Lani Wendt Young's Blog, page 10

Writing with Seti Matua - The Journey

A long time ago, I promised you a 'Tusitala Fiapoto' series for and about Pacific writers- and then promptly got very busy with writing and edits and book tours and sick children and more. So I'm super happy to have as a guest today, a Samoan writer/blogger /editor, SETI MATUA, sharing his thoughts on his writing journey.
When I was approached by my friend Lani to write a guest post for her blog I was ecstatic for a number of reasons but largely because, who wouldn't feel flattered to write a guest post for a published author whose wit and warmth have already made her one of the Pacific's premier writers?I am absolutely thrilled to be a part of Lani's "Tusitala Fiapoto" series and hope that my path towards authorship will inspire and give aspiring writers a broad template to base their own writing dreams upon.In the beginningYears ago my parents had a dream of immersing me and my siblings into the Samoan language and culture. That dream came to fruition for them when they moved the entire family to Samoa. Their dream became our nightmare – I mean, how can you expect an American teenager weaned on KFC and Slurpee's to survive on taro, palusami and mangoes? And why am I being forced to wear the same button down shirt andflowing 'skirt' as everyone else in the school? Do they not understand that I am trying to find myself and this uniform stuff is stifling my inner Michael Jackson? Why are all these local kids SO happy and why do they insist on laughing and joking all the time?These were the typical rants of my American teenage mind. It was a mindset that culminated in a journey of acceptance, a humbling of the spirit and a love for my native homeland, its eccentricities, music, language, beaches, pace and especially its people – my people. My short-lived (seven years total) experience in Samoa prompted in me a desire to document in journals my life's progression from angry teen to a Samoan man and in doing so, Samoa is where I developed a passion for writing.My process If there is a process it's broken – and this exercise with Lani is helping me to eliminate the mental block and complete the book that has been several years in the making. Like most writers I believe that we all have stories and that they are all worth telling. Whether it's a short piece about world peace, a blog post about your daily doldrums or a complete young adult series filled with romance, the process for me is generally the same.As a blogger and feature writer my primary goal is to establish and develop a lasting connection with my target audience. Anything could trigger a thought or an emotion that lingers like the sweet scent of frangipani tangled in the cobwebs of your mind, long after you and your love have parted under a crescent moon. It could be a word uttered in disgust, an empty pill bottle or an ink stain on the pocket of a Ralph Lauren polo that triggers that thought and initiates what I refer to as my 'writing spasm'. It is during these throes that I do my best writing and create a framework for a project.From that point I begin to build upon the story, piece by piece. Initially, it is an organic process with no real form or function. Once I have jotted down all of my thoughts on the matter, I begin organizing the blocks into more manageable, edible pieces. In other words, I break it down to the point that my readers don't have to grab the mango that I'm offering them and swallow it whole, but rather enjoy it bite by bite and make their own conclusion of whether they, the recipient, appreciate and relish it as much as I, the giver, did in creating it.Understanding your audience is significant. In one of the book projects that I'm currently working on my primary target audience is a young adult crowd with a secondary audience in the middle age range. The subject matter is light-hearted, romantic (still not sure how that happened) and hopefully insightful and thought-provoking. The same can be said of the columns, features and blog posts that I write where the audience is a bit older, they are generally parents and they are at a point in life where the retrospection and foibles of a middle-aged Samoan man is at times comical, quizzical other times and for the most part brutally honest. The subject matter runs the gambit but I typically I try to stay with the basic themes that are important to me and my audience.ObstaclesTime – If time is critical to aevery profession in the world, it is much more serious to a writer, especially one who wants to make it an industry that gobbles up and spits out its talent faster than a kid can upchuck asparagus. I typically set aside at least four hours each evening to reach my goal of two thousand words in my book or to write a blog post. But with a very active family, a full-time job, obligations to church and other community volunteer events that I participate in, it can be pretty difficult to get it done. But time can not only be a deterrent for your book it can also be a crutch that is enabling your inactivity. So manage your time well and get that project started!The futureNot a lot to say except this - The future of my writing depends largely on my ability to finish a book. My goal since I was a boy in Samoa has always been to be a published author. I am confident that that goal is now in sight thanks to the support of my family, friends like Lani who give gentle encouragement and my mentors. Beyond that, I will continue to perfect my art and publish, publish, publish.Pacific Island LiteratureSince childhood I have always been fascinated with Pacific Island culture, linguistics and people. At one time I thought I might consider a career in anthropology, sail the Pacific and document my travels and interactions with people.  But those were just the yearnings of my youth and I quickly saw the difficulties of a lifestyle that did not include my other lifelong dreams of being a husband and a father. So reading books and writing are my escapes. I am an avid (perhaps even rabid) fan of PI literature and authors. One of my very first novels from a PI author was "Leaves of the Banyan Tree" by the Albert Wendt, which helped to cultivate my passion for lands and titles issues in Samoa as well as following the efforts to preserve our culture, lands and natural resources.I wholly agree that PI literature is an untapped resource with a wealth of secular and spiritual knowledge waiting to be explored. I am excited for the future of PI literature and hope to be a part of this growing, powerful group of PI artists.Seti Matua is the former editor of South Pacific Insider Magazine and PolyNation Magazine. He has contributed to numerous print and online publications for more than a decade including published pieces in SPAsifik Magazine, Samoa News, Samoalive.com and PacificEyeMagazine.com. He is a Project Manager specializing in computer software, an industry he has worked in since 1994. He resides in Lehi, Utah with his wife Jennifer and their five sons. Writing is the "other woman" in Seti's life. He posts regularly on his blog,  www.LeFolauga.com

