We Don't Know What Belongs To Us Until Someone Else Claims It.

Still someone who quivers at the very thought of bringing a pen down to the page of a book, I did it today anyway. It was red, very inky, and I almost kissed the soft paper I was ruining when I was finished with my underlining and commenting.

This couldn't wait though, this idea. It was a mysterious and vague connection that I seemed to have made. Somehow.

Shining at different moments in the Thanksgiving dinner, everyone has a time to say something or do something with the family. My youngest sister, Minna said we should all go around the table saying what we're thankful for.

Her time.

My sister, Lois was our waitress, insisting on bringing out and serving to everyone.

Her time.

I, the perfectionist set the table for dessert just right, scooping the sorbet, cut the pies, and led the annual game of "The Forehead Game."

My time.

Everyone, not just my sisters and I had at least one time to share something.

Came my grandfather, who has been playing the balalaika for 15 years shared his story. His beautiful instrument was bought in a store, 9 years ago. Just a few weeks ago he took it into a repair shop to get a part of it fixed. After arriving at the store and bringing it to the counter, he is prepared to leave, no problem.

Up until the owner of the store stops my grandpa and says to him that he knows this balalaika, he's seen it before. He knows the original owner, who had it stolen from his car 10 years ago. My grandfather says that he did not steal this balalaika, he bought it in a store 9 years ago- end of story.

This is his balalaika, right? He has had it for 9 years, he has played it, loved it, called it his. It belongs to him.

He says he is sorry, but there's nothing he can do, it is his. It belongs to him.

**

Page 30, I move slowly and surely through Great House. Taking in every little detail as I go along.

What I underlined today reminded me much of what I heard heard from my grandpa about his experience with the balalaika.

Page 17
The phone rings.
The daughter of her friend who left years ago's voice fills the other end of the phone.
A question.
Do you still have my father's desk.
?

Yes.

She still has the desk. Just like the 9 years my grandpa owned the instrument, she has written 7 novels.

7 Novels.
9 Years.

So does this mean that she has the desk.
Or.
So does this mean that she owns the desk.

I can only imagine how many years it takes to write 7 books.
I can clearly see how long 9 years is.

Surely, with this of a connection. With this much of a bond, and a relationship with this one desk. This one hunk of wood. This nothing that turned into a something, turned into something I consider she owns.

In Great House it is clearly stated that she has every right to claim the desk her own.

Which makes me wonder what it takes for you to be able to call something your own. It makes me ask myself, in Great House this woman who has written 7 novels at this desk, the fact that she has is what makes it hers. But I never got to ask my grandfather what he did with his balalaika that gave the two of them such a strong argument.

If the character in Great House had someone ask her what made this desk so special, what made her feel like she owned it, she would be able to say that she wrote many, many books at it.

There you go, straight answer.

But is just saying that you're reaching your tenth year with an instrument enough? I think about what my grandfather would say in response to the question, and I think about what things were handed down to me that I now consider mine and when and why and what made it turn into something that is mine from something that was not.

I Have Found Another Voice!

Let me set the scene.

7th grade. ELA. Room 116. Meeting area.

What's on the chart we're reading?
How to make a great reading entry!

One of things that caught my eye?
You have to have voice.

I realized how important it is to allow your voice to reflect through your reading responses, the people who have the most passion for their book will definitely have the most passionate reading response, the most passionate voice. It comes to my attention that much of writing our blog entries- this year and last year had a main focus of writing with your voice shining through.

And it's true! Besides writing deeply about the book your reading itself, writing with a prominent factor of 'your' voice is the most important thing in writing in general, not just blogging. What I discovered today in class when I should have been listening but instead had kidnapped the book of the person sitting next to me, was that it's not just about your voice shining through you writing, but the voice of whatever character you create.

I've never met Ned Vizzini, and I probably never will. I'll never know what his voice really sounds like, so how could I know if it's his voice coming through his writing. The fact is, I don't even need to hear his voice for his writing to sound great. It the fact that Ned Vizzini is able to create unique voices that may not only be capturing his voice, but the voice of his characters.

Okay, so while my experience of It's Kind Of A Funny Story is only seven pages, I can already tell that this is going to be a great adventure. In elementary school our teachers always used to say read the first chapter or up to any point once you get the feel of the book. I did not have to read up to the first chapter of the book, I was able to read up to the second page to not only get the feel of the book, but to find myself laughing and smiling at it, not something you can do with just any book.

And it was the voices, the way Ned Vizzini was able to capture the voice of a teenage boy and all those around him and create voices that were able to paint a picture of their stories by just reading one sentence, or hearing one sentence. Because another thing that Ned Vizzini was allowing us to do while we read the voices, was that every word I read I felt like I was their right with everyone withing the pages of the book.

I anticipated the arrival of Project R.E.A.L in which I would borrow my own copy from the library in the same room 116 as last year when I was introduced to only one of many types of voices you can come across through your own writing, or reading someone else's.