We need never be hopeless

"When adults say, "Teenagers think they are invincible" with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don't know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and failing. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail." 
— John Green (Looking for Alaska)




Sometimes I feel lost. I think we all do.
I'm far from invincible. But I'm pretty tough.
And there are so many people to hold onto.
Maybe lost isn't such a bad thing.
I'm happy here.

Last Page

It's too cold to be September
My summer is gone, brutally unforgotten,
missing in action but by choice.
The rain has come.
Maybe to cleanse us,
convince us to change.
But I don't feel brand new.

I'm clinging to the last page of a novel,
resolute that it won't end yet.
It can't.
Endings mean beginnings, yes, but
I loved that story.
It was too good and
I refuse to wash it away,
simply because the seasons inflict their change.

This is my reality to create.
So I sit on the last page of this long forgotten memoir.
Waiting.

my fat head

When I write something I like, I really like it. I sometimes think it's so brilliant I need to share it with someone immediately or the world is going to implode. It's a pretty intense feeling.

Usually I do. Share it, that is. I force one of my sisters to read the awesomeness I've just controlled through my words and then I get their response. It can either be satisfactory (my sister sighing, staring out the window wistfully and telling me she's still the president of my fan club) or disappointing ("It's good."). Usually it's satisfactory, though.

Naturally, some of my novel is being shared with my sister, Maddy, as I write it. It started with the first chapter and I set a bad precedent for myself. Now she asks for me to email it to her like I have done three or four times and I must say no because it's Week Two and insecurity has set in. Only not really.

I'm one of those irritating people that thinks if you dislike something about my writing, there's probably something wrong with you. It's not that I can't take criticism; I think I can take it just fine. When I ask for it. But if I don't ask you to honestly tell me what you think is wrong with a piece, I don't want you to tell me. I want you to be my cheerleader. Not lie, or even exaggerate a ton but just don't tell me what you don't like. Because honestly, and this is even more intensely so during NaNoWriMo, I don't want to hear it.

When I ask for it, though, that's when I really want to hear what you think. No thoughts barred, tell me the good, the bad and what I should improve. But I digress.

A real life conversation with my real life sister:
Sister: Will you email me the latest chapter of your novel?
Me: No. I have writerly self esteem issues.
Sister: Please?
Me: No.
Sister: Please?
Me: Fine. But I don't want to hear it if there's anything you don't like or if you think it's awkward. And the scene doesn't really have any build up. It exists on its own. So you're going to have to deal with that.
Sister: Okay. Thank you.
Me: And don't tell me if you think it's bad. Actually, if you think it's bad, you can go to hell.
Sister: Okay then. *walks away*

In short, I think I'm pretty awesome and if you want to disagree with me on that point, you can go away now. I eventually apologized to my sister for being as abrupt as to tell her she could go to hell. Honestly, though, the sentiment kind of stands. I have a fat head.

nanowrimo excerpt

Chapter 8

“Evie?” His voice is warm but unsure, travelling up ahead of him to chart the territory—a brave scout. Under the covers of my bed, I cannot hear his footsteps, even a muffled version, but I imagine them. Tentatively bringing his big feet towards my closed door.

I bring my covers closer around me as a shell. I have no protection but this warm, dark cocoon. Tight fingers clutch my one reality to me, holding the blanket over my head. He knocks.

“Evie?” Rogue says again, “Can I come in?” I never imagined his voice that soft. I must have imagined every smirk I ever saw on his face because they could not have come from the same boy. Too many extremes.

“Please, Evie,” he says, quieter than before. I imagine him outside my bedroom, a hand against the door to measure any disturbance inside. There is none, only stillness and the evaporation of tears from my pillow. There’s almost no trace already. I smile at that, cheek muscles turning for no one’s benefit into to nearly suffocating blanket.

“Are you in there?” Why he asks, I don’t know. He knows I’m here. The girls saw me come up. After which time I closed the door quietly and slid down it, shaking the frame with my sobs. They told him. Unless I fashioned a rope out of my sheets and descended out the window, I am here. I’m not the rope tying type.

What does he want? I’m so tired I can’t think of an answer to this question. It seems too easy. There must be something he’s looking for. Something he will never find with me.

I draw the covers from my face to say, “Come in.” I don’t quite know why but I can’t stand the image of him standing outside the door. It would be better if he’d leave, down the stairs and out the door, taking all this sadness with him, but he won’t for now.  And if he won’t leave and I won’t have him waiting on the other end of my closed door, he must come in.

I sit up slowly, careful not to rush my head, as I can’t stand the idea of him sitting awkwardly on the edge of my bed as I am in my cocoon. My cocoon, however wonderful and warm, is not something he should see.

