I went to Half-Price Books today and I didn’t buy anything. There was the temptation to buy a few books I’ve reread and loved and loved and loved, but I’ve been spending money too much lately. Really, my restraint from buying books is in order to buy other books later on because that’s really all I use my money for, and I now regret my frugalness, but:
Half-Price Books is an amazing place. There’s wall for vintage books and I reminisced, looking at the books from the 1930s that my mom read to me growing up. My mom bought one and was generally annoyed that they charged her ten dollars because there were loads of stains, and then I had to explain that it was an original so of course it’s more expensive and she understood this but was still annoyed.
I hadn’t been there in ages and I noticed a new display case full of two and three hundred dollar books, early editions. There was Angel and Demons, a first edition with a really cool cover and Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, American version, second edition going for three hundred dollars. I was kind of puzzled by that because a second American edition isn’t rare. I think my brother probably has one.
I don’t think I’d be willing to pay those three hundred dollars for Chamber of Secrets even though I’m a big Potter fan. I just don’t see how what edition it is makes it more valuable because the things inside are the same(unless there was like a typo or something altered in sequential editions).
Anyways, at Half-Price Books, there’s this perfectly lovely, borderline dirty smell. It’s got a really, really strong must and the must of some books coincide, but it smells so good. The bookshelves are packed neatly and there aren’t lame commercial attempts at the sale of unbook-related things.
I was in exactly the right place.
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.
- 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.
- 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.
- Poetry, occasionally.
- 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.
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.
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.