Thank Yous

I want to get all of my past and present favorite authors in a room and I want to hug them.

I want to say to Jo Rowling, “Thank you for making magic.”

 I want to say to Beverly Cleary, “Ramona is such a character. Thank you for that.”

I want to tell Peter Abrahams, “You’ve made me believe that writing styles can be different. Thank you.”

I want to tell Jaclyn Moriarty, “You make me laugh; you make me fall in love with characters and identify with characters and you’re so clever. Thank you for that.”

I want to tell David Levithan, “Your free verse is so beautiful and true. Thank you.”

I want to tell John Green, “You’ve completely, completely changed my life. You’ve give me hope when I’ve got none because of Looking for Alaska, you’ve made me laugh and cry and think like no other writer has. I was in a really bad place mentally in October, and then I saw your videos and picked up the books of yours I hadn’t read and suddenly I was okay again. You’ve saved me. With words.”

I want to say so many things to so many writers.

I want to become what they are to me.


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Blah Blah Blah UPDATE


  1. My novel. I’m kind of afraid to say ‘my novel’ because I’m afraid that’s going to turn into ‘my last novel idea that failed’, but I want so much for this one to be successful. So: My novel.
  2. A pair of short stories I’m writing with my friend that link in the end to give to our English teacher. Our ideas are all over the place, but I really, really intensely like what we’ve got and I’m working on that now.
  3. Poetry, occasionally.
  4. I’m waiting for a response from someone seeing if she wants to write a collaboration short story together. I’m thinking of a few ideas, but they are fruitless unless she responds. 🙂

That sounds like a lot, but for MY NOVEL I’m writing really, really intense back stories for my main character(the narrator). Unfortunately I left the notebook in which those detailes resided at school, so I’m rather annoyed, but my other work will tide me over.

I really like what I’ve written of the short story, and it’s like not even close to being done but I think it’ll be pretty good. Maybe if my friend says okay I’ll post it on here, but really it’s indirectly directed towards our English teacher.

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It’s hot, the kind of hot that makes it hard to breathe and creates sweat stains under the armpits of your gym shirt. Summer’s not even close, but it’s hot hot hot and the air conditioning’s not on so the air is thick and I have to take deep breaths in order to regulate my air supply. It’s not bad, but it’s not great either, though I am comforted by the fact that the temperatures are dipping to 49 come Saturday.

I like warm sun on my cheek and grass between the soft curves of my feet that will slowly become tough as fall approaches, but I do like things to be cool and comfortable, flat against me, bumping against my being. It’s nice to know that when I need it, the sun is there to cast inexplicably beautiful shadows and brighten the red in my hair; it’s nice to know that the rain will come and cool things down and make the warmth retreat a bit. I can have the cold drip of a Popsicle sliding down my throat or the racing raindrops on my window glass, and though a lot of people in my area complain, I like this moody weather. It’s more honest, I think, than Florida weather.

orbiting.This is summer, pushing back the days of pollen-drifting spring and tumbling towards the sort of days where everything seems right.

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My English Teacher

I seriously wish that school eqauted to going to seven hours of English class. I was kind of down(for a stupid reason, but)and as soon as I enter that room and my teacher opens her mouth, I know things will be okay. I know that even if a tornado was swirling outside of the classroom, we could still be thinking big, deep thoughts about life, love, literature, words, grammar, comics. I know that if I can just take my mind to a place where I think like that, I can be okay. What greater gift exists?

In that one hour, I sit in a cluster of desks with my two best friends and we talk about ambiguities, gray areas of moralities; we study philosophy of characters and listen to our teacher reciting her stuff, unplanned, pulling from her vast source of knowledge and ability to challenge.

Not everyone likes this class, and it’s because it is kind of hard. We write and think, read and think, think, think, and honestly a lot of the people in my class just aren’t used to thinking. Even now, with the end of the year closing in on us, they still don’t know how to think the way our teacher challenges us to think, and for these people I feel sadness. Sadness that they’re letting a person so bright and honest and intelligent slip through their immaculately-manicured, ink-free hands.

I feel so happy when I sink into the quasi-comfortable desk with a pen or highlighter in hand, notebook open and notes forming about our topic. I like when she lets us be free to write the assignments she’s given and think hard about who we are.

The only thing I don’t like is that it’s only an hour long.

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On Books(Um, what else?)

I’m not a fan of Twilight and I wrote a speech about it for my English class. I wrote how I think it’s detrimental to our future, and essentially it’s about the effect of a book, but I’m regretting that I chose that topic. I love books a lot, and showing hatred towards one…I don’t know. If I could do it again, I would probably do it about censorship because censtorship gets me really fired up. It’s due in a week, but I spent a lot of time working on the first one, so I’m just going to keep the first idea and present early.

I don’t really believe in book-bashing because somebody has to like it. I do, however, believe in sharing my feelings for the effect of books and ways in which they could improve. Sometimes I feel so passionate about writing that emotion just spills out in laughter and I think, I can get paid for this. I can get paid for doing what I have to do anyways because if I don’t I’ll go crazy. I can be compensated with money, but more than that readers, recipients of my ideas, gift-givers and receivers. This never ceases to amaze me, but then I think that I pay for being the reader and the recipient of the idea, gift-giver and gift-receiver.

And that’s when I know it’s worth it.

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This, this is jealousy


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