My Infinite Reading Entry

Dependable.

2011-06-05T16:14:00.000-07:00

In 5th grade I was known as the girl who never got writer's block. I could write for the whole class time and not have to stop and think about what would come next in my story. The ideas were already written in my head and all I had to do was set my pen to the page and write.

Tonight of all night's I had to get writer's block.

I knew I had to write about The Little Prince and so I spent all week thinking about the narrator of the story but it never occurred to me to write about the little prince. And the amazing thing was- once I thought about the little prince all these ideas came to me about the narrator and there I was again, ready to write.

I began thinking about parent-child relationships. And how at first you think that the parents are in charge of everything... They influence the child and are the number one role model to them. The adult is where the child goes to learn new things, hear new stories, and pick up new life lessons. But then I thought about how much of an influence children have on their parents. Sometimes I wonder what my parents want when they ask me how my day was and what interesting things happened at school. Do they want to learn something from me?

Then I think about when my parents are sick and I want to take care of them... I think about how magnificent it really is that a parent-child relationship can be mutual and not just one feeding off of the other.

That's when I started to think about the little prince and the pilot, and how both of them meet each other as people who don't know what they are, a kid or an adult, and by the end of the story they both turn out to be a care taker and someone who needs to be cared for.

The narrator is someone whose age labels them as a grown up but his heart tells him that he never wants to be big and always wants to live in the innocence and safety of a child. As a kid, he looked for attention and acknowledgment from the grown ups but nobody understood where he came from or what he was trying to achieve. He associated adults as bad creatures who didn't understand life or how to live it. And although his body was growing old his heart and brain weren't allowing itself to.

We don't know much about the little prince's background, just that he was alone when we found him. What I respect so much about him is that he will always be a kid but he still lives on his own and takes care of himself.

I thought a lot about what both of the characters needed or don't have. The little prince needs someone to be there for him, someone to take care of him and keep him company. The pilot needs to have some kind of adult figure that he never had, someone to hear his ideas and his thoughts. But I also believe that one of the biggest steps in growing up is when you find yourself in the position of taking care of another person. Near the end of the book I started to realize that while both characters needed someone to take care of them, they needed to take care of each other, too.

The little prince managed to make the pilot feel like a kid again while the pilot also got an opportunity to feel grown up by wanting to be there for the little prince. The pilot was able to make the little prince feel like a child at the same time that the little prince got to be there for the pilot.

It was during these moments that the little prince didn't feel so lonely, the pilot got to experience the childhood he always needed, and both of them could be the grown up in different situations.

Once both of these characters embraced each of these roles they learned that in life you don't just have to be the parent or the child. I believe that you can honestly be both.

I don't provide the money in my family and I don't have a job. But I do know that regardless of whether I'm a daughter or a parent it's important that I take care of everyone how ever it works for me. In a family, we can all do something for each other. No matter how cheesy that may sound.

Who Are You To Cry?

2011-05-24T07:25:00.000-07:00

As the tears ran down my sister's face on Sunday night I couldn't make out the words she was blubbering. It was hopeless. It was just noise that was leaving her lips and red that was building in her cheeks. Something about being left out and wanting to play with the Barbie she wanted to play with. I knew in the back of my mind that if my sister were given the Barbie that she wanted, the tears on her face would magically vanish and no one would have known that she had been crying only seconds before.

I think a lot about the little things that change us... The moments that we lose our innocence and the times that we realize everything in life isn't perfect. For some reason I keep returning to the concept of crying, and I'm starting to believe that it is the one thing that really signals our growing up.

When Finding Nemo was in the theatre I went to go see it with my mother and my sisters. I was still young, still under the impression that everything in life is perfect and that nothing could ever go wrong. The simple image of a shark scared me more than the fact that it killed Nemo's mother and all his siblings.

I remember the moment in the movie where Nemo is hurt, and Marvin, Nemo's dad, picks him up and holds him. He says over and over the thing he said when he found Nemo was the only fish the shark in the beginning of the movie did not kill. Marvin holds Nemo in his small egg and says that he wouldn't let anything ever hurt him. But there he is holding Nemo, and he knows that he hasn't kept his promise.

At the time, I didn't understand what was so hard about this scene, but mother did. At this point in the movie I was frustrated that I was there seeing it. It had a scary shark and had emotional moments that I simply wasn't ready to handle yet! So I turned to my mother to complain, and notice that she's crying.

So many questions ran threw my mind... Why wasn't she kicking and screaming? Isn't that what happens when you cry? And why was she crying? She's an adult! Adults don't cry. She's a mommy. Mommy's don't... cry.

I associated crying with babies. I would look at a baby and anticipate them crying. Isn't that what babies do? I was little... I cried. I knew that my sisters cried and I knew that other little kids cried but mommy's? Mommys just don't cry.

It was then that I was exposed to the truth. Crying was a complex emotion that changes as a person grows up. It changes from crying because you're hungry and don't know how to say it, to crying because someone took your Barbie, to crying because life isn't fair and everything is annoying, to crying because an intense feeling from a movie hit you.

I'll never forget the feeling I had in the movie theatre... Being so excited to have my first crying experience. I knew then that if I cried in a movie, it would be a symbol that I was growing up. That I, Audrey Bachman, was mature enough to understand grown up things in a movie and then have a grown up response. My destination from that point on was to cry during a movie, and not even have to try to do it. To just... cry.

All of a sudden it became immature to cry because you wanted something. But it became mature to cry for a much more sophisticated reason.

NOW. How on Earth does this relate to my coming of age book? I will tell you.

The Little Prince is a small book about a man whose plane crashes and lands in a strange world and greeted by a little prince. Together they go on small adventures and share opinions on life and adults and children. The little prince reminds me of Peter Pan in the sense that it seems like he will never grow up. As we know though, everyone must grow up. So I have come to the conclusion that when the little prince grows up he will still have the same opinions as he does now, that children are far more wiser and more interesting than adults.

The little prince and our unnamed explorer meet a switchman at a certain point in their story and what started out to be a casual conversation turned into something that made me want to write all over the page in my book. (I'm sorry, please forgive me. I just had to.)

Below is the section that got me thinking on crying and what about it symbolizes growing up:

"They're not chasing anything," the switchman said. They're sleeping in there, or else they're yawning. Only the children are pressing their noses against the windowpanes."
"Only the children know that they're looking for," said the little prince. "They spend their time on a rag doll and it becomes very important, and if it's taken away from them, they cry . . ."
"They're lucky," the switchman said.

This got me thinking about crying in general... Later I got to my bigger thoughts about maturing crying and immature crying, but in that moment I thought about something else. Something that was vaguely mentioned in the beginning my post.

I thought about what the little prince said... About how all children do when something happens that they don't want is they cry. That's all they can do, that's all they know how to do. But it's not the fact that they can't physically do anything else, it's the fact that the answer to something bad happening is to cry about it.

When something happens that triggers tears for an adult, the two things you can do are going out and fixing it, or moping around and sulking. Like my sister on Sunday night: Once she got what she wanted the tears went away and no one would have known that she had been crying.

When adults cry, something hangs over them. Some kind of gray cloud follows them around all day. I'll never forget that not only could I look at my mother in the same way after I saw her crying, but she looked different physically for a while after the movie, too. Like someone had touched her heart in side the walls of the movie theatre.

No one saw it coming, my mom didn't know the movie would be that tear jerking and I didn't know that by entering the building of the theatre I would lose a little bit of innocence. I would soon learn that adults cry, and that there's more to scary sharks then jus their scary looks.

I didn't know that an animated fish could make a person cry, especially a grown up. A big person.

In Stand By Me, Gordie realizes that he didn't cry at his brother's funeral. Gordie feels like a bad person, a failure, because of other complex feelings, but it all leads up to his regret of not crying during a funeral. Then and only then, does Gordie cry.

Gordie isn't crying because the toy he wanted to play with got taken away. Gordie is crying because in that moment he hates himself and he hates the world. He is angry and sad and frustrated. Helpless.

A baby isn't helpless when they cry... I like to believe that the only reason that child cries is in hope that they will get the attention of some one and that person can get them what they want.

Gordie isn't asking for anything. He's just feeling emotion. My mother wasn't crying because she wanted something. She was crying because a feeling was filling up inside her. A feeling more than just wanting to be heard.

So in some ways kids do have it easier. All they have to do to get what they want is to open their mouth and scream. Let the tears fall down their cheeks. But my mom took something that day when we watched Finding Nemo. Crying gave her the sensation of feeling life and the unfairness that comes with it. So maybe when it comes to crying adults have it easier... Because all babies take from crying is a soar throat.

My mom left the movie theater that day with a memory. And I left with an image that I would try to live up to until I could have my own experience with crying because I was really feeling.

I LOVE TINA OMG (Sorry Ms. Robbins I know I'm not supposed to use 'text-slang' but it was mandatory for this title.) Anyway, I Love Tina.

2011-04-27T16:17:00.000-07:00

Tina Tina Tina Tina Tina Tina!

I think I'll make a shirt that says "I Love Tina" on it and wear it every day. Okay just kidding, that's creepy!

Tired from a long day, I got home from school a couple Tuesdays ago and threw myself on the couch in my family room. I closed my eyes, only bothering to peek them open for one teeny tiny moment. I squinted so that I could read the time on the clock. 8:30. I had homework, I had dinner to eat, and I had Glee to watch. (DUH)

I had only wanted to have my eyes open for that split second that it would take for me to read what it said on the clock. But of course: Life happened. And there was a twist in what I hoped would be my future. So instead of closing my eyes again, I felt them leading its way to "Bossypants," Tina Fey's new book. It was resting on the coffee table. Before I knew it my hands were holding it and my eyes were reading it and my mouth was constantly open so that I could laugh.

I had that feeling where you find yourself in a moment that is so perfect you never want it to end.

I was tired. I didn't want to do homework. I didn't want to do anything. But it didn't occur to me: I wanted to read. So not only did I get to feel much better by fulfilling the thing I wanted to do most, but I also found a new book, too.

Every time I turned a page I gained more respect for Tina. I loved her sophisticated jokes and her sarcasm, and I also loved the fact that she isn't just some famous person who decided she wanted to look deep so she wrote a book. Tina clearly invested her time in this book and put a lot of heart into it. It's brilliant and funny and so insightful.

The thing that interested me the most about Tina's book was something that I haven't paid a lot of attention to in my life. Her views on sexism and how women are treated differently from men in the world, especially in Hollywood disgusts her, and she wasn't afraid to let us know.

She described such real situations where she had to deal with being smaller than other people because she was a woman. While working at Second City and doing stand up comedy, Tina remembers a time where a legitimate sketch was considered to have more men in it than women. Because women couldn't really be funny. Because women couldn't do anything better than men.

I respect how much Tina believes that women can be funnier and simply do things better or just as good as men can. And the best part, is that through all of her talking and describing, she uses humor to do so. This makes it not just amusing to read, but you see that she is also proving her point as you are reading her very words.

Tina is funny. She's hilarious. And one of the greatest things about this book is that it's opened so many doors for new books for me. I'm interested in reading more about people's lives right now. I'm interested in reading comedic books. My father and I share a love for comedy and stay up way too late watching Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm.

As I read Tina and as I watch Larry I realize that you have to have a certain talent to really make people laugh. May that be sophisticated and harsh like Larry's, or just plain out funny and sarcastic like Tina's, I love to hear their words and read them. It makes me want to write comedy, as well. I don't know if I'd be any good at it... But just like how this blog connects reading to writing, I figure that reading books should improve your writing and influence your style.

My parents always tell me, "To be a writer, you have to read."

I think about this a lot: When I first really started writing in 3rd/4th grade I was in the middle of my big obsession with Judy Blume. I remember after giving my mom a piece that I wrote for her to read, she commented on the fact that the voice of my story sounded similar to Judy's character's voices. I figured I was taking on the qualities of who I was reading.

From that point on I didn't really experiment with other genres. I experimented with other voices in 7th and 8th grade, but I never broke away completely from the realistic fiction realm.

It wasn't until after I read Tina that I was inspired to read memoirs and to read comedy. Who knows what that will lead to in my future writing career???

All I know is that every one has a story to tell and Tina proved that every story is worth hearing, especially hers. She also has taught me that comedy is a lot harder and more intense, and that you have to take it very seriously if you want to be successful as a comedian.

Okay, so maybe I will make a shirt that says "I love Tina" on it. No big deal, right?

And P.S: HA NORA I FINISHED BEFORE YOU AND NOW I CAN WATCH MY SO CALLED LIFE AND YOU CAN'T HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA heh heh heh heh heh... phew.

It's Not Weird To Read On Your Way To Class, Even If You Bump Into 20 People Doing So.