Blinking, I adjust my position and observe him in my room. He doesn’t fit here but he tries. My pale green walls are at odds with his dark clothing, eyes and hair. He smiles and I forget that he doesn’t belong. That smile belongs on toothpaste commercials and the sides of buses. It belongs pressed against me, infusing its magical drug into my body. My eyes open wider to accommodate it but you can’t take his smile in all at once. My toes curl in on themselves until I smile back. I can’t control it. His mouth has taken control of mine, forcing me to mirror his glee. I don’t know whether to feel elated or manipulated. I choose neither, letting the smile sink deeper into me.

“Are you okay?” His voice gently brushes the hair out of my eyes. He bothered to ask this question, despite my mimicking smile. He takes a seat on the chair by my window. Too far away, his smile loses hold on mine. It slips off my mouth like Jell-O thrown at a wall. I’m left with nothing but a sticky residue and an echo but my face remembers the motions.

He stares at me some more and I can’t excuse his rudeness until I realize he asked me a question.

“Yes,” I say, only louder than a whisper. “I’m alright.” It’s almost the truth.

“Good.” It would appear that he doesn’t know what to say next. Did he come into this room with a mission of ascertaining my ‘okay-ness’? If so, he can leave now. I’ve given him the answer he wanted. My obligation is fulfilled.

I'll be the first to admit that we don’t have a connection--verbally at least. It’s not enough for us to be in the same room and automatically have some banter going on, a simple exchange of words to ease ourselves into comfort. We have no cushiness, no clouds in the room to ease this silence. I wish I had it that easy.

All we have is physical. Strings binding us. It’s not enough to have us in this room, trapped in quiet, we also have to want each other. To want this to work too much. Too much for safety. I’m not even sure if I’m alone in this feeling. I want to like him, to be around him, for us to mesh and move, revolving around each other like it’s that simple. Like gravity is with us, not against us. I want to smile automatically on my own, not because he somehow charmed it out of me.

“How are you?” I say casually, taking a step towards cushy clouds. I’m opening the window and hoping they’ll be here in seconds, slipping us into the conversation that I crave. I’m waiting.

He pauses before responding, “I’m good.” I try not to be distracted by the grammar but a second is spent on puzzling.

“Good?”

“Good.”

I like you, my mind mumbles, my mouth following along but making no sound. I wonder for a second if maybe he can hear me, my thoughts zipping through this calm air into his. Would that make this situation easier or stranger? Probably the latter, despite my wishes. If you can hear me, give me a sign, I say to no one, waiting from him to look up and blink or keep staring around my room. I can’t decide what I want.

When his disposition doesn’t change, I take up his occupation, staring around my room like I am the outsider. I see my clothes in a pile on my desk. I notice that I never changed my calendar from September. I see the socks scattered around in different places, under his chair, in the corners. I see the jewellery on the windowsill—I haven’t worn any of it in weeks. The closet door is a crack open, stuck on one of my favourite shoes. My dresser drawers aren’t closed either which means Jac hasn’t been in here for a while. She tidies every so often and I only notice because I can’t find anything as quickly.

Since I can see no use in getting up to hide any of this from Rogue, I stay where I am, wrapping the flower patterned sheets around my cross legged frame. Eventually, his eyes have taken in all they can and he finds me again, trapping me in these blankets.

“I like your calendar,” he says, gesturing to the wall. He noticed that, too.

“Thanks.” My response to compliments is automatic. I no longer stop to wonder if that was actually a compliment to me but accept it and say thanks. “Ash gave it to me.”

He nods. “It seems like her.” How does he know what seems like her? How many hours has he spent knowing her? Listening to her quiet observations? Watching her careful kindness. I’m exhausted with thinking about it.

My jealousy absorbs me. I’m not conscious of the silence or my failure to respond to his latest comment. My cheeks are overwhelmed with the redness and my whole body is too warm for comfort. I pull the duvet tighter around me regardless.

He reaches for something on my desk and then freezes momentarily. Finger closing curiously around my picture frame, he takes it in. He doesn’t comment other than to tilt his head. It’s back on my desk in an instant.

He knows me too well. I would be touched but it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he has a window—my sisters—into this simple version of me that is out there. All I want is some reciprocation. A crack of light to be shed on the boy who I am so attracted to that I will let him sit in my room on my chair as I am wrapped in my blankets. Despite our lack of conversation, I sense a radiant comfort that I hadn’t realized. This isn’t normal.

“Tell me something about you,” I say frankly, asking, for once, what I actually want.

“I never know what to say when someone asks that. What do you want to know?”

I settle for the basic to start. “Favourite colour?”

I think he’s about to laugh but he doesn’t. Nothing but surprises from Rogue. He seems to seriously consider the question and then says, “Orange.”

“Orange,” I repeat, surprised at the answer.