Women who Sanction and Encourage Domestic Violence

In the past few years, we have opened our home to several different women (and their children) who have needed 'refuge' from their abusive partners. And I'm not talking about the 'He said my butt looked big in this dress and hurt my feelings...' kind of abuse. I'm talking about : punches in the face, knocking out teeth, hitting with a steel chair, breaking of bones, abuse of children, bruising, choking, threats to kill/maim/punish, smashing of furniture and property etc.The kind of abuse that has been ongoing for years. All of these women had little or no faith/confidence in the police and legal system to protect them. "He'll kill me if I go to the police..." Some of them did not want to report their abusers because "I love him...I don't want him to go to prison...He's very sorry...He's going to change...He's the father of my children...etc" I have reported their abuse to the police and had these women conceal their bruises and deny everything when the police come knocking.

Of these women, only ONE went on to separate from and then divorce her husband, effectively 'getting out' of the abusive situation. She has gone on to make a 'new' life for herself and her child, having little or no contact with her former partner. The other women went back to their relationships.Are they living happily ever after? In spite of all their attempts to pretend otherwise - their partners are still violent and heavily influenced by alcohol and possible drug abuse. One of the women we have never heard from again and sometimes I wonder if she's even still alive.

But this is not a post about how awful men can be to the women they "love." Or how sick and twisted a problem like domestic violence is. How prevalent it is.  No. That would be beating a dead horse. This post is about the women who sanction, encourage and enable domestic violence and abuse. The mothers, sisters, aunts, cousins, grandmothers of the abusers and their victims. Because let's face it, the majority of these men have been raised primarily by WOMEN. Yes, they all go on to make their own choices in adulthood, but what are we doing and saying as mothers/sisters/in-laws/friends etc that adds fuel to that fire of violent stupidity that says "It's okay for a man to hit his partner."

Here's some examples of comments I have heard uttered in complete seriousness when confronted with this issue. All of these made by women.

* "He's like that because he doesn't have a son yet. When she finally has a boy then her husband will settle down and treat her better."
* "I've told her so many times that she needs to make sure his food is ready for him when he comes home. He gets angry because he's worked hard all day and she doesn't make his dinner."
* "She nags him all the time. If she just learned how to keep her mouth shut then none of that stuff would happen."
*"It's her job. She spends too much time at work and the family suffers. He doesn't like her job, that's why he hits her."
*"Every couple has problems. It's none of our business how a man treats his wife. We can't interfere in his family."
*"My son was never like that before he married her. She makes him so mad."
* "She's too weak, that's why he treats her like that. She doesn't fight back and stand up for herself. I told him he should have married a stronger woman."
* "Oh that bruise is nothing.That's not abuse. I don't know why you're complaining. You should see what my husband does to me. And you don't see me running to the police."