2011-04-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

Don't forget.

Don't ever forget that feeling you have when you finish a book.

I did, and I'm mad at myself.

As a reader, I have recently come close to failing. I hadn't REALLY gotten into a book since Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Maybe I was in denial because I was scared to find a book that was better than it. But no matter what happened, I had stopped really reading.

My mom would give me short stories from the New Yorker and I would stay up late reading those. But then it'd be over and I'd think, "Oh well!" It's killing me. How did this happen??

Finally I remembered the one thing that will never change when it comes to reading books. Reading a book that's below your level once in a while is NOT a bad idea. It really isn't. First off, if you're a thinker like me you'll like easier books because ideas come to mind faster, and then you can spend more time thinking about them. Second of all... It's fun! They are simple to understand and in my most recent case, beautifully written.

My sister, Lois, is in a book club. (Woohoo using today's comma lesson in my blog what what?!) I am extremely jealous of her, as I was in a book club when I was her age too. Of course we got to Middle School and everyone except me and the moms wanted to end it. I guess they were busy or something. Whatever.

Anyway: The book they just finished was Ida B. Emily Mendes stopped me in the hallway just to tell me that that was her favorite book in fifth grade. The only fear I have of reading books below my level are people thinking that I am lazy or stupid. But really, I'm not. I just adore them. I don't care what anyone else thinks.

Ida B is an incredible character. Incredible person, actually. She is real, I know. She is home schooled by her parents and spends her free time speaking with the trees that she has named and created personalities for. Everything is perfectly perfect until Mama gets sick and Ida B has to go to school where everyone calls her Ida and no one gets how everything is messed up and ruined.

As I read the book I felt like reaching out and holding Ida B's hand. Not in a way to say, "Poor you!" but to be with her. Because the greatest thing in this book is that you come to know and love Ida B so much that you refuse to let anything get her down. And now the worst part: I had to accept sooner or later that Ida B was just living on the pages of the book in my hands. Which slowly became the best part again. I remembered that feeling, the feeling that I had with Oskar. When I thought he was real and although there was some invisible barrier separating us, I remembered how to feel like I was with her the whole time.

And that's when it came to me. I love to read. I love it. I had forgotten that for a while but Ida B allowed me to remember it. I love to read!! I love love love it!!! Now that Nora is gone forever and I have no one to talk to... I turn to books! It's so fun!

(I do realize this blog post is now going no where but I just need to be happy for a little.)

In science, when class was over, instead of going to talk with people, I pulled out my book... and read. Wow. I realized that all the times that I just go and talk to people for no reason I could be reading. Not to say that you should never be social or talk to people. I know that. What I am saying never waste time to read. Read your heart out. I'm so excited now. AH!!!! And the best part of today in science was that I didn't care if people looked at me and thought I was weird for reading my book while I could be mingling.

Sorry sorry sorry.

Lastly I come to the inspiration for the prompt I'll share with my creative writing class in a couple Thursdays. When I finished Ida B.

When I finished Ida B I remembered one more thing.

How you feel when you finish your book.

I felt like I accomplished something. I looked back at all the pages in the book, all three hundred and something of them, and I thought, I read all of this. My growing, thinking brain ate it up and loved every bit of it.

I felt annoyed. Why didn't I get to find out if her mom gets better? Does she stay at school? Hmph.

Why couldn't it follow Ida B all the way until she was 100. Why? It's so sad.

But most of all: Pride. I get to hold the book up and say, "Why yes, yes I did read this book." It's that feeling you have when you recommend a book to someone because you read it and loved it. Or when someone asks to read the book your reading when you're done. And when you give them the book its your way of saying, "Done. I read it."

BUT: It's not about bragging. (Not completely that is.) It's about the feeling you get when you read the last word and the only pages beyond that is the About The Author.

My dad bought me a book all about the Green Bay Packers winning the Super Bowl. On the back is a quote from Aaron Rodgers talking about how now that they've won, they don't know what to do. And that's when he says: "Let's go get another."

So the main lesson for this week, (thank you Aaron Rodgers <3 <3 <3 <3) is that when you finish a book, you have every right to want to sulk around and be upset. But. Don't be sad for too long, you're wasting time to read another great book.

When Is Daddy Coming Home? I Hope Soon.

2011-03-20T07:04:00.000-07:00

The average person doesn’t have the ability to choose between their two parents. It just can’t be done. Even at a time in our teenage lives where it’s easy for us to scream, “I hate you dad!” Which is why I think that Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is a perfect book for us to read at this time. Although very mature and intense, there were many moments where I thought about my relationship with my parents, and God forbid what would happen if one of them were gone. My past blog on this book was a disaster because there were so many ideas to juggle and I didn’t know which one to focus on. I began to narrow down all the ideas until I got to the one that I thought was most devastating. Oskar and his mother.

All alone: Both of them without their other half. Of everyone in the world, I like to think that Oskar and his mother miss Thomas the most. Killed in The World Trade Center in 9/11, nobody was prepared for anything. I thought a lot about poor Oskar, a child, who doesn’t have his daddy anymore. How hard it must be for him to do all the things only him and his father used to do alone. And how much more upsetting it was when he would do those things with his mother.

This is where I started to ask myself, is it possible to choose between a parent? It killed me to even have to think about something like that. My mom walking out the door to go to work and not coming home? It’s unreal. Death is unreal, especially death of a person that you love more than anyone else in the world.

I thought a lot about, and still do think about how not only Oskar was at a loss. And what it means that he is the person that supposedly missed his father the most. As the book is narrated by Oskar, you feel his pain. You live in the grief and the confusion that he is going through. Although I don’t prefer to hear how much pain my Oskar is feeling, it’s easy to because it’s his words that I’m reading. I wondered if there were any other characters that felt as much pain. Soon after I remembered Oskar’s grandma, his father’s mom, I thought to myself, “Of course. How could I not think of her?”

I recently was talking with my dad about grandparents, and how people say that the happiest moment in a person’s life is when they hold their grandchild. I thought about Oskar’s grandma and how unfair it must be for her to see her son’s creation, and know that her son isn’t there. My dad said that the reason that is the best moment in a person’s life is because it’s the moment that they see that they brought two lives into the world. When a person says, “This is my grandchild.” They are also saying, “Look! I brought one life into the world, and he brought another! I am responsible for two human beings.” Can you imagine the confusion Oskar’s grandmother must be feeling: Not only is her son gone, her baby, but her baby’s baby is left all alone.

Then I thought about Oskar’s mother.

Her true love. Her family. It’s all gone. But sometimes, I became frustrated with her because she kept all her feelings inside.

I wouldn’t want to cry in front of my child, but I feel that something Oskar needs most right now is to know that he’s not alone. To know that it’s not weird to have the feelings he has.

It’s not normal and it’s not fair that you will have to lose a parent at such a young age. But guess what- It happens. And the thing that I would need most in that time in my life would be reassurance that I’m not alone and that my feelings aren’t unusual. I would need someone who could sit with me and share with me all the things that they are feeling. Someone who could tell me that they are thinking the same things, I’m not alone. That other person needs to be the other parent. I expected so much from Oskar’s mom and I never got anything.

Sometimes, I would close the book and imagine the perfect scene: Where his mother and him would just cry together. They needed each other. They really, really did. Of their family of three they were the only ones left. And they needed to use that feeling of emptiness and bring them together.

That’ when I wondered why they weren’t bonding an extreme amount. Maybe I was being unfair to assume that something like death could be used to someone’s advantage. But I didn’t mean it like that at all.

Really, I didn’t.

What I meant by wondering about that was my way of asking myself, what would happen if the situation was reversed? How would things turn out if Oskar’s mom died instead of his father? Before Thomas dies you see him and Oskar together, you see how close they were. Jonathan Safran Foer doesn’t really describe any activity with his mother, all you can see is how much Thomas loved his son and how much Oskar loved his dad.

It kills me to say this, Oskar and his dad were perfect. Which is why it was so devastating to see him go and have Oskar, young and unsure not know what to do. And then it was just his mother who always seemed to be with her new friend and letting Oskar do... Whatever.

I want to know so badly how Oskar and his mother were before Thomas’ death. Something so powerful as death can change a person, many people. I wonder if Oskar and his mother were perfect too, and the fact that they lost the only other person that they loved more than anything else in the world is gone ruined everything.

We don’t know what Oskar’s mom is doing in her room. We don’t know if she’s crying or just carrying on. I can understand if she doesn’t want to be upset in front of her baby, but at some moments I think that Oskar needed to see that his mother was just as hurt as he was.

As his mother gets closer with a man who also lost his family they are with eachother more. And as any sensible child would think, Oskar thought that he was his father’s replacement.

Not okay.

I was so excited to hear that his mom had found an adult that she could relate to. SO happy. But it killed when Oskar saw them together, and his mother looked happy. I knew that her way of grieving had to be done in front of another adult because her son was still... her son. And a child. And not only did she not want to upset him with her tears, but I think she didn’t want to overwhelm him with the big ideas of death and grief.

Little did she know that Oskar is brilliant and his emotions are far beyond his maturity level.

If his mother were able to see that, maybe things would be different.

But I’m not saying in any way that it’s his mother’s fault that they aren’t close. It’s the situation’s fault. It’s not fair. It’s just not. It’s all about the plane and how it crashed and how Oskar’s daddy died. That’s whose fault it is.

But because both Oskar and his mother were so caught off guard none of them knew how to handle everything. And soon, he just snapped and that’s how Oskar said what he said.

¾ into the book Oskar tells his mom that he wishes she was the one who died so that it was still his father who was alive.

That’s when I cried. I cried because that’s the worst thing anyone can say to anyone. And second of all, that’s when I found my answer.

I was so overwhelmed at that moment. I love Oskar. And to tell you the truth I was angry with his mother. But at that moment I just wanted to jump inside the pages and give his mom a hug. I realized that she didn’t know what she was doing. And while maybe it was intentional that Jonathan Safran Foer showed Oskar and his father together before he died to make you think that he was a better parent, I don’t know if he would he would be any better at what his mother was trying to do.

To anyone who will ever come across this small piece of writing: It is NOT possible to choose between a parent. I promise, and I’ve never been more about something in my entire life, that Oskar would have said the same thing to his father if he were the one living.

It’s a fact, that once you know you can’t have something you want it.

Oskar may have hated his mother at that moment. But. if she were gone than he would want her the most. He would hate his father for being there like he wanted. It’s not fair and it’s not okay to be as young as dear Oskar and have to live with one of two parents. I can’t sit here and watch Oskar have to choose.

And the pain is, he doesn’t. No one is asked him to choose, it’s already been chosen.

Nobody had control over who went. Oskar didn’t have to choose. In most situations you don’t choose. You’re not supposed to. That’s the tragedy of this book: Although Oskar wished that his mother had died at that time, if he had to sit down and choose while both his parents were alive I guarantee that he wouldn’t be able to.

Please. Read this book. I’ve never been more in love with a book in my entire life. It changes everything that you know about parents, no matter how old you are. If you’re an angry teen, and confused child, or a mature adult.

Everybody hurts.

He's Not The Main Character For No Reason. Everyone Loves Him!

2011-03-02T15:13:00.001-08:00

Poor Romeo.

He's so innocent, loving Rosaline because she's so beautiful when he doesn't even know what love is.

Poor Romeo.

Rejected by his one and only love. The most perfect girl in the world. "The all-seeing sun ne'er saw her match since first the world begun."

Oh- but then Juliet comes along and it's goodbye Rosaline and hello Juliet!

I don't think people realize how perfect Romeo and Juliet is to read at our age. Not only is Juliet exactly our age, but it completely relates to our new feelings about love and just being a young person in the world in general. Romeo is 16 and thinks he loves one girl and one girl only. And then all of a sudden Juliet comes out of no where and all thoughts of Rosaline are lost.

Let's be honest here- how many times has this happened, and will happen to us in our adolescent lifetime? Or just our life, when you think about it.

I love how normal Romeo is. Behind all the unusually young marriages and people who are so much older than you asking to marry you and the crazy sword fights that break out, all the things that are weird for us and hard to understand, there is Romeo.

I sometimes wonder if Shakespeare intentionally created Romeo as a normal person. But what is "normal" for us? Everything else written in this play was considered "normal" back in that time period. Was Romeo supposed to be the "not normal" person? Was Shakespeare keeping in mind that times were changing and soon what was normal wouldn't be? Maybe he knew that, and knew that Romeo would change from the different person to the person who was easiest to understand and relate to? Or maybe he didn't mean anything at all.

It's quite possible.

All I know right now is that underneath all the confusion and frustration you can find Romeo. And once you translate his language into something you can understand, you can say, "Thank goodness there is some one so innocent and sweet, someone I can relate too."

