirable because he is a tortured romantic with a hot body.
And perhaps the most staggering and important difference between the Jane Eyre and Twilight is that Jane Eyre is a heroine true to form. And Bella is not. In a society where she and fellow women were “thought of as an exchange of property between men, of which the bride and her dowry were merely a part,” Jane does not let herself be objectified by her social superiors in life, even the love of her life, Mr. Rochester—she commits herself to doing something rather revolutionary, discovering her own identity (Irvine 22).
That is why Jane Eyre is the timeless heroine, independent, the equal of a man—her man—but most importantly she is a person and Bella is not. While Bella muses about “how well she knows that she isn’t good enough for him . . . despite Edward’s many protestations,” (L. Miller 2), Jane “realizes the feminist ideal of an equal union with Rochester shorn of his matriarchal mansion, his brute strength and his vision for her life” (Thaden 71). And while both Bella and Jane’s romances are decidedly Cinderella-esque in nature, unlike Bella, “Jane does not passively wait to be swept off her feet; she insists on and obtains a marriage of equals” (71).
Jane’s story, in opposition to Bella’s is a bildungsroman because it is the story of a person’s self discovery, growth and education (51). Jane, having always been alone, finds her identity within herself and finds solidarity, strength and confidence in that. Bella, conversely, finds her identity within a man and her happiness is solely dependent upon him. Bella, “once smitten by Edward, lives only for him. When he leaves her (for her own good) . . . she becomes so disconsolate that she resorts to risking her own life, seeking extreme situations that cause her to hallucinate his voice.” Even as Bella drowns, at the point of certain death she thinks only, “briefly of the clichés, about how you’re supposed to see your life flash before your eyes.” Bella “was so much luckier: Who wanted to see a rerun anyway? I saw him, and I had no will to fight . . . Why would I fight when I was so happy where I was?” (L. Miller 2).
Who can call this heroic? How is it that Stephanie Meyer has dazzled a nation of girls into believing that this is what the ideal woman is? This is certainly not my mother, this is certainly not any of my cousins, this is certainly not any of my friends—and this is certainly not me. How is it, I ask, that Jane Eyre—a woman existing in a society with overtly negative attitudes towards women—be more independent, more self assured and strong within herself as a human being than a contemporary character as Bella existing in a society of the equal genders? How is it, that Jane—paired up with perhaps an even more dynamic dark hero than Edward Cullen, is able to “resist the temptation of Rochester’s passionate sexuality. . . and her desire to be absorbed into his will and personality” (Thaden 59) and yet Bella can not? How? Because Jane understands something about herself, she understands that “even though she loves Rochester desperately, she realizes that succumbing to another’s will without the power or means to assert her own will is a sort of suicide,” (59)—the sort of suicide that Bella Swan would gladly accept if it meant hearing Edward’s voice one more time. Also “the conventional fate of the abandoned heroine of a Victorian sentimental novel” (Irvine 131).
It is with regret that I can say, through my experience of youth literature—especially of that geared towards young women, the majority of it is vastly characterized by this submissive and dependent standard of the female. I need only point out that novels written for young girls are romance novels and novels written for young boys often experience none of the sort. What have we, despite our feminist and gender equal rhetoric, been spoon feeding young girls? Have we been so ignorant of the existence of gender in the development of the person—seeking perhaps to reflect the gender neutral ideals of Virginia Woolf—that we have let traditional gender roles slip into its place instead? It is the massive enthusiastic reaction to the Twilight saga that have led me to believe, as Leonard Sax suggests, that “ignoring gender differences haven't created a generation of feminists who don't need men; they have instead created a horde of girls who adore,” (Sax 1) the “traditional feminine fantasy of being delivered from obscurity by a dazzling, powerful man, of needing to do no more to prove or find yourself than win his devotion, of being guarded from all life’s vicissitudes by his boundless strength and wealth” (L. Miller 4).
Let us remember that it has only been approximately one hundred years since women began to find their voice in society, and less than fifty years since women were sexually liberated. While we espouse equality among men and women in our contemporary society, the clammy fingers of sexism and misogyny still linger, clinging to our heels—they wait in the darkness, for one moment of weakness, one failure, to seize upon the whole of society and undo all of the progress that countless people strained, fought and risked their lives for. This is why we need the heroine, the one woman does not just hold the spears but hurls them—leading the battle, uniting the people behind her.
A role model is not supposed to comfort us, but inspire fear and conflict within ourselves, inspire us to challenge ourselves—but if nothing else, to at least inspire . . . something. It seems, throughout history, women have wandered through the walk of life in dispersal; we’ve isolated ourselves and left our sisters by the wayside to diminish as mere refuse. Every so often a woman would pick herself out from the aimless-ness that seemed a woman’s existence in a patriarchal society, she would call her sisters to her, not in a soft, demur, melodic murmur—but in a sharp, arresting, rage soaked battle cry. And women would turn to her—they would see her stand, not stumble, and they would follow—their steps unsure at first, barely making a scuffle on the ground but slowly hammering into the beats of a thousand injustices put right.
Where has she gone? We can not afford to let equality diminish between the sexes in allowing young girls to pattern themselves after a decidedly weak and identity-less paradigm. We need heroines like Libba Bray’s Gemma Doyle, who realize that their fantasy must meet reality—that behind the contrivances and the soft, whispered promises swollen with longing and passion—there only lies the self. And in order to fully meet another person we must meet ourselves—even when it has only been a moment, as “if you’d passed yourself once in the fog, and your heart leapt—‘Ah! There I am! I’ve been missing that piece!’ But it happens too fast and then that part of you disappears into the fog again. And you spend the rest of your days looking for it” (Bray, Far Thing 466). But we at least must keep looking, keep searching—running after who we might be, as Gemma does—“because she can, because she must. Because she wants to see how far she can go before she has to stop” (Bray, Terrible Beauty 403).
Sorry for the small print--but I couldn't enlarge the text.
I hope you enjoyed it and found the ideas interesting--for those of you who love Twilight, again, I know I come across harshly and I hope you can see some validity to my argument--for those of you who do not, I hope you understand why I am so adamant about young girls developing strong self-images, with out that, with out heroes with positive influence, with out trying to find yourself, you can let something direct your life for you and make you something you are not, like Bella perhaps--absolutely subservient, weak and helpless.
Also--for people who are researching for related topics, I built an incredible list of source material and quote-able information, give me a message and I can send you my bibliography!
And I really do hope you all enjoyed it! :D
That's all for me, folks...