So to all the mothers, sisters, in-laws, aunts and grandmothers out there - what are you doing and saying about domestic violence? What are you teaching the men in your circle of influence about how to treat the women they love? What messages are you giving to the girls/women in your circle of influence about how they should treat the men they love and how they should expect to be treated?

Domestic violence. It's not a man problem. It's everyone's problem.

Fantasy Realization

Everybody has those daydream fantasies when you're a kid growing up. No, not the ones where Han Solo knocks on your door and says, 'I've been searching the galaxy for you, come let us fly away into hyperspace together...' NO. I mean the fantasies where you think about what you want to be 'when you grow up' and then imagine the moments, the specific milestones that will indicate that yes, you've made it. Your dream really is coming true...

As a fanciful kid/teenager,  I used to daydream about being a real author and there were several different milestones that were included in those hazy fantasies. Like, Steven Spielberg calling to ask me if he could make a movie of my book and would I please allow his good friend Han Solo to whisk me away on a spaceship at hyperspeed? Another author daydream- walking into a bookstore and seeing my book on the shelf. (Harrison Ford's glorious presence was optional for full fantasy realization.)  Or having real, live human beings wanting my signature on a book. ( I couldn't decide then whether to sign Mrs Harrison Ford or to be Ms Wendt Ford...)

Another favorite daydream, would be when sitting in a (boring) English class or University lecture listening to a (boring) Professor drone on about some (boring) classic book...and thinking, 'Wow, wouldn't it be cool if one day students in a University somewhere, sat in a lecture about MY book? And hopefully it wouldnt be boring...'  Yes, that would definitely be a sign to me that I had MADE it as an author. Because even if the entire lecture theater hated the book to bits, the fact that my book would be considered decent enough to force literature students to read it...well that would almost be as cool as a hyperspace holiday with Han Solo.

Hyper-jump forward twenty years and one of my author daydreams has come true. Dr Selina Tusitala Marsh has included TELESA in a second stage Pacific Literature paper at Auckland University. In a few months, lit students will be forced to read my book. Forced to critically analyze and discuss Leila's story (and Daniel's glistening abs.) I am thrilled to bits with this news. Thank you so much Dr Selina. I am celebrating with Diet Coke and Doritos.

Now, just hanging out for that phone call from Steven....or Harrison Ford.

Why I'm not a rockstar.

Im here in Samoa for a week, with the Hot Man, the Princess and the Bella Beast.  We're staying at the Hotel Amanaki which is a beautiful hotel. (And not just because the Hot Man built it.)The Beast is very enamored of the Hotel Amanaki. Especially because it has a swimming pool, her favorite food groups fish sticks and fries, and air conditioning that she can regulate with a remote control. But when we told her that her Dad had built the hotel, she was beyond rapt.
Climbs up the stairs."My dad make these steps?"
Skips down the corridor, running her fingers along the wall."And this wall? My dad make it too?"
Plays with the salt and pepper in the restaurant, orders numerous drinks of Sprite from the bar."And this too? My Dad make this?"
It doesn't stop there. We drive through town, past the Hotel Millenia. She points,"Did my Dad make that too?" Yes. The Treasure Garden Hotel with the lion statues and gold signs."And that house?" Yes. The Nia Mall. Yes, your Dad made that too. Paddles Café. The Devoe complex, the Don Bosco Hall...blah blah blah.
All leading Bella to conclude with loud exclamations."My Dad make everyfing!  He's so clever.He's so awesome. He's a rockstar!"And I'm muttering under my breath...Umm no, he's not God. He didn't make everything…
All this admiration is all very well for the Hot Man. But rather grating for me. He's so awesome, he's a rockstar..blah blah blah.  I'm like, yeah, well I grew humans in my uterus. From basically nothing. Pushed an eight pound elephant out through a straw called a cervix.  That's gotta top a swimming pool, right? And I wrote some books. They've even got some pictures in 'em. Pretty pictures with abs and fire and stuff. So there.
The child is unimpressed. Chanting...my dad is awesome...my dad is a rockstar...my dad is sooo clever...
This is going to be a very long seven days.