And by the way... Has anyone else noticed that Romeo has been the only person who hasn't picked a fight yet? While watching the movie and class, and even again when reading I kept asking myself during the fight scene, "Where is Romeo?" Just another reason why he is so perfect.

My advice, just try to forget about how hard everything is... just for a little. And read some Romeo. He is so peaceful, so easy, Luhrmann, so cute. :)

Romeo is an excellent character... I wish he were real.

You Can't Get Any Where In Life If You Give Up, And That Goes For Reading Too.

2011-02-16T15:29:00.000-08:00

Some people are picky eaters, I'm a picky reader.

Why!?!??!?! I absolutely detest how difficult it is for me to pick a book I like. I honestly went through about a week (shhh don't tell anyone) where I wasn't reading before I came across Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Don't get me wrong, I was reading! But I wasn't reading whole books. I was reading blurbs and first chapters and first sentences and first words.

Everything was SO boring.

At first I was annoyed... Why couldn't I find any books?! Was something going on where every book in the history of the world was not interesting? Or was it me? Was I not giving it a chance?

The fact of the matter is I am just a really picky reader. Which got me thinking: I don't want to spend the rest of my reading life having to worry about investing more time in finding the right book than it would take to read it.

Then I thought about this: The way a book begins is basically the most important part of the book. As a future writer, I want to draw in as many readers as I can, I want to change as many lives as I can with my words. BUT: My biggest fear is that I loose thousands of readers because I didn't make the first sentence make you want to read more. And then read another sentence and another and another until the words that you have created are part of another person's life and heart.

It is so important to me, not just as a writer but as a fellow reader, as I am an always will be one, that every book I read is exciting and wonderful and makes me sad when I have to put it down.

Unfortunately for me though, I'm not the kind of amazing reader I wish I was that didn't care how boring the beginning of a book was. Because while beginnings are important, there's always the rest of the book to look forward to. I guess as I grow up and continue to live in the world of literature I'll have to give books "second chances." I'll have to teach myself to think every time I think the first sentence is ugly, that there's more and more and more ahead of me.

My mom always says to me when she thinks I'm not reading enough: "To be a great writer, you have to read." And I wish I could say, "I know, I know..." And actually mean it. Sometimes I feel like either I'm too lazy, or, I just really care about what I'm reading, and prefer not to waste any time reading a terrible book while I could be reading a life changing one.

But then that seems a little over-dramatic and then I feel awful because I think I am in fact lazy. The thing is though, I'm not. I just read slower because I think a lot, maybe even too much. And I don't read a lot of books because I'm constantly searching for the right one.

And how special that is, when you do find a book. And how weird that is, when you're done, and you realize, wow. Here I am again. And then I think to myself, that there must be hundreds of more books in the world that will make me feel the same way. "WOW."

And maybe that's one of the reasons that I'm in such a rush to grow up, move on in life, break away from middle school. Because I want to continue to be introduced to amazing books. And read them and love them and live them and then, the best part: Sharing them with others.

I feel so proud to hand someone a book and say to them, "Read this one." And then they do. And they love it. And I just have to sit back for a second and think, "That was because of me."

And they'll introduce it to someone else who will show it to someone else and so on and so on.

Reading is just one big community, one big concept that can connect everyone in the world.

All you need to do is taking a chance.

Read a little past the first sentence.

Love These Guys.

2011-02-06T12:57:00.000-08:00

GREEN BAY ALL THE WAY.

GO PACK GO.

GOTTA LOVE THE GREEN AND GOLD.

HEY, IF WE LOSE, I'M ONLY GONNA LOVE THEM MORE.

I Hate Titles. This Post Says Enough.

2011-02-06T12:27:00.000-08:00

So. I'm officially obsessed with The Social Network.

I talk about it all the time, and cried when I heard that Jesse Eisenberg was hosting SNL.

You'd think that as someone who knows every line and scene of the movie, it would be easy for me to answer the question: "What is it about the movie that you like?"

But.

The problem is, I have no idea how to answer that question.

I just get so caught up in my love for the movie that I don't leave enough time to really think about what makes the movie so amazing. (Besides the really cute actors.)

I recently figured out the answer: The movie isn't all facts. I thought it would be a movie that would spit out information and that was that.

I was wrong. DUH.

What the movie is about, based on my opinion, is the fact that fame and fortune can ruin everything for you, including the strongest friendship.

Mark and Eduardo were always there for each other, but Mark's fame turns him into a different person, a person who becomes blind to friendship, and only sees his and facebook's popularity.

Two Mexicanos Lynched in Santa Cruz, California, May 3, 1877

More than the moment
when forty gringo vigilantes
cheered the rope
that snapped two Mexicanos
into the grimacing sleep of broken necks,

more than the floating corpses,
trussed like cousins of the slaughterhouse,
dangling in the bowed mute humility
of the condemned,

more than the Virgen de Guadalupe
who blesses the brownskinned
and the crucified,
or the guitar-plucking skeletons
they will become
on the Día de los Muertos,

remain the faces of the lynching party:
faded as pennies from 1877, a few stunned
in the blur of execution,
a high-collar boy smirking, some peering
from the shade of bowler hats, but all
crowding into the photograph.

At first, I didn't like this poem. I'm not a cruel person, but I really wasn't enjoying myself. I hated how frustrated I was feeling, and I hated how it ended. I was angry at myself for not realizing one of the biggest things that Martin Espada is trying to tell the reader.

What I think is so mind blowing, what is so "wow" about this poem is the fact that it's about more than the execution, it's also about the fact that two men are being killed. It's the sickening idea that all the spectators care about is the credit that they are going to get for being there. That they are being blinded by the celebrity of it that they can't see lives being taken right in front of them.

Why does that make sense? Does it? Is this what was making me so frustrated? That two people who were once living are now dead and all the people watching can do is care about the fame and applause they're going to get for being there?

And as much as I'm pleased that I've found a connection to the greatest movie of all time, I'm almost disgusted by the meaning of both the poem and the movie. Why does fame and celebrity make you blind to everything around you. Why does it make you throw away friendship, why does it change you? Why are you no longer affected by everything going on before you? Because all you can see and all you can think about is being able to say, "Yeah. I was there. Mhm."

It annoys me that that's who we become when we are faced with fame.

It turns us into monsters.

And the most frustrating part: That Martin Espada is describing only a few people being stunned. Hey, this is just me, but I know that I would be scared out of my mind to be in an environment where someone, two people, were having their lives taken away from them.

It wouldn't matter to me whether or not I would get credit for being there, or whether or not I would be in some useless photograph.

I would be watching someone die.

Does that mean anything to anyone?

I Love These Guys... But Not As Much As I Love The Packers.

2011-02-01T18:14:00.000-08:00

I continue to look up to Tomin as a writer, hopefully he will always be a mentor for me. Something I can never seem to accomplish very well are harsh but wise criticisms. Tomin is constantly my example for a brilliant but tough insight on things. Here is a post we can all relate to, his thoughts about Please Don't Take My Air Jordans by Reg E. Gains. What I loved the most while reading this response was how many times I found my self saying, "I was thinking that exact same thing." And then feeling annoyed and wondering why I didn't have the courage to post something so bold and brave like that on my blog. Good for Tomin for always having the bravery and not having a fear of anything coming out too harsh. If anything, that's what makes his writing stronger. Another note, Tomin also proves that you don't need to write 20 pages to get across a heavy and important message. With a writer like him, you only need 3 paragraphs. Excellent work!

Julia, I love you with all my heart. I knew she was a smart girl, but I had no idea that she was a gorgeous writer too. Such complexity is packed into the littlest of lines, such flow and easiness (is that a word??) when reading. I remember reading one of her poems and continuing to say, "wow" over and over again. Eventually my sister came over to me and yelled, "Why the heck are you talking to yourself?!" Oh well. Julia wrote a very intense poem, so intense I had to ask her if she wrote it before I even sat down to write this post. She talks about regret, and the tragedy it is not to feel welcome, the things you have to do to be at home, the mistakes you have to make to be rejected. Julia's words hurt, but they are the truth. They are cold and heart breaking. She has a certain feeling of comfort which I love in her voice: that she likes what she is writing and is confident that we will too. I learned a lot from her, and will continue to be inspired by her obvious talent.

Last but not least is Pia. May I first say, it takes a lot to write a wonderful reading response, but her words in general, in a conversation or in a post on other's writing being written well is beautiful. Pia doesn't have to try, it's a natural ability she has- she is a writer. In this post, Pia speaks of the sadness of having a father that's not stepping up to plate, that's not being an actual father. Just like Tomin's post it's quick but smart. It's true and unique. And, Pia makes connections I never would have if I were reading her book. Connections to our evolving as teenagers and our constant need to perfect everything in the world. Pia does something that acknowledges the whole point of the reading response, not only she writing gorgeously, she's making me want to read the book. And wasn't that the whole point from the beginning?

Good job to everyone, I can't wait to read your next piece.

Triple.

2011-01-18T18:08:00.000-08:00

And we walk the streets. And the wind, it smacks our faces.
And we get inside, the walls protect us.
The red is warming me. The red is burning me. I must leave the walls.
I must hide inside the orange, bury myself under the waves.
The bubbles cover me up, they tingle my fingers and my toes.
I miss that feeling of the cold.
I regret that feeling, wanting to be inside.
This red is so warm, too warm,
I wish and wish and wish the wind would smack me one more time.
Here I am, swimming, not drowning in the tide of the red.
The blankets and blankets and blankets of red.
I wade in the water.
I make my way toward the light, but it's too short.
And I'm stuck between the orange and the red, and I'm caught between the light.
And I want to stay here in the light.
And I want to be here forever.
But I have to keep pulling and pulling and pulling until I'm in the red.
And I swim and I wait until I see the light again.
Until something makes me want.
Something makes me want to breathe and live and be in cold.
The wind and the cold, forever.
Anything is better than this, including the light.

Just Go With It.

2011-01-12T18:49:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I was introduced to the power of reading writing aloud.

Late at night, I went to get some orange juice from the fridge. As the door slammed I noticed the poem cut from what looked like a magazine, sloppily taped to the door.

I read it, and it was boring. Maybe I was too distracted by my orange juice that was losing its cold and crispness, or maybe I just wasn't in the mood to read a poem. Sometimes you aren't; I've learned that that's completely normal.

Walking into my family room I saw my dad blogging on his computer, and I saw me, drinking my orange juice. And there was this emptiness inside of me, this feeling of regret. I kept imagining myself really, really, really reading that poem. I wish I could go back in time and really, really, really read it. Then I would come back into the family room and maybe feel a little different, a little more whole. But instead, for some unknown reason, because I hadn't read the poem and am a very guilty person, I felt like I was only half of what I normally am. I felt like I was missing something.

"Did you see that poem I taped to the fridge? I was thinking of you when I read it." I breathed the biggest sigh of relief I have ever sighed in my entire life. My dad, the hero. "Why don't you go get it, and read it!"

Gladly. Thank goodness.

My foot steps glided across the tiles in my kitchen and I couldn't wait to find my missing piece. I knew what was coming of this. I knew my father and I were going to end up talking about the poem, and then sitting in awe just living it. Inhaling the beautiful words and sitting there loving every bit of it.

Not exactly.

I took the poem in my hands so gently I could barely feel it and it could barely feel me. Though I could also feel in my hands how rough I was being, how much I rushed into the family room, waiting to find my missing piece.

So I sat on the white couch and I read it in my head, loving that I knew my dad was watching me the whole time.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing came out of that poem. I tried to love it, I wanted to love it. But. I just didn't understand it. And because the moment was already so perfect, and I felt so safe and comfortable, it was easy to admit to my dad that I had no clue what any of the words meant.

My dad is always trying to get me to think. He'll never just give you the answer, he makes you think about it. He wants to hear you give the answer before he does himself.

"Read it out loud."

I didn't realize my voice was shaking as I read the words. They overwhelmed me; and as I felt them coming out of my mouth and heard them swimming in my ears and I realized something I should have realized the two times I read the poem on my own.

You need to feel what you are reading. You need to feel what you are thinking. You need to feel what you are living and being because in that moment, and in any moment that you read words, you are those words. Only a true writer can make you feel like you are becoming the words, that you are being spoken to by the author.

But the most important thing I learned that night was that it's okay to read out loud. I could have read the poem I saw on the fridge out loud, but I was too self conscious to do it. In my own home, too. I was too scared that someone would come in and say, "Um, what are you doing?" In a mean way. Or I would wake some one up by mistake. But really, the only thing that would happen, if someone just so happened to have been walking by, because you don't have to read very loud, would be that they would just look at you lovingly and think to themselves, "Wow. What a good kid that is. Reading a poem to herself when she could be doing something totally different."