“Anything else?” He seems amused but he didn’t laugh. I feel like he’s humouring me for a second, laughing with the crazy girl so she won’t stab you sort of thing, but I choose to believe he’s enjoying this.

“Where do you live?” Am I bordering on invasive? He isn’t bothered.

“A townhouse complex on 24^th Ave,” he says, pointing in the general direction, “It’s called insert cool, witty, pathetic, cheesy, lame townhouse complex name here.”

I try to picture the place but can’t bring it up in my mind. I can imagine it, though. Regulation houses, all either mimicking or mirroring each other. A garage under each house. Front doors that no one uses, instead favouring the automatic garage opener entrance with zero neighbour contact.

He seems to know my next question. He answers before my prompt. “I live with my mom and stepdad.”

“Do you—” I stop myself after two words. My next question is too invasive, I know it right away. I don’t want him to be uncomfortable around me and, after only two questions, I’m tired of being the interrogator.

“What?” he pounces, not letting my words slip under the carpet as I’d hoped. He won’t forget them. He’s leaning forward in his chair.

“Never mind,” I say, not because I want him to force the question out of me but because I want him to forget it. There are easier things than forgetting.

He sits back in the chair; I guess not wanting to freak me out with his intensity.

“You can ask me, if you want,” he says, less forceful than before. “You can ask me anything.”

I knew that. Of course I knew I could ask him anything. I have speech on my side, plenty of nouns and adjectives to convey what I’m curious about. The problem is not that I can’t ask, it’s that I don’t want to. I’m not one to step over that fragile line of what’s socially acceptable. I stop myself at the questions with answers I wouldn’t open up with.

“Okay,” I say but don’t start voicing my question again. Maybe someday but I’m not spending more breath on it today.

“Now it’s awkward,” he jokes. I can feel that easy banter. He brought the clouds of cushiness in with three words. I’m impressed and I want to fall back into them. I crack a smile. 

I met Suzanne Collins (kind of)

First of all, I think The Hunger Games trilogy is distinctly awesome. The writing, pacing, plot, themes, characters and their reactions together make it this amazing look at the human condition and spirit while being a wonderful story. Tragic, depressing at times, but so incredible to read.

I really love those books.

My first experience with their writer, Suzanne Collins, was when I was in a library book club at age twelve. I read three out of five of her Underland Chronicles and completely loved them. They were really great. Then, last summer, a friend was telling me about The Hunger Games--twenty four youth thrown into an arena to fight to the death. I read it out of curiosity but I was so unbelievably thrilled and surprised with what I got in return: an epic story of fighting for your life against all odds while trying to keep your humanity intact. Romance. A story of love and strategy and rebellion. A protagonist who I loved and feared.* This girl on fire who could think for herself and fend for herself and was mature beyond her age.

Instant favourite.

On Tuesday morning, I went with my sisters and mother's to see Suzanne Collins, who I hugely admire, give a talk on her books and stamp them afterwards (pictured above). She spoke about the origin of the books and  how interested she is with war. She drew parallels with reality TV and the ancient gladiators, some of which I had noticed, some were new. She talked about names for her characters, using names with Roman origins for people from the Capitol and District 2 (Cinna, Plutarch, Cato, Caesar, Portia, Brutus) and names for tributes from other districts that reflected their district's job (Cashmere is from the luxury district, Wiress is from the electronic disctrict, etc.). She talked about how desensitized to violence we are with all the graphic news coverage and violent action movies out there which I completely agree with. It was really fascinating.

What was really cool, though, was after her talk when she stamped our books with the Mockingjay tour stamp thing (she can't sign them due to wrist strain). We were at the back of the line which mean no pressure to move on from the table so I asked her what, in her opinion, was Peeta's tragic flaw, a question that has sparked a couple debates between myself, my sisters and my friends.** I stood there for quite a while as she thought about it and she did seem to really think hard. I don't know if that's because she had never thought about it before or because she wanted to give a really decisive answer. Eventually, she told me it was his trusting nature. In their world, seeing the good in people more than the bad can be a vulnerability. And though that is the flaw I had used myself to defend Peeta in the eyes of other's, I was a tad disappointed. Maybe he is unrealistically flawless. I kind of wanted her to give me something substantially bad that couldn't be seen in any way as a good thing, like being too trusting can. I want to believe that Peeta isn't too good to be true. Whatever, I still love him.

As a result of meeting her, I'm rereading Mockingjay. I started yesterday with the end and had tears streaming down my face which doesn't sound good but I love when writing is powerful enough to make my eyes water. Once more, I will say that I love those books so, so much. I can't imagine why more people don't read.

*It was a nice touch to be able to feel a bit more socially and emotionally intelligent than a girl who could shoot a squirrel through its eye with a bow and arrow.
**People seem to think he's too perfect to be realistic. I, personally, disagree.