Why you should never marry people who are more clever than you.

I'm here in Samoa for a week, with the Hot Man, the Princess and the Bella Beast.  We're staying at the Hotel Amanaki which is a beautiful hotel. (And not just because the Hot Man built it.)The Beast is very enamored of the Hotel Amanaki. Especially because it has a swimming pool, her favorite food groups fish sticks and fries, and air conditioning that she can regulate with a remote control. But when we told her that her Dad had built the hotel, she was beyond rapt.
Climbs up the stairs. "My dad make these steps?"
Skips down the corridor, running her fingers along the wall. "And this wall? My dad make it too?
Plays with the salt and pepper in the restaurant, orders numerous drinks of Sprite from the bar. "And this too? My Dad make this?"
It doesn't stop there. We drive through town, past the Hotel Millenia. She points, "Did my Dad make that too?"  Yes. The Treasure Garden Hotel with the lion statues and gold signs. "And that house? " Yes. The Nia Mall. Yes, your Dad made that too. Paddles Café. The Devoe complex, the Don Bosco Hall…blah blah blah.
All leading Bella to conclude with loud exclamations. "My Dad make everything!  He's so clever.He's so awesome. He's a rockstar!"  And I'm muttering under my breath...Umm no, he's not God. He didn't make everything…
All this admiration is all very well for the Hot Man. But rather grating for me. He's so awesome, he's a rockstar..blah blah blah.  I'm like, yeah, well I grew humans in my uterus. From basically nothing. Pushed an eight pound elephant out through a straw called a cervix.  That's gotta top a swimming pool, right? And I wrote some books. They've even got some pictures in 'em. Pretty pictures with abs and fire and stuff. So there.
The child is unimpressed. Chanting...my dad is awesome...my dad is a rockstar...my dad is sooo clever...
This is going to be a very long seven days.

Ingredients for a great romance.

                                      Start with some of this...

I love going to the movies. I like the popcorn, the Diet Coke and the possibility of an ice cream. I like being swept away by a super duper story on screen. If I could, I would go to the movies every week. But there's a problem. Hollywood does not make enough of the movies that I want to watch. I'll tell you what I don't want. I don't want to watch somber, deeply moving, intellectually stimulating, profound movies that are making a statement about the universe which are so incredibly complex ( and boring) that you need a dictionary, a thesaurus, and Stephen Hawking's brain to understand them. I also don't want to watch a movie where everybody is being chased by tanks/aliens/gangsters/ mercenaries/assassins /sex offenders/psychopathic killers. Or a movie where every second word starts with F and rhymes with Luck. Or where everybody is either watching pole dancing strippers OR engaging in pole dancing stripper acts. I also despise movies with animals. With that in mind, here's my letter to Hollywood,

Dear Hollywood, I wish you would make more of the movies I want to watch. Movies with:

1. Romance - Two people meet, sparks fly, they overcome some minor obstacles. Eg. of such obstacles could be...in ' Kate and Leopold ' the always hot Hugh Jackman is the very lost English baron time traveller who ends up in modern day New York, oh no, how will he and Meg Ryan's love ever survive?! Or true love must overcome distance and grief like in ' Sleepless in Seattle .' Or internet love like in ' You've got Mail .' IF on the other hand one person in the relationship is a ghost and trying to sabotage the other person's new relationship, that's NOT a minor obstacle. It's just dumb. (Especially if it has Eva Longoria starring in it, ' Over her Dead Body. ') Ugh.
          Lots of that... and of course Meg Ryan is the chick flick queen.
While said couple are overcoming obstacles, they hold hands, kiss, maybe get to second or third base and then they live happily ever after. Hollywood please take notes. That means, I don't want to see people trying every position in the Kama Sutra. Or trying to get it on in 101 different places. Romance is about the long gazes, the possibilities, the anticipation, the breathless inner debates of ..'will she or won't she?'