I learned that night that you just have to go with it, live in the moment, do what you have to do to keep a piece of yourself from going missing. If you have the urge to read a poem, to stop and really read it, even if it's out loud, then do it! Have fun. And that way, when you're sitting around with nothing else to do, when you could be sitting there having just read the poem and now thinking about it, you won't have to feel that awful emptiness of regret that I did.

Nothing Else by Charles Simic
Friends of the small hours of the night:
Stub of a pencil, small notebook,
Reading lamp on the table,
Making me welcome in your circle of light.

I care little the house is dark and cold
With you sharing my absorption
In this book in which now and then a sentence
Is worth repeating again in a whisper.

Without you, there’d be only my pale face
Reflected in the black windowpane,
And the bare trees and deep snow
Waiting for me out there in the dark.

Basically saying, sometimes, we're lonely. Sometimes, writers are lonely. Sometimes, when everyone is asleep and it's just us writers waiting alone in the dark, all we have is our pencil, notebook, and lamp. And sometimes, that has to be enough to make you feel at home.

Are We Allowed To Have Co-Writers? PLEASE!!

2010-12-20T18:28:00.000-08:00

This message is brought to you by Audrey, of course. Please welcome Audrey. Now welcome our guest star, who Audrey has just said was the inspiration to this post, her sister, Lois.

Yes, that's right, my sister will be joining us today. (I hope that's okay Ms. Robbins!)

Meet Lois: I rock more than you.
Yeah, that's her.

Okay so I was thinking tonight about how right now as we all apply to high school and what not it must seem to us like we're the only ones who are feeling stressed out. But today, I was aware of Lois who is in 5th grade and how stressed she was too.

Okay so this is Lois now. Today in school we read a book about someone who died of stress. I was feeling sick so I was a bit tuned out but heard the words "died" and "stress". Yikes. It made me more stressed and then my teacher told us all it was post-war stress. Like CIVIL war stress. Whew. Not like Homework stress.

Yeah, that's my sister, the future historian. She has to compare everything to something in history, whether it makes sense or not. But I love her anyway.

Thank you, Lois.

It's Audrey now. So Lois and I are definitely really close. We just spent about an hour going through a giant box of old notebooks and folders from past years in school. It was so much fun to reminisce and just relax with each other, but I was also thinking a lot about how much stress I felt last year and now that it's over I almost feel like I was being silly feeling stressed about the things I was stressed about.

I just totally veered off the main subject, but what I'm really trying to say is a lot of tonight was Lois and I talking to each other about how stressed out she is. I was trying to tell her about all the times that I've felt worried and scared about the future and she was talking about the same thing. (Don't worry this does have to do with reading. But then again, I say that every week. OKAY!)

Back to you, Lois.

The feeling of being relived of stress is like being drafted into an army right before a major battle then being told you can go home. When I feel stressed, I feel scared and unsafe. I feel better in my mom or dad or mom AND dads arms. So then I feel sick. God, I wish you were there to witness me and Auds talking. Now I'm not sure if I want you to read this but hey- if any thing goes wrong I delete the post and brainwash you. I'm sure there's an iPhone app for brainwashing people right?

Okay so Lois keeps taking like an hour to type one paragraph and I keep trying to take the computer away from her to have her talk and me type. She just turned to me and went, "Sh! This is a nice moment!" Cute.

So here's my connection with reading. As I was sitting with Lois on her bed she said to me something that immediately made me think, "Blog Post!!" She said to me, and I quote, "Whenever there's a moment in my life whether I'm happy or sad, I try to compare it to a book that I've read, being the reader that I am. Right now, I just can't for some reason!" And then my mom who butts into everything poked her head into the room and said, "Well maybe you have to write it yourself!"

Which made me think. People go to books for comfort, for stress relieving and for relaxation. (Or atleast I hope!) I never thought that of the hundreds of billions of trillions of books that there are in the world you would never have to be put into the position where you couldn't find a book that related to you in the slightest. Does that kind of, sort of, maybe just a little bit??

Back to you Lois.

Just don't forget I'm awesome.

You're ruining my moment here!! -Audrey.

Right, so.

I like to think of myself as more of a writer then I am a reader, but still a loving reader. Of course. The thing is though, it never actually occurred to me to stop looking for a book and write it instead. When we search for books to match what we're looking for, it sure can come close to what we were searching for, but not exactly the thing. Why not just create your own book or writing to match what you have in mind. Whether it is to help with your stress, or whether it is to just enjoy yourself, either is fine.

Also, it doesn't have to just be writing and reading. It can be anything you're searching for. If you ever find yourself in a position where you aren't seeing what you you were looking for, make it yourself. I find it so much better making it yourself because this way, you can have everything you were looking for right there in front of you.

I honestly do hope that this post was not something completely confusing and unpleasant to read. I do want to end 2010 on a good note.

And, may I say, here's to another great year of blogging about reading, life, and everything beyond.

Lois fell asleep a while ago, but let's acknowledge her presence anyway.

Thanks Lo!

It's Taken Me Hours To Come Up With A Title, Ooh! Got One!

2010-12-13T20:18:00.001-08:00

Before I jump in, this is so funny, my dad is sitting across the room from me on his computer and I think he's blogging too. We keep typing at the same time and then stopping at the same time to read over our writing and then starting at the same time again. It's weird! Okay, or maybe he's tweeting, I think he has a Twitter which is so weird because I don't think dad's are supposed to have Twitters. I think that might be illegal or something.

Here we imagine the torn cover of Audrey's favorite book of all times. She is embarrassed because she is a bit behind schedule in reading it. According to the inside cover the annual reading of Are You There God, It's Me Margaret by Judy Blume begins in November and ends a day later because she LOVES IT SO MUCH.

Also according to the inside cover, my 3rd grade handwriting states the following words:
Times I've Read This Book!

And, written in many different colors because obviously I do not use the same pen every time I read this book, states that I have in fact read it 12 times. Which if you can figure out means I don't always follow my schedule completely, sometimes I read it 3 times a year. (But the other two times I don't count because that wouldn't be fair.)

Well what I thought was so weird about reading it this time was realizing that I have never, ever underlined or written in this book at all. Don't worry, this is NOT going to be another one of those posts where all I talk about is writing in books. I've had one-too-many of those. But just as a quick note, if I may, I just thought it was so funny that of all 12 times my eyes have looked over the words on each page I have not once written a smiley face or a heart or just underlined a line from the goodness of my heart because I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

Get it? I'm totally in LOVE with this book.

So I was thinking yesterday about the reasons why I love this book, doesn't it seem a little weird how much I love it? Yeah, I think so too. And the fact that I love it so much but I have never honestly thought about why I love it? Okay now this is just getting insane.

Right, okay I'm trying not to go crazy with love for this book and I'm trying really hard to figure out why I love it so much.

Here are the reasons I can think of right now, I will be sure to let you know if any others pop into my head.
1) At first, my mom wouldn't let me read it. Neither would the mean librarian at 321 when I tried to sneak it out of the library. Maybe the fact that I knew I couldn't read it made we want it even more, which made it even more satisfying when I could read it, meaning that every time I read it I remember how exciting it was for me to finally read it. Does that make sense?

2) The voice of Margaret always reminded me of my own, and no matter how old I get I always see a little bit of myself in Margaret.

3) I envy Margaret and her big house and perfect friends. I envied her parties and school dances and how cool her mom was.

4) I love how real her conflicts were.

5) I love how the book wasn't just all fun and easy, but when there were issues they weren't so overwhelming that I couldn't bare it.

*****

1) Five seems like such a few amount of reasons, but I like them. I feel like there is so much to be unpacked in each one. The first reason is so funny, so cute, so innocent. But really it means much more then just something silly, I'm sure my curiosity and them mystery of the book itself is what made me want to read it even more in the first place. (And what made me love it so much!)

2) What I think is so amazing is that after I read that book I not only fell in Margaret but I also fell in love with Judy Blume. I read almost all of her books and the thing I loved and still do love the most about her writing is how connected the voices she created for her characters were. She managed to give them all different personality but she never changed the voice she wrote in. So these characters had physical traits, sure Judy Blume created that for them. But I always saw them as the same people because they all sounded the same. I have still yet to determine whether that's to be considered a good or bad thing. Or both?

Yikes and I forgot this but hey, I'm adding it in now!! After I read all of Judy Blume's books I fell in love with writing myself and the first stories I ever wrote I tried to copy her voice! Sometimes I look in old folders and documents on the computer and see how cute I was, writing in a way that sounded just like Margaret.

3) I love New York City, but I've always been so curious and interested in life in the suburbs. I take back what I said before, I don't envy the house and life that Margaret lived. I envied that she got to experience it and discover is and all I get to do is read. But then again, what better thing to do when you can't have it in real life? Okay I take that back, I LOVE READING.

(I'm feeling a lot of love. Isn't it weird?!)

4) Some books you come across all have the same conflict and I for one find it really, really annoying. Don't get me wrong, whatever the conflict is I'm sure I love it and I'm sure I want to read about it. But come on, people, I want something different! Well lucky for me Margaret lives with a problem that up until I had read the book I had never even thought of. I loved how I was able to read and think about it, I loved that it was different, but I also loved that it didn't completely scare me. Which ties into...

5) Margaret's problem is difficult as every one is. Duh! It's hard and complicating to think about but that's okay because no matter how intense it gets Judy Blume always remembers to add in something just in time to let you feel happy again. Maybe not something that will solve the problem, no probably not. But definitely a little change of direction just for the time being so that you aren't totally freaked out. Does that sound weird? :)

So I hope this post wasn't too crazy. I'm feeling so energetic about reading this book and I almost feel like I've been rushing through this post so that I can get back to reading.

First I should maybe start the rest of my homework.

Or maybe I'll read THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOK first. What do you think?

What To Do When You Have Nothing To Write About And What It Means.

2010-12-06T16:25:00.000-08:00

I must have just deleted 100 different drafts for this one blog post. I know exactly what I'm going to write about but I have no idea how to say it. HELP! I never have writer's block!

Okay, I'm going to try.

Since the very beginning of last year I've managed to say once in each of my blog posts of how much of a perfectionist I am. I think I wrote one just about my experience of cleaning my room every weekend and finding old books along the way. Yikes.

Maybe it's a good thing that I live on so many structures and plans, or maybe it's bad thing, that my need for everything to be in order is what makes me so stressed all the time. My point is, just like everything else my reading life is over course structured and follows many plans and rules.

I have this theory that after finishing a very large, difficult book you are obligated to read a small, easy book. It's a way of relaxing and of course a way of treating yourself to an old favorite after you worked oh so very hard on that previous book.

There are many books that I will treat my self to, but the book I constantly find "treating" myself to is Are You There God, It's Me Margaret.

Okay. Fine. Yes I cannot stop writing about this book, yes this is probably the 80th time I have written a blog post about it, MAYBE I am having so much writer's block that I feel as though I need to return to this subject with new thoughts because I know I will always have something to say about it, MAYBE I am about to paste the link to the first blog post I ever wrote last year in 7th grade and MAYBE, just MAYBE it is about this very book...

http://lostinreading.blogspot.com/2009/11/rereading.html

Well goodbye then, enjoy!

No I'm just kidding.

I realize now that for the first time in my reading life I am off schedule on something! According to my reading life calender I am supposed to read Are You There God every September! And it's December! And I feel like if I have nothing to write about in thinking about my reading, then maybe I need to switch to something that I know will allow me to think, even though according to the tallies in the inside cover I have read it 12 times!

Another note, just because one of my rules says I need to only read easy, short books when I'm done with a hard, large one doesn't mean I can add another one with even more logical meaning.

To add on my list of rules about reading, you don't have to read easy books after hard ones. If you're stuck and have nothing to write about, meaning you are not taking in what is in your book to take in, then go not just for an easy book but for a book that you love and you know you will always have thoughts for. Because technically, Are You There God is not so much as an easy book as it is a book that I'm used to because I've read it so many times.

So listen. You don't always need excuses to read light books like ones by Judy Blume. Sometimes it's nice to just be able to pick up an old favorite and coast through it in an hour. While I know I revolve everything around perfection and rules and order in my life it doesn't mean I never sit down and simply enjoy myself. Isn't that what reading's all about? Ease, enjoyment, relaxation?

I know that this blog is an assignment. I know. But when you love the book you're reading you don't mind thinking about it, you don't mind sharing it to others! Now whenever I feel like I don't know what to write for an entry I'll ask myself if I'm really in a good place in my reading life and whether or not I need to make a change that will make it easier to enjoy myself and easier to think about the things I should be thinking about.