2.It goes without saying that a great romance must have a delectably great male lead. Not some pip-squeak adolescent who looks like Justin Bieber. Save them for the Mickey Mouse club followers. No, a great romance needs men of substance. Channing Tatum abs (and dance moves), Gerard Butler swag, Ryan Reynolds perfection, Chris Hemsworth chiselled-ness, Colin Firth restrained amazingness, Tom Cruise magnificence, Jason Momoa's swarthy sultriness, Hugh Jackman's Wolverine 'bad boy'ferocity. And the list goes on.
                   Some of this always helps...
3. Finally, a decent movie must have a happy, feel-good ending. Please note, a love story where one person develops Alzheimers? Is NOT a happy ending. (Damn you Notebook .) A love story where the beautiful Richard Gere dies in the end is a miserable love story. (I sure as hell don't want to spend any of my nights in Rodanthe .) So is a girl-power movie where they drive off a cliff at the end. ( Thelma and Louise , are you there? No, you're not. Why? Because you're both dead.) Why is it so difficult for Hollywood to understand what a 'happy ending' really is?

Some hints. Happy endings are where the beautiful Richard Gere drives off into the sunset with Julia Roberts Cinderella.  (So what if it's an impossible story about a prostitute who falls in love with a somewhat nasty businessman. If you wanted feminist theory, you wouldn't have been watching a movie entitled Pretty Woman. ) Happy endings are where the Bridget Jones 'fat chick' keeps a diary and gets to live happily ever after with Colin Firth - even after he catches her wearing her thunder granny undies. Or where Sandra Bullock gets hitched to Ryan Reynolds in ' The Proposal' even after she's been an incredible witch to him. Happy endings are where everybody's happy except for the nasty beautiful girl who tried to thwart true love with Richard and Colin and Hugh and Channing...
      We need more of this. Lots, lots more of Ryan. And Sandra .

Shallowly, enthusiastically, chick-flickly yours,
Me

I Need a Man of Steel

So I'm a full-time writer now. What does that mean? It means that every morning, the Hot Man drives me to the library and leaves me there until 7pm at night. But first, I make him stop at the bakery up the road so I can get my lunch. A brown bread corned beef sandwich, a chocolate lamington, a Diet coke. And a packet of dried mango from the saiga fruit shop. (Don't even ask why I don't make a packed lunch from home, okay? It has something to do with the fact that there is no corned beef or chocolate lamingtons in my house...laziness figures in the equation somewhere too.) At the library, it takes me at least 30 minutes to get comfortable. Unpack laptop and boot up. Plug in earphones. Choose fabulous writing songs for the day. (This week its Enrique I like how it feels. On full blast. My eardrums may not survive the writing of this next book.) Zone in and zone out. Find what hot pivotal scene I feel like diving into first and then I'm away for the next six hours. (So next time you're at the library and you see a strange chick humming and dancing in her chair at a laptop in the corner, or laughing to herself or exclaiming, 'Ha! die fool!'  That would be me, having an imaginary conversation with Simone OR refereeing a show down between Daniel and Keahi. Just walk on by...do not engage...no sudden movements...)

Meanwhile, back at the ranch - the Hot Man is managing a house full of our children and our rellies children who are currently living with us. Total children? Ten. Ranging in age from seventeen to three. In the beginning, I worried every day that by nightfall, I would come home to find them all locked in the basement with their mouths duct-taped shut but I have been pleasantly surprised. Not only is the house cleaner than I've ever seen it but the children are showered and fed, the dishes are done and dinner is ready for me when I walk in the door. Wow and wow. The Hot Man's home management skills are surprising me.

His skills are also making me look bad. Do you know how the Hot Man ( a civil engineer and steel fabricator by trade) cleans a toilet? He gets his toolbox and takes the entire toilet to pieces. He then uses three different cleaning products and several gadgets (steel wire brushes, a sander, and something else I don't know the name of) to painstakingly scour every dismantled piece, nut, bolt and screw. It's a very precise operation. (And don't ask me where everyone goes to the toilet while they're waiting for him to be done, because I don't even want to think about that.) Then he puts everything back together again and that toilet is almost frightening in its gleaming wonder. My usual domestic efforts with a plastic toilet brush and a squirt of Jiff seem rather lame in comparison.

Sparkling, shiny truth be told, I'm almost disappointed that the Hot Man and the Fab5 are coping so well without me. I mean, heck, nobody even looks sad at all when I leave the house in the morning. Hello, I'm going now! Yeah, yeah just go already. Nobody actually misses me. I thought I was good at my home and family management job. But in comparison with the Hot Man's efficiency and organization of his troops, my domestic reign (upon reflection) looks a little sloppy. We may as well rename him SuperMan.

Damn. I hope I'm good at this full-time writing thing. Because I'm not sure the Fab5 want to forsake the Man of Steel and go back to life with the Demented Domestic Goddess in charge.
So we know Henry Cavill can kick Immortal butt. (And look hot at the same time.)

And we know that he will save the world several times over as Superman. (And look hot at the same time.) But could you leave him at home alone with ten children all day? Would your bathroom look like this?
And would he still be hot and sweet? Or would he look like he's totally losing it, like this? Sorry Henry Cavill, I think the Hot Man tops your Superman title this week.

Who's the BOSS? Well, its not me.

Me and the Hot Man were having a discussion about our daughters. And what kind of relationships they will have with the people they will marry one day. (Because yeah, that's what lame parents do. Sit around and discuss their children all day.) I said,

"The most important factor will be our example. Our children can see what kind of a marriage we have. They can see how we communicate with each other, that this is a partnership of equals. I don't boss you around. And you don't boss me around. We share leadership in this relationship."

Sigh. Isn't that beautiful? And I meant it. And I believed every word of it. And I wanted to pat both of us on the back and hi-five our awesomeness because we are just such the coolest couple on the planet. Bonus points in heaven!

The Hot Man said, "Excuse me? What did you say? What rubbish! Ha! You boss me around all the time. You're always telling me what to do."

I was sure he was joking. But he wasn't smiling. He looked incredulous. Disbelieving. And he certainly wasn't doing any hi-fiving of our marital awesomeness either.

I said, "Darling, what do you mean? I never tell you what to do. In fact, most of the time, you do the exact opposite of what I wish you would do. We negotiate and discuss everything. I'm not bossy."

The Hot Man called our two teenagers into the room. "Son, your mother just said that she and I share leadership equally in this family. She said she never tells me what to do. Is that true?"

Big Son laughed. Incredulously. Disbelievingly. Hysterically. "That's a joke right? She's kidding, right?"

I didn't think anything was funny.

Big Son said, "Mum, you're always telling Dad what to do. Even my friends notice. When they come over they say Far out man, your mum is like the BOSS. She like, rulez your Dad." Whoa!'

The Hot Man then asked Big Daughter. "What do you think? Does your mother tell me what to do?"

I glared. The kind of glare that says think very carefully about your answer because your happiness in my house depends on it. Big Daughter answered hesitantly. "Umm, yeah. She kind of does. Not all of the time. But pretty much most of the time. Sorry mum, but it's true."

The Hot Man was triumphant. "See!? Even your children know it. You wear the pants in this family. Just be honest about it and face the facts." He shook his head. "And there you are, trying to tell us that we're so equal and share leadership...ha."

I said. "Whatever. Those kids don't know anything about anything." I told them to go away. Immediately. Go scrub a floor. Wash a dish. Climb a tree. (And we're never having any of their stupid friends over at our house anymore either. So there. So there.)

And then I said to the Hot Man. "I never tell you what to do. Ever. You have to stop talking such rubbish, do you hear me? And you need to tell your children that I never tell you what to do, do you hear me?"

And he smiled and said. "Yes Lani. There you go again. Telling me what to do."

I give up.  According to these people who live in the same house as me, I'm a bossy, controlling, woman who always tells her husband what to do. Shoot me now. No bonus points for me in heaven.

But maybe, just maybe - that's why this is such a HAPPY, SUCCESSFUL marriage. Because ( supposedly ) I tell everybody what to do.


You are happy, aren't you honey? I can't hear you? Speak up now!

Who's the boss in your house? Do you think you share leadership? Maybe you're living in fantasy land. Try asking your kids what they think. Go on, I dare you.

I Hate the Hot Man.