How's this for someone who thought they had nothing to write about?!

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

2010-11-29T15:19:00.001-08:00

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!

2010-11-15T16:40:00.000-08:00

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.

As If They Have Control.

2010-10-27T17:36:00.000-07:00

Ten Thousand Rupees = 1 Girl.

Sorry, that wasn't clear. Let me say it again.

Ten Thousand Rupees = 1 Girl.

Ten Thousand Rupees = 1 Person.

Ten Thousand Rupees = 1 Human Being

Ten Thousand Rupees, in what ever tragic, heart shattering world Lakshmi lives in, someone just like you, is worth

Ten Thousand Rupees.

I can't even bare to imagine selling a human.

A Human.

I could not be more serious.

I literally just tried to right this next part 6 times. I can't get the words out. I just can't seem to figure this out. I know this destruction of lives has no answer. I know that if you ever tried to help it and solve it would be like holding the wind.

You can't do it.

It's not a matter of how hard you try, it's the plain, boring, selfish, rude, and cold fact that you just can't.

Lakshmi lives in the mountains. And while no one's life is perfect, our lives seem to be compared to hers. But still. Her stepfather may lose all their money. A monsoon may have swept away her crops. Her only chance.

The fact is, while all these things in the mountains were going on, Lakshmi always had a little glisten a hope. Sometimes to be projected, sometimes not. But no matter what, there was always that sweet, short entry in the book Sold by Patricia McCormick that helped us understand that in Lakshmi's mind, there was a little dot of light. No one else could really see it, but it was always Lakshmi who was able to see things through not so dark, gloomy, hopeless eyes.

In the innocent movie Sky High, Will Stronghold and Warren Peace get into a fight in the cafeteria. Being a magical high school, the detention room is a room the takes away all ability to use your super powers. Once you leave the room, you are granted your powers back again.

I will return to this later, I promise.

While of the course of four days Lakshmi has had an aunt, an uncle, and a husband, there was always hope. There was always a speck of a smile hiding under her Sari, you just couldn't always see it. Once brought to the "Happiness House" described as by her Uncle Husband, Lakshmi realizes she has been sold into prostitution.

And may I bring to your attention once again, for Ten Thousand Rupees.

And while I don't want to take up 6 lines like I did before just repeating that one line, I feel as though I can't emphasize it enough.

Dear reader, this poor child has been sold to the broken life for Ten Thousand Rupees. And she doesn't even realize it until she's trying to run away.

Dear reader, with her Auntie and her Uncle Husband even though we couldn't see her hope, and even though it wasn't being described to us, it was still there.

This, reader, was the first time in 113 pages that I couldn't find her hope. The hope.

The only hope, ever.

Lakshmi didn't even know what this place was, and what she was going to do here until it was happening to her right then and there.

And you want to know why she was where she was?

Because she was sold for Ten. Thousand. Rupees.

And the thing that makes me want to scream more than anything is trying to accept the fact that it's not like she had any control what so ever.

As if she could say no to her stepfather for making her go the city.

As if she could get up and walk away from Uncle Husband.

As if she could turn to Auntie and say, "You know what, I don't want to."

As if she could tell her step father the truth, that he was ruining everything.

As if she could tell him he was the reason everything was falling apart.

As if she could tell him he was the reason she was going to the city in the first place.

As if.

As if she'll ever get out of the Happiness House, which really isn't that happy at all. In fact, it's nothing. It's like the detention at Sky High. Except for the fact that there, you can just get up and leave and everything will be back to normal.

But not in Lakshmi's world.

Oh no.

Because.

"...no matter how often I wash

and scrub

and wash

and scrub,

I cannot seem to rinse the men from my body." -Page 129

Coming Home.

2010-10-20T17:18:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling kind of lost, like I forgot how to fall in love with reading again.

It's getting a bit fuzzy, like I don't know which book to read and I don't know how to love it like I did before.

Over the summer, I read The Glass Castle and I found myself reading it at every possible opportunity that was given to me to read. I literally never put it down.

When the school year started though, I was in a sort of doubt that the year was coming all over again and one of the many things I pushed away in anticipation was my love for reading. I don't know why that was one of the things I lost in the transition, but my goal until just yesterday had been to get my self back in the zone. To regain my life of reading and living in my reading like I always had.

I discovered that just like working your way up with something small and allowing it to get bigger and bigger until you've mastered it works with reading as well.

There was always that mysterious looking book with the torn cover sitting on the book shelf in my family room. It used to sit along side my mom's old, old, copy of Are You There God, It's Me Margaret. My mom's name was written in the cover, which I only discovered as I stared at the page I had just ripped out, I guess it was that old.

But not like the purple book that smelled like my grandparent's house and soon after my discovery became my favorite book of all times, stood the weird looking green book. It wasn't as appealing, it did not have a pretty girl on the cover, it had a young boy, something that I at the time I wasn't very interested in.

Then, I wanted to read about growing up, the journeys along the way, the steps you need to take to rise above. This boy did not seem to match my expectations.

But then again, don't judge a book by its cover.

Not like it even mattered, anytime I ever brought it up my mom told me to wait another year until I picked it up.

That went on for five years.

I actually forgot about it, up until a few days ago when my mother suggested that maybe I wasn't reading the way I used to? Maybe I needed to get "lost in my reading" once again? I asked her, what book she thought would be good to get me back on track.

She led me right to that book shelf.

The one that I had pushed away too many times in assumption my mom would just move me away from it, again.

But this time, she let me hold the book. She let me see beyond the cover and the mystery and she let me see and hear and feel the words.

No, I let myself see and hear and feel the words.

It was because I was reading a book that almost seemed familiar because I had seen it so many times that I'm now back on track.

I arrived at an activity early and instead of pulling out my cell phone I pulled out a book.

A book.

It was because I was starting out with something kind of home-y that I was able to return to my sanctuary of reading and loving reading.

So now I know, now I know that whenever I am feeling stuck, I should return to a book that I know will be comfortable and relaxing for me to read. That'll be my reminder, my wake up call to never stop loving the words on the page, whether they lie in front of you or not.

Nothing I could ever experience reading Harry Potter.

Scrambled Eggs

2010-10-13T17:18:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, I'm almost done with Interpreter of Maladies, I just want to post one more thing about the gorgeous work of my favorite Jhumpa Lahiri.

I woke up one morning and my dad had his nose in about 5 different Indian cook books. My mom kept pulling out different ones saying things like, "If you like stuff like this, you'll love this book." And, "this book is great for these kinds of recipes."

In a way, I think she actually liked that he was so into it. My dad likes to cook, but we never saw him this into it. He was asking questions like, "What's egg curry?" And, "What spices do I need for this?"

My dad is super smart, and as naive as it sounds, he practically knows everything. I think my mom loved that fact that he was coming to her with questions that only she would know the answer to. I loved seeing the pride on her face when she knew the answer and the curiosity in his eyes when he learned something new.

If you read my post last week, you know that my sister Lois is one of the biggest readers I know. My dad on the other hand is never without a book. He also has a blog where he writes about Jewish text, every day life, and more everyday life. It's very important for my dad to always have a book next to him.

Oh gosh, I feel like such a dummy, I'm sure everyone's wondering why on earth this egg curry was such an important factor to one of the great summer days of 2010.

I found out later that day that the night before my mom had convinced my dad--just like she convinced me--to read Jhumpa Lahiri.

I'm realizing just writing this now, that before this happened, I had no intention of allowing Jhumpa's writing into my heart.

I was deprived of her creaminess.

I can't imagine a life without her words flowing through me. I saw that my dad was so mesmerized by her, and I saw that he was taken over by the one tiny, tiny micro idea that didn't even pop out to me the first time I read the last story in Interpreter of Maladies.

In the last story of the brilliant book our character has left his town of Calcutta and is living in a room that he rented out. The house in general is shared by others, but this one room is his.

Just like my mom says that when she lived in England after college the only thing she could afford were eggs, so did our character. Egg curry was his favorite.

As I think now, there is some sort of appeal to the mysterious egg curry.

What makes it so special? So easy? So affordable and cheap, yet so rich and plentiful?

I live for the micro ideas that you and only you can get something out of. I wait for them to come. Patiently, and not eagerly. But still, I long for their arrival.

I anticipate the pleasure of loving something only you could love for only reasons you can know of and understand.

What I'm trying to say is, is that while egg curry may be something that has absolutely no meaning to you, it has every bit of meaning to me.

I got to experience it physically and mentally, which not many readers can do.

I read of the egg curry and imagined it sliding down my own throat, creating a safe and easy barrier and shield for me.

Then, that night, egg curry was served. My dad made it special for us.

By then I realized I didn't have to imagine loving it and letting it slide down my throat.

I knew it.

And it was delicious.

Dear Mrs. Sen

2010-10-06T17:36:00.000-07:00

To Mrs. Sen, who never got to drive the way she always wanted. To Mrs. Sen, who's vegetable cutting blade I envy, and to Elliot, who only got a little bit to have a Mrs. Sen.

A few days before summer vacation ended, I lay awake reflecting, as any other person would, on the year to come and the year that had ended. I feared what was to come, and as I looked at my sister, asleep in her bed, I longed to be back in the perfection of 2nd grade, or shall I just say, elementary school, where drawing a picture seemed to be a lot of work.

I saw that 8th grade was here and there were no more summer days to anticipate the arrival.

But then again, I hadn't touched my blog since August, and I did know that with a new year came new reading, and with new reading came new writing.

I was next to my sister Lois when my mom came up to me. It was about 11:00 and we were both reading. My sister is one of the biggest readers I know, I believe she read 15 books over the summer. As much of a committed reader as I am, I could never, ever do that. I was reading a Woody Allen book that was funny, but didn't quench my longing for a satisfying book to end the vacation. Over the summer I never stopped reading, but I did lose touch a bit, and I feel like I got caught up in a vacation mode that it wasn't as much of a reflex to pick up a book the minute I saw as it was before.

Throughout reading the Woody Allen book, my mom could also see, as well as me, that I wasn't loving it. For a while before then my mom kept trying to introduce me to a writer whose name I never could pronounce, thus I wasn't ever going to read it. Maybe the fact that I wasn't enjoying what was currently in my hands motivated me to try this mysterious author.

And now, Jhumpa Lahiri has come into my life. As I said while describing her writing to my English teacher Ms. Robbins at the beginning of the year, her words are so smooth and in a way give off a creamy factor. There's such a flow and in a way it's easy to read everything she has to say. Jhumpa, I feel , has the ability that not many authors have which is to be able to appeal to all audiences. And while my sister Minna would never be able to read Jhumpa Lahiri's book on her own, she sure could listen and I promise you she would like it.

Anyway, on the occasion of this fine day where I get to write my first blog entry of the year, I decided (obviously) to devote it to Jhumpa Lahiri, especially one of her short stories from the book Interpreter of Maladies, "Mrs. Sen."

I'm sorry, but I think Mrs. Sen is just the coolest person in the world. I can't get over it.

She does this thing where she sits on the floor, newspapers laid out everywhere, and she cuts vegetables. Sometimes, when she's done, she puts them in a pot and makes dinner, and sometimes she just throws them out.

And why would cutting vegetables be such an important element in my annotating of books? Well, Jhumpa, being Indian herself, incorporates very important craft moves intentionally. In Jhumpa Lahiri's stories, it's as if she's made a little stamp on each and every character; every character has left India so go live some where else. This cutting of vegetables just brings up the fact that this is one of the things that Mrs. Sen did back at home.

One of my favorite parts of the story is when Mrs. Sen is shares a story with Elliot, whom she babysits after school. Mrs. Sen tells Elliot of how, back in India, she and all of her friends and her mother and all of her friends you sit to around for hours gossiping, and yes, cutting vegetables.

Yesterday at the Bard Assessment I responded to a poem about shooting a basket while playing basketball. I had a hard time digging deep and I didn't find myself having as many annotations as I did for, say, Charlotte's Web; but I did find one thing that reminded me of the little idea of cutting vegetables becoming so much. I found a line in the poem that consisted of 3 words, but said so, so much. I read it thinking about how beautiful and hard I think it is as a writer to get across a bigger message is something so small.

Though maybe cutting vegetables isn't as much of a message as what I read in the poem, it still had more meaning to me then I thought it would the first time I read it. I also think it's such a treat when you rarely come across little crafts like that, and I hope that for the few occasions I do, I hope to soak up as much of its goodness as I possibly can.

Here's to another great year of blogging!
Audrey:)

The Glass Castle

2010-08-16T18:12:00.000-07:00

Ah, summer.

I love summer. I really do. I love the light, free feeling that surrounds you, keeping you safe of the pressure and the fear of whatever is to come. And though it's true that soon there will be no summer and I won't have that light, free feeling I have now, that's okay.

Because right now, I'm focusing on the present, and not whatever lies ahead of me. I'm focusing on how wonderful I feel and how happy I am and how I like the way that it is and I'm going to enjoy it.

But today, around... 5:30, I wasn't enjoying things that much.

The Glass Castle.
Ended.

I don't know, I guess I just finished it without realizing it because when I read the last word and tried to flip to the next page, all I could find was the 'About The Author' and the preview of Jeannette Walls's latest book.

It was just... gone.

When I was in Montreal with my family, we went to tons of cute French cafes and beautiful parks and small stores where my sisters and I tried on dress after shirt after skirt. And no matter where I went, I always had The Glass Castle.

Whenever I got bored, or simply had an excuse to read, I went right for it.

We always moved around in Montreal. We went from place to place, always new things to see and places to be, so I tended to only read about 2 pages at a time. It never mattered. Because there was not one boring part in that book.

Everything I read was what the Walls family called, an adventure.

May the adventure be good or bad, it was always there. And each one was more exciting than the other.

Sometimes, it was Rex Walls, the father of the family. He could have been stealing Lori and Jeannette's New York escape money, or nearly throwing his wife out the window because he lost his temper. But other times, it was him giving each of the kids their own star from the night sky as a Christmas present.

No matter what it was, everything in that book kept me wanting more.

Jeannette Walls's tragic story attached to me in a hungry and kind of curious way. Today, when I was talking to a friend about the book, I found myself describing that, even though I hated in some scenes what was going on, I still loved reading it.

If that makes sense.

There's a part in the book where the family moves in with their father's parents. Jeannette's grandmother Erma is abusive and pained. She's mean and just a nasty, cruel woman. I hated that at that time that was what their life was, but I still loved reading it.

I couldn't understand what it was I was feeling exactly. At times, I hated what was going on so much, I felt like tearing up the pages I was reading.

But I never could because it was so unusual and beautiful and interesting and just plain good.

I was also so confused about how incredible Jeannette Walls, the author of this memoir, seemed to be able to describe it. How exciting it was and how much I found myself wanting more horrible things to come because the way Jeannette explained them blew me away. I want to write like her someday. I really hope I will.

I took so many things with me when I finished the book, but there's one thing I took with me the most. I slowly began to see that although I had this feeling of loss because of finishing the book, I realized that there must be so many more books as moving and exciting and beautiful as The Glass Castle. Enough, that I have the rest of my life yet to discover them.

The Glass Castle helped me realize that, without it, I would never have gained the pleasure I have of getting to know the Walls family, the lesson that more wonderful books wait for me, and the time that it consumed making my so far excellent summer even better.

Thank you Jeannette Walls.

Just Because

2010-06-21T17:26:00.000-07:00

Goodbye's

2010-06-16T13:24:00.001-07:00

I need summer.

...and it's coming! I will be going away though, camp starts on the 28 and goes on for 4 weeks and then I return in the beginning of August. When I do return, more blogging of course, and then I'm off to Montreal, Canada. I have no clue how long that will be for.

I write this entry to let everyone know that I may not be blogging as much as I have been over the summer, but I will be writing. I will be writing more than I ever have written. I'm going to try to write a little bit everyday at camp. My dad even presented the idea that I send home entries I want on my blog and he'll post them.

Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, or just acknowledged my blog. I will continue to write as much as I can on it over the summer and start up again in the fall.

Can't wait to start writing again, but farewell for now. Love, Audrey.

Monday's Can Be Interesting...

2010-05-26T16:01:00.000-07:00

Just since I've been talking about poetry... I thought I'd add something about how cool my Monday was.

I had just finished reading Langston Hughes on Sunday... and when I came to ELA on Monday we got to read a Langston Hughes poem. I got so excited.

And then at the school that I tutor at on Monday's, while desperately searching for my classroom, I saw a Langston Hughes poem... actually one of the three that I posted about loving so much.

The overall lesson, if you love poetry, It'll probably try to find a way to love you back.

Forgotten (The new and improved version)

2010-05-25T15:41:00.000-07:00

I've never written in my books.

I've never written notes in the front cover, I've never highlighted certain sentences.

And, now that I think of it, I've never actually folded any pages either.

Therefore, when you see that I've written in one of my books, you know that it's a pretty big deal. It probably means it's either an amazing line, or it just really provoked me. So if you flip to page 139 in my copy of The Wild Things by Dave Eggers, you'll see an attempted form of a bracket. (Drawing brackets is something I just can't do. An attempted bracket of mine looks like a squiggly line gone wrong.)

My bracket encloses this conversation between Max and Carol, one of the Wild Things.

Max and Carol continued down a winding path.
"Do you guys have parents?" Max said.
"What do you mean?" Carol said.
"Like a mother and a father?"
Carol gave Max a puzzled look. "Of course we do. Everyone does. I just don't talk to mine because they're nuts."

When I first read this, I just went right over it. Now don't think I didn't register it at all... I just read it as as I do almost every word in a book. I read it, I thought about it, and I moved on. I didn't spend any extra time on it, I didn't circle/highlight/draw a heart or question mark next to it (Not yet that is). But later on I realized how incredible that short passage was. How amazingly brilliant it felt to read. When I went back to reread that part, I smiled, almost laughed. It gave me a warm feeling that made me feel connected to myself and every character in the book. I still don't know why.

Maybe it was that just then, that I realized the true meaning of this book was to never run away from your anger? And to never run away from your fear? Or your home? Or maybe that if someone was driving you nuts... never to just abandon them? Like Carol did?

The reason Max runs away in the first place was because his whole family was driving him crazy. In comparison to the different ways Max and Carol handled their family conflicts, I found them both at fault. Carol chooses to notassociciate with his family, but at ease bring them into a conversation. Carol isn't embarrassed about who he came from. So maybe not that bad... but still, no speaking with your family? Crazy. Max on the other hand, is ashamed. I think that not only is Max leaving his one family, he is pretending they don't exist. He is trying to live life without them.

Not to mention that in the situation where he does have to bring his family up, he only remembers the bad times they had with each other. He sometimes even adds make believe stories to make his family sound even worse then he already thinks they are.

Just like families go through good times and bad, Max does also. As I said I above, Max definitely has traits that I am not always pleased with or proud of. He is a very angry kid. He ruins things without even realizing it through his frustration for something. And he also does dangerous things when he loses his temper. I guess we'll never really know where Max left to when he ran away to the Wild Things, but he did run away. And all because of a fight? And as much as a love Max... I fight that he started? Those actions make me angry is adisappointed way, I know that Max can do better than that. Now that I feel able to count Max as a person that I know, I have also learned his amazing traits. Traits I hope we can all gain someday... if we already haven't. Max stands out in a crowd the second he enters. I haven't seen him, but I have a feeling that his smile shines like the sun. His imagination is brilliant, and he is very clever. He is a wonderful leader and friend.

So Max, like every thing and person in the World has good and bad sides. But the bad side I'm most worried about, and just hurt by, is that he would ignore, and try to forget his family.

To forget your family, is to forget you.

And as much as I love Max, that's something I can't seem to understand. Maybe his anger... and temper... that's something I can get. It's common for everyone to be angry, even if Max can be a bit more angry than you're average kid. But knowing that Max would forget about his family, makes me remember why I look forward to the end of every fight that I have. When I make up with my family, that is the best part of all. I'm being strong, brave, and I shine when it's over. But that's something I simply don't know if Max has the strength to do.

I've Been Reading Poetry Lately #3

2010-05-25T15:02:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorites:

Today
By Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.

I've Been Ready Poetry Lately #2

2010-05-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorites.

Dream Variations
By Langston Hughes

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
'Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

I've Been Ready Poetry Lately #1

2010-05-23T10:24:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorites:

My People
By Langston Hughes

The night is beautiful,
So the faces of the people

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people

Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

Sparks and Flowers

2010-05-15T08:41:00.000-07:00

So here's the thing.

I used to think a song and a poem had everything in common.

When you print out the lyrics for a song, the format looks exactly the same as a poem. When you say it out loud, it feels like you're reading a poem. And there's more.

But when Ms. Robbins was gone grading tests (EW) and we were left to work with our favorite song and analyze it in the same way you do with a poem, everything changed.

It was SO hard to read the song without wanting the music to go with it. I mean, I'm talking about Arcade Fire here. Arcade Fire, as in, some of the best music ever composed (or at least I think so.) Their lyrics are beautiful, but the music...

It drives me insane... that's how much I love it.

So I chose Crown of Love by Arcade Fire. I printed out the lyrics with joy, ready to show everyone how much I loved that song. Waiting to tell the story of when I walked past my living room, and there was my dad on the couch, reading a book listening to this song. And my mom is in the kitchen humming it. And how I realized that I had been listening to this song my entire life, but I never fully realized how amazing it was.

Seriously, I wish I could find a word to describe how much I love THIS SONG.

You better be crying when you finish listening to this. If you're not, I don't like you anymore.

Oh and you better listen to the whole thing... you need to hear every word to fully experience it.

What I love about this song, is how much it tells, how many stories I can think to fit into these words, but I'll never know who Arcade Fire is talking to. Or what really happened. Or why.

If you listen, Arcade Fire says, "If you still want me, please forgive me. Because the spark is not within me." Perfect example of what I was just talking about. What do we know? That they want forgiveness. They're sorry.

It doesn't seem like much, but I know that I can figure out a lot from that. Forgiveness is everything. If it weren't for forgiveness, my sister and I wouldn't have actually liked each other this morning. If it weren't for forgiveness, I wouldn't have been nice to my mom today. (But I'm never really nice to my mom...)

It's the line about the spark that I don't understand.

Another thing...

"In my heart there's flowers growing on the grave of our old love, since you gave me your straight answer."

It took me a while to do this, but I eventually made a connection to the two lines I just showed you above. This "spark" is not within whoever this person is anymore. Maybe the spark is the love. Or the "old love" in the grave. The old love that they had, that in his heart no longer exists. What does exist though, is the grave, with flowers. And I like to imagine that the flowers represent hope, that one day the spark will come back, and the grave will go away... I can go on and on.

Well I think we all need some flowers.

If they do represent hope... that would be nice wouldn't it?

Just imagine, no matter what happened to you, you would always have a beautiful batch of roses or lilacs. And just as long as you remembered they were there, and that just as long as you thought of them, there would always be hope. Always a way out of the mess.

So my opinion changed, a poem is not the same thing as a song. They each need there own special somethings to make them who they are. But there is something I discovered that they have in common...

In class, we had to think of a definition of poetry. And I said that a poem can be anything that you want it to be. It can mean anything you want it to mean. So who knows? Arcade Fire might think these flowers represent something totally different than hope. But all I know is that right now, I think that hope is what these flowers are. I may not be right, but just like a poem I can think whatever I want to think.

They say it fades if you let it, love was made to forget it. i carved
your name across my eyelids, you pray for rain i pray for blindness.
if you still want me, please forgive me, the crown of love is not upon me.
if you still want me, please forgive me, because the spark is not within me.
i snuffed it out before my mom walked in my bedroom.
the only thing that you keep changin' is your name. my love keeps
growin' still the same, just like cancer, and you won't give me a
straight answer!
if you still want me, please forgive me, the crown of love has fallen from me.
if you still want me, please forgive me, because your hands are not upon me.
i shrugged them off before my mom walked in my bedroom.
the pains of love, and they keep growin', in my heart there's flowers
growin' on the grave of our old love, since you gave me a straight
answer.
if you still want me, please forgive me, the crown of love is not upon me.
if you still want me, please forgive me, because the spark is not within me.
it's not within me.
it's not within me.
you gotta be the one. you gotta be the way. your name is the only
word, the only word that i can say!

Listen to it again would you? And read the lyrics as you do so.

<3

(P.S. I just realized that my last entry was also about hope... sorry for the repetition. )

...Are you listening to the song like I told you too? I will be asking around.

Listen to these songs by Arcade Fire too!

What I Think About Hope. And Why If You Hope Too Much, You Begin To Wish You Never Did.

2010-05-03T17:38:00.000-07:00

Last time I checked, which was Monday in ELA, I found myself in the middle of 3 books. One, Army of One by Janet Sarbanes, was on my, desk. Two, The Wild Things by Dave Eggers was in my purple school bag, and Nine Horses by Billy Collins was in my hand.

This happens to be a lot, the time that I find myself reading more than one book. And every time, I am very surprised when I discover that I am in the middle of so many books.

And surprises, more specifically surprise endings, are exactly what I write about this week.