Life's just not fair. This is the Hot Man EIGHTEEN years ago. (With a mildly attractive young woman at his side.)
And this is the Hot Man NOW. Is it just me - or does this man look pretty much the same? Hello? Did we not live through the same number of years over the last two decades?!

The mildly attractive woman is missing from the picture because she aint even MILDLY attractive anymore. Thank you very much to - five children, gravity, three c-sections, donuts, demanding toddlers, clingy pre-schoolers, smartass teenagers, stress, wear and tear, the Y2K bug, that one disastrous experiment with chemical hair straightener, the greenhouse effect, global warming, more donuts, sleepless nites, exercise procrastination, inflation, acid rain, the cancellation of Brothers and Sisters, an excessive amount of baking, abs that seem to have lost their elastic, deforestation, pollution and soil erosion in the Kalahari Desert. This list does not even begin to fully encompass the causes of the mildly attractive woman's decay and decomposition. Needless to say, there is incredible injustice at work here. Why is the Hot Man so 'well-preserved'?

He's too hot-skinned to be a vampire. Maybe he secretly belongs to the Wolf pack?

Either way, I hate him. It's just not fair.

Daniel Speaks.

Somebody asked me the other day, 'What was Daniel thinking when he first met Leila? Wouldn't it be awesome to get his perspective on things?" I thought about it and yes, I agree - it would be kind of interesting...so I asked him. 
Daniel, what did you think of Leila when you first saw her? What did you notice about her?
And here's what he had to say...               *******************************************************Did I think she was breathtakingly beautiful the first moment I laid eyes on her? No. Did I fall madly in love with her on that first day we met? No.
So what did I think then when I first saw Leila Folger? What made me notice her?  Her anger. She reeked of it. It came off her in waves. From the expression on her face – the thick dark eye brows, the furrowed brow, the determined set of her jaw – to her rigid posture and tightly clenched fists. The way she walked across the campus with her entire body tensed as if she expected someone or something to attack her at any moment and she was ready. Boy, was she ready. She was angry, ready to fight and she wanted everyone to know it. That's what I first noticed about Leila. I saw her before she saw me you know. It's true. It was on her very first day at SamCo. We were having rugby training on the center field before school started when Maleko nudged me. "Hey, new girl."I looked. Heck, everybody looked. That's how tight SamCo is. I mean there's only 400 students in the school so anybody new doesn't stay unknown for very long. So yeah, I looked over at this girl in the obviously new bright orange and yellow uniform, walking up the driveway with her schoolbag over one shoulder. She was scowling. That's the only word I can think of to describe her face. Most new kids look a little wary, sometimes afraid, nervous. But Leila? No, she just looked angry. Angry to be here. Angry at everyone around her. She looked over to the rugby field in our direction and she even looked angry to see us!
Maleko whistled, "Sheesh, what's her problem?"
I shrugged. Suggested, "I don't know. Maybe she finds your naked chest offensive? I know I do."
Maleko swung a casual left hook at me which I ducked easily. The others laughed and we all moved back to scrum formation. The angry new girl was forgotten.
Until the next day. When I walked into Ms Sivani's English class and there she was. Sitting next to Simone. And staring. At me. This time, it was her eyes that caught me. Deep set, ember dark eyes that were scrutinizing me as if she wanted to burn holes in me with her laser beam vision or something. Great, the angry new girl wants to kill me. And we haven't even met yet. For one crazy minute, out of nowhere, I had this crazy urge to poke my tongue out at her. To try and tease a smile out of her. I didn't know why, but I wanted to make this girl laugh. Or at least  let go of some of that fury that she seemed to be struggling to hold in check. I wanted to make a face at her and coax an unwilling smile from her, just like how I always do with Mama, my grandmother. Instead, I smiled. Willing her, asking her with everything I had – to smile back. It didn't work. She just looked angrier. And looked away. Oh well. It was worth a try.
Ms Sivani was in fine form that day. She liked to challenge us, have us 'push the envelope', telling us that we were lazy, complacent students who needed to walk on the wild side of the intellectual stimulation wire. She put the debate topic up on the board and got us all started on a free-for all debate. One of her favorite activities. That's when I first found out her name. 
That's when 'Angry New Girl' became 'Leila'. That's when my life started to change. Irrevocably.