If you read last week's post, you'll discover my weakness when it comes to writing in books. I just can't seem to figure it out. But a few days ago, while I was reading Army of One by Janet Sarbanes, something urged me to draw a big fat exclamation point all over the page. Army of One is a book of short stories that make me laugh, cry, think, and smile. Janet has this amazing ability to dive into every single story individually. Each story comes from a different perspective, and even though there is such separation from one story to the next, no matter what you can always hear a little bit of Janet's voice in each story. It doesn't matter how different each story is, or whether or not one is sad and one is depressing, I can always hear Janet's unique voice.

As for surprises...

In Janet's second story of the book, Join Hands she takes you through each year of elementary school for Grace. It is 1973, and a new idea to be mixing blacks and whites in the same school. Each year, Grace's friendship with Nikki, an African American, a best friend, changes. In 3rd grade, they are best friends.

Sleepover and all.

And then, it's ruined. When Nikki's father, who runs an African American newspaper, tells Nikki that she can no longer be friends with Grace. At first, I didn't know what to think.

Have you ever had a best friend? Who you knew would always be there for you? No matter WHAT. It didn't matter what anyone said, you and that special someone would always be together. Just as long as you two were together, nothing else in the world had meaning. It was just the two of you fighting off everyone that came in your way.

So when I read that, according to Nikki's dad, she and Grace couldn't be friends anymore, though I was frustrated, I wasn't worried. I wasn't worried that, just by saying that, Nikki's father could keep them apart. They really had something.

I kept reading. Hoping to come across the scene I had written in my head. The one where Nikki comes to Grace's house after not speaking for some time, and decide that no one can tell them they can't be friends. Because they already are, and they always will be.

I kept reading.

And reading.

And reading.

Andreadingandreadingandreadingandreading...

But nothing was happening! Nikki had made a new friend. Who her father accepted. And the whole time, Grace is just watching from the sidelines. She's getting crushed.

So was I.

We both, Grace and I, waited around way too long. Hoping something good was going to come out of this. But everything just got worse for Grace, and better for Nikki, who didn't even seem upset from the beginning.

??

After feeling sorry for both me and Grace, I finally reached Graduation. Where the whole school sings together, "We Shall Overcome." They join hands with the person next to them, no matter what the race.

Oh! THIS is what I've been waiting for. Grace is going to turn around and see Nikki holding her hand waiting to sing for the last time with her best friend.

But this is where I went wrong, and realized that Grace was the one that just learned to accept what had happened. She knew that Nikki was out there in the audience somewhere, and there was nothing she could do that could bring her over to the seat next to her. It didn't matter anymore. All she could do was sing.

I'll admit my shock. When I turned the page, I still had some hope that there would be an epilogue where Grace and Nikki become best friends again. But all I saw was the title of the next short story.

It was funny to think that the character in this make believe story had matured and accepted reality faster than I did.

Having hope for a happy ending is always a great thing to remember to do. Though sometimes you're just not in control of the ending, no matter how much you hope.

Please read this book.

Or at least this story.

It's my new mentor text.

Page Folding

2010-04-18T14:39:00.000-07:00

I've never written in my books.

I've never written notes in the front cover; I've never highlighted sentences.  

Now that I think of it, I've never actually folded any pages either.

And so, when you see that I've written in one of my books, you know that it's a pretty big deal. It probably means I’ve come across an amazing line, or something that just really provoked me. If you flip to page 139 in my copy of The Wild Things by Dave Eggers, a book based on the screenplay of the movie which was itself based on the children’s book Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, you’ll see that I actually did write something. That something was a bracket. (Even though I can’t draw brackets for my life.)   Enclosed is a conversation between Max and Carol. Max is, of course, the boy who we all know escapes through his imagination to a mysterious world after having a fight with his parents. Carol is one of the many beloved Wild Things:

Max and Carol continued down a winding path. "Do you guys have parents?" Max said. "What do you mean?" Carol said. "Like a mother and a father?" Carol gave Max a puzzled look. "Of course we do. Everyone does. I just don't talk to mine because they're nuts."

When I first read this I went right over it. Now, don't think I didn't register it at all. I read it as I do every word in a book. I read it, I thought about it, and I moved on. I didn't spend any extra time on it; I didn't circle, highlight, draw a heart or a question mark next to it. It was not until later on that I realized how incredible that short passage really was; how amazingly brilliant it felt to read. When I went back to reread that part, I smiled, almost laughed. It made me feel connected to myself and every character in the book. Then I began to wonder why.   I started thinking about how differently Max and Carol handled their problems with their families. The reason Max runs away in the first place was because his whole family was driving him crazy. Carol leaves his family for reasons the reader doesn’t learn. Comparing the different ways Max and Carol handled their family conflicts, I first found both of the ways these characters dealt with their internal problems faulty. Later on, I realized that one of them handled their broken family better than the other.

Carol chooses not to associate with his family, but at least brings them into a conversation. He acknowledges them. Carol isn't embarrassed about who and where he comes from. Max on the other hand, is ashamed.

Shame is something that makes you not want to project yourself to the world. Shame makes you bury yourself underneath the people who are living their lives openly and it makes you blend in, and be nothing. I think that not only is Max leaving his one and only family, he is pretending they do not exist. He is trying to live life without them.   Just like families go through good times and bad, Max does also. As I said I before, Max definitely has traits that I am not always pleased with or proud of. He is a very angry kid. He ruins things without even realizing it, and does dangerous things when he loses his temper. According to Dave Egger’s novel, Max escapes to the Wild Things - from the discomfort of his own home.

Now that I feel able to count Max as a person that I know, I have also learned something truly amazing about him. He’s really not all shame. Max stands out in a crowd the second he enters. I haven't seen him in our world, but I have seen him in my imagination and I have a feeling that his smile shines like the sun.    So Max, like every thing and person in the world, has a good and bad side. But one of the worst parts of his bad side I'm most worried about, and just hurt by, is that he would ignore, and try to forget his family.   To forget your family, is to forget you.   As much as I love Max, that's something I can't seem to understand. It's common for everyone to be angry, even if Max can be a bit angrier than your average kid. But knowing that Max would forget about his family makes me remember why I look forward to the end of every fight that I have. When I make up with my family, it’s the best part of all because I haven’t cut them out of the picture in the first place. In fact, being able to engage in fights with them builds strength within me, and my family as a whole. Being able to tolerate the conflict means we’re a resilient unit.

This is something I simply don't know if Max has the strength to do. When you think about it though, it’s been a picture book, a movie and now a novel. Maybe the next adaptation will allow Max to go beyond what he’s only capable of right now.

Finding a Voice

2010-04-11T14:04:00.000-07:00

Every time I read a book, I hope that some of the author's techniques will rub off on me. Judy Blume has a very particular tone, she has the ability to capture the voice of a young kid. Ever since I read my first Judy Blume book, my character's voices sound similar to her's.

Sometimes, the book has no affect on how I write my next piece. The words just flow in and out, and though its disappointing, I just have to remember that there are millions of other books for me to learn from.

This week, I am reading what has to my new favorite book next to The History of Love which I just finished. And I am happily learning new things from this one. The Wild Things by David Eggers is my idea of a perfect book. The picture book by Maurice Sendak has always been one of my favorites. From naming all of the Wild Things my own personal names, and maybe even developing my love for warm soup from it, it's an amazing book that I will always love.

And then the movie... That made me go crazy with tears. I've never cried at movies before. This one caught me a bit off guard. And ever since I've seen it, I cry at almost every one.

The whole idea of turning a 10 page picture book into a 300 page novel never occurred to me before for an idea for a book. I also never realized that though I do know that I want to write a book, I don't know what kind. And I always imagined my book to be a random idea I developed in a dream. Or something I thought of day dreaming one day. But the whole concept of taking a well loved picture book and turning it into something even greater was always a blur for me. And now, from reading this book, I have developed that idea.

I also think a lot about voices. I'm wondering if Dave Eggers has a good voice for Max. And the Wild Things. And Claire and Gary. And maybe since now my voice is similar to Judy Blume, in a way, I should be picking a picture book alike to that voice. But what will my voice be in 10 years? Will it be Judy Blume? A. A. Milne? Or Audrey Bachman?

Will I develop a voice of my own? For someone else to learn from?

Maybe that's the real dream I wish to pursue. To be someone's mentor. For them to look up to me, learn from me, from a passion that we both love.

Writing.

But I guess what will never make sense to me is that I will always know part of what I want, but I'll never know what will complete my dream. And though you could say that since I'm writing it, it does make sense to me, it really doesn't and it might never will. I know what my dreams are. That's for sure. But the reality of my dreams I don't know. But I am always learning, and what I can say for sure is that one of my best sources of learning, are books.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.

2010-03-22T12:40:00.000-07:00

It's kind of funny, how fast you can fall in love with something.

On Sunday, I went on a trip with my Hebrew school to Washington, DC to visit the Holocaust museum. Long drive, out to DC, so I naturally brought my iPod. I tried listening to a few bands my dad had recommended to me a while ago. U2, now my favorite band.

I'm listening to them right now.

Then there's Christopher. Christopher John Francis Boone. He's 15 years, 3 months, and 2 days, he knows all the prime numbers up to 7,057, and he's autistic. A lot of people don't get Christopher. They don't understand why he is the way he is. They don't really take into consideration that he's different from them. At first, I felt a bit bad for Christopher. But later on in the book, I don't feel as bad for him. He's really a great person.

When you're autistic, it's hard for you to be around people. Many parents of autistic children will never actually hug or embrace their child. Autistic people don't really like to be touched. They feel awkward socially, and can become aggressive or violent when some one does something they don't want done to them.

Christopher punched a police officer because he tried to hold his arm. It's sad. Although it's illegal to assault a police officer, the officer didn't know that Christopher was autistic.

Nevertheless, I'm pretty much really liking Christopher. He's the kind of character that I never want to stop reading about. There's always something new to learn. He never gets old.

Just like I never want to stop listening to U2.

This whole experience of falling in love with new things everyday, is getting me excited. I guess I'll never know which book I'll fall in love with next. Or which band I have yet to fall in love with. As U2 says, "I still haven't found what I'm looking for." I guess I'll never really know what I'm looking for to fall in love with.

Glowing

2010-03-15T15:44:00.001-07:00

As I read The History of Love by Nicole Krauss, I feel stronger and smarter. My first adult book, and wow, what an amazing place to start my future as an adult reader. Nicole Krauss has so many talents, one is the ability to fit all the pieces of the story together. I move slowly through the book, being it very challenging, and alot to take in. But with me moving through it so carefully, I pick up details that not everyone might notice. This is one of the advantages of a slow reader. Taking your time is nice when reading a book you know you'll want to read again in a few years, and again a few years later, and again, and again.

Along with details, I've picked up some similarities between me and the book. One thing that makes me happier then I will ever be? Finding something about me within a book. And even better, a book I love, and even better, a book I am absolutely in love with. I'm in love, with The History of Love.

To compare the book to my life, I'll start with this: Over February break I met some relatives who live out in LA. The family started with Noreen, who was a Hollywood movie star. She married Lee, a doctor who worked in the Paramount Pictures studio. They fell in love and had Robert, who married and they had Kara who has a boyfriend in New York, and John who's girlfriend lives in LA. Some where along those lines my great grandfather Charlie who was also a doctor came in. And then my grandpa, my dad, who married my mom, and had me, and my two other sisters.

Long story, huh?

In The History of Love, (I won't tell every detail, that could quite possibly take me a year) Leo and Alma fall in love, have Isaac, who is a famous writer, who Alma Singer stumbles apon when looking for his mother Alma who she was named after, and she was the love of Leo who happens to be the other narrator the book. Alma Singer figures out that Isaac is the mysterious Jacob Marcus who sent a letter to her mother asking her to translate The History of Love, but Jacob Marcus is only the character in Isaac's book! So really, when Alma sent off on her search to find the woman she was named after, she really found her son who actually had already found her, and his dad was actually Leo, who wrote a book. And then there's Litvinoff, and Rosa, and Mr. Tong the pigeon, and the chinese take out man, and Bruno, and oh my goodness what am I doing?

See the similarities, huh?

So as it turns out, the feeling of finding something in you, inside a book you're in love with, is not my favorite feeling. My favorite, is when you find a similarity, and then write about it.

Now I'm really glowing.

P.S: My mom's side is a whole other story.

Conversations

2010-03-14T19:18:00.000-07:00

"Honey?"
"Yeah, Mom."
"Well, I was wondering about your blog..."
"What about it Mom?"
"Don't you think it needs a new title? I think it's become something more then just reading."
"Something more?"
"Yes, it's become something bigger then what you started out for it to be."
"Something bigger?"
"Yes."
"Something Bigger."

The Delicious and Wonderful Adventure of McDonald's. Not!

2010-03-08T12:34:00.000-08:00

I guess I'm not embarrassed to say that I don't really enjoy books that don't revolve around the issues of teens, peer pressure, crushes, and just growing up. And I guess I'm not embarrassed to say that when it comes to sci-fi, you can count me out, and mystery, well, I'm not much of a fan of that either. And oh my goodness, I can not tell you how much I hate fantasy stories. Literally, my walks through the fantasy section in Barnes and Noble are, "No, no, no, no, maybe... no! Oh my gosh that sounds horrible... and what could that author have been thinking when they wrote this?!" I do understand though, that many people disagree, and that fantasy stories are incredible. And I do respect that. I promise. Oh, and then I arrive in the warm and cozy section of realistic fiction where I can read endlessly about girls who are teased, and girls who are the teasers. I can read on, and on. I am at home, where every teen fiction book is where it should be. Except for that creepy looking horror book, what on earth is that doing there?!

But there's this book, Chew on This, by Eric Schlosser. And let me tell you something. Chew on This is not a book about a 13 year old girl who doesn't fit in. It's about fast food. And why, for the millionth time, you shouldn't eat it. Reader, I am very, very pleased and proud to tell you, that me, Audrey Bachman, reader of teen realistic fiction, is on the 129th page of Chew on This, and is actually enjoying it! Nothing horrible has happened to me, and I've learned, that there's nothing wrong with a little, or big, non fiction book filled with greasy, disgusting facts about the bugs in your pink soda. Or about the 15 year old that invented the hamburger. Or how about, that in one hamburger patty at McDonald's may contain hundreds, or even thousands of different cattle? The only thing I'm finding slightly disgusting and unbearable is the fact that when Hindu's discovered that McDonald's and other fast food restaurants boiled their french fries in beef oil, they created an angry mob to smear cow poop on a statue of Ronald McDonald. That's right, it was against their religion to have meat, and good ol' McDonald's made everyone who walked into their restaurant break the one most important law of their religion.

So, to wrap things up, not only have I learned that it's okay to try something new, (not including beef flavored french fries) like reading a new genre, but also that McDonald's is indeed, as nasty as I thought. And now, I even have the facts to prove it. Thanks Chew on This!

Even Books

2010-03-01T16:40:00.000-08:00

Not on every Sunday, but on some Sunday's, when I have that depressed feeling about starting a new week, I'll clean my room. I'll wake up, get dressed, make an omelet, then return to my room, close the door, and not come out until about lunchtime to make a Cup Noodles. Then I return to my room for more cleaning until about 2 o'clock. I go outside for some fresh air around 3, and by the time I return I'll realize I forgot to clean up something and go for that. And right before dinner is served, I put on some music, turn off my big light, click on my small lamp, and invite everyone who's in the house to come in and see. Now they aren't always as impressed as I am. To them, it's just another one of Audrey's unusually clean room's. But to me, it's the thing that will get me through the week. And I'm very proud of it.

Whenever I clean up my room, I'll uncover something new. A new surprise, a new treasure. May that be a pair of earrings from 3rd grade, a stuffed animal I thought I left in Israel, or maybe a picture of my mom and I from when I was 6. This time, it was a book. Well, not a book, but my entire book shelf. You see, I've lately come up with a new design for my room, moving my bed to where my desk is, and my desk to that lonely corner in my room that needs some company. Naturally I want to move my books to where my desk is going to be, it'll add a little life to the corner, a new story each time I sit down at my desk. But then I realized, of all the time's I have cleaned my room out, I've never moved my books. They've been hiding. Even though they were originally out in the open for everyone to see, for me, I just got so used to them being there, and then they kind of, well, blended into the wall. So when I moved all of my books to the other side of my room, I discovered about 6 different series that I thought had ended up in my family room. I discovered Candy Floss, Jacqueline Wilson, my favorite book from 5th grade. I discovered Duel, by David Grossman, a book I started last year that I now know was made for me, and that I must finish. And how about The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, by Mark Haddon? A book my mom read last year and absolutely loved, and wanted me to read. I guess I forgot I had all of these books. I betrayed them.

That's the thing though. You always have to remember: books, if you can believe it, are alive. Each character has it's own traits and feelings and friends and family just like you and me. And just like you and me, they don't want to be forgotten about. They don't want to blend into your wall, and for you to walk right by them, and for you to not know who they are. You have to say, "Hm, you look nice, I think I might want to read you!" And by saying that, you're asking them to be your friend, you're asking them to hang out. Everywhere you take them, is a new adventure for you to take together. You're dusting them off, you're shaking their hand you're patting there back, you're telling them it's going to be okay. You're being a good friend. And everyone needs a good friend.

Even books.

Lucky

2010-02-08T16:19:00.000-08:00

This week's blog is a revision of last week's post. Enjoy!

Whoa.

That's the first word that popped into my head when I opened up the email from Nan Gregory, the author of the picture book Pink. She said she read my post from two weeks ago, where I mentioned her name a few times, while digging deeper into the meaning of picture books, especially her Pink. She said she enjoyed my "vote of confidence" and that it was encouraging to read my response.

I've been thinking a lot about authors. Especially since I'm interested in becoming a writer myself. I realize how lucky I am to be in contact with authors, I should feel really grateful to be in this position. I have many people to thank. An example, my father knows Jonathan Safran Foer, who is a member of his synagogue. And an author who lives in Park Slope. I love having so many mentors, it's so interesting, how much you can learn from them. It makes me want to be a mentor for someone else, not just a writing mentor. Any kind of mentor. They are all special in their own way.

I've been wondering, and asking myself, whether or not I'd be the same person I am now, if my dad wasn't in contact with Jonathan or if I simply wasn't so lucky to know authors and have one emailing me. And if not, would I want to be a writer? Would I still have found myself mentors? Would I still have been provoked to take the time to look up a certain picture book, look up the author, and then have that author email me? And then I think a bit more off topic, that what if something in my life didn't exist? Or something extra was in my life? Who would I be? But that's a separate blog entry.

To rap up my entry, I say one thing. Always have a mentor. And one day, it might catch you by surprise, but you find you've been lucky enough to become one for someone else.

Writers

2010-02-01T14:55:00.000-08:00

Whoa.

That's the first word that popped into my head when I opened up the email from Nan Gregory, the author of the picture book Pink. She said she read my post from last week, where I mentioned her name a few times, while digging deeper into the meaning of picture books, especially her Pink. She said she enjoyed my "vote of confidence" and that it was "encouraging" to read my response.

I've been thinking about authors, especially ones I'm lucky enough to know and simply be emailing. Especially because I'm very interested in becoming a writer myself. It's great to have so many mentors, and at such a young age too!

I am currently reading the book Saving Juliette by Suzanne Selfors. But with my mother, I am reading Jonathan Safran Foer's book, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. My father knows Jonathan, a member of his synagogue. I mean, think about it. To have an author email me is one thing, one huge thing. And then to actually know, and talk to, and meet an author? That's insane. Amazing. As Ms. Robbins, my 7th grade English teacher, said after we imagined meeting him, "that would be the greatest day of my life."

I believe it's important to indulge in a book that has new topics, new issues, and even just new genres. But it's also very important to indulge in a book that has topics you've had experiences with, both good and bad. It opens your eyes, lets you see your point of view in that time through someone else's perspective. It makes you think more about the topic. Which is why I think the book Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close will be a great book for me. I've had a close experience with 9/11 and I'm looking forward to someone else's story about it.

In conclusion, (of all the different topics I've written about this entry!)
1. Always look for books that give you new thoughts about a topic you know about, and also look for books that give you new thoughts about a new topic all together.
2. Always go for the best. Always hope an author will find your writing and send you an email. Because one day, they probably will.
3. Always have a mentor. May that be an author like Jonathan or Nan, or even your dog. Or your sister. Or your other sister.

To Admire

2010-01-25T15:21:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about an entry about picture books that another student in my class wrote last week. I decided to add on to her thoughts for this week's entry, I really liked the topic she brought up. She said that no matter who you are, you can always find something from a picture book that you appreciate, which is a statement that I really and truly admire.

Winnie the Pooh books have really always been a part of me. From the necklace of him and Tigger I had as a kid that I am wearing right now, to my Winnie the Pooh calender, and to just reading his books. This "silly ol' bear" has always been by my side. And what I admire about A. A. Milne's books most, is that no matter what age you are, you can always learn something new and exciting from reading just one poem, or one chapter. It makes me feel so safe, knowing that if I lose my necklace, or I finish my calender, the books will never grow old, and I'll never ever grow tired of them.

Another example I have of picture books is the book Pink, by Nan Gregory. Pink is a beautiful picture book that almost made me cry the first time I read it to my sister. It really made me think about how many other books there are out there that can touch any one's heart. Pink has a great story line, that fits the interest of a young reader, and provokes the mind healthily for a reader my age. Pink is the story of young Vivi, whose father is a truck driver and her mother who seems to not have a job at all. Their family doesn't necessarily have all the money in the World. Walking around town one day, Vivi spots a beautiful bride doll, glistening pink. She saves up enough money to buy the beautiful doll, only to find that one of richer girls in town has already snatched it away, as if it had only cost a penny.

To my younger sister, she sees the richer girl as a meanie. The bully. The mean girl in school. And to her, she doesn't understand why it's so hard for Vivi to buy the doll, and so easy for the rich girl to. But to me, it brings up much thought and conflict, about how these things really do happen in life. These topics are very serious and important to be reminded of. And it takes a lot of courage to bring up such conflicts in a picture book. Especially one called Pink. Which any young child wants to pick up, just from the title.

I admire Nan Gregory's courage and hope to learn more from her and others about finding deeper meaning in picture books. Because they aren't only for 5 year olds. They are for everyone.

Quotes

2010-01-17T07:00:00.000-08:00

First thing I want to say, I'm out in Hillsdale, and as I mentioned a few blogs ago, this is where I can get really into my reading. Last year, I finished two of the Twilight books in the one week I was here with my family. Yep. Two Twilight books.

Now back to my entry

No matter what book I am in the middle of reading, there will always be one that I keep to the side, in case I forget my current book, am in the mood for a new theme, or just want to read it. Currently, my "second book" is Without Feathers by Woody Allen. I'm really enjoying this book. It's hysterical, and from all the stress I'm under right now, I love being able to have a book that will make me laugh.

Another reason I am really liking this book, is because my father always seems to be recommending books to me, and most of the time, to be honest, I never actually come through to reading them. Maybe because I think they're old, or I just won't like them. But over this past break, in my grandmothers apartment, my father picked up Without Feathers and just started reading it to me. And for once I decided to give it a chance. I decided not to "judge a book by it's cover."

Because it doesn't matter anymore that the book has a white cover, and small red letters. It doesn't matter that the title doesn't make any sense. It matters that the words inside the book, beyond the cover, are what I'm really enjoying.

And what I'm thinking about most right now, is how much I learned from a saying that everyone on Earth must hear once or twice a day. And how much it's ignored. How not that many people really take the time to find the hidden meaning of "don't judge a book by it's cover." And is it the same way with other quotes? Are all of these other sayings just being ignored, are they just useless words that have some how been put into a sentence? I hope everyone will find their own hidden meaning for sayings someday, and then we can learn from them, and they can learn from us.

Stargirls

2010-01-10T17:19:00.000-08:00

I want to be a Stargirl. I want to sign my name with a little yellow star and a blue girl with a triangle dress. I want to "wash my mind." I want to have a wagon that keeps track of my emotions. I want my wagon to always be full. And I want not to be embarrassed when my wagon is empty. I want to be fearless, I want to be Stargirl.

I feel that everyone needs a Stargirl, wants a Stargirl, and is a Stargirl. Everyone has the potential to be a Stargirl, everyone has the courage, everyone just has to find it.

But what would happen if everyone was a Stargirl? Everyone got to be a hero? A fantasy? A perfection? Then no one would really be a Stargirl. It would have to be the person who decides NOT to be a Stargirl that truly is the Stargirl. Or maybe the Moongirl? Or the Sungirl?

What is a Stargirl anyway? Or who? Or maybe where? Is there a Stargirl in this World? In this town, in this school, in this home, or that home? Or is there no such thing? Maybe we're just girls, or boys, or women, or men. And all we can do is wait for a Stargirl to come along. Or for one of us to step up and anounce that they are the Stargirl. But what if a Stargirl doesn't show up? And no one breaks away and becomes the Stargirl. And all we are, are people. Who don't know what to do.

Maybe it's better not to have a Stargirl. Maybe no one needs her. Or maybe we do. A little.

Winter Vacation

2009-12-29T12:03:00.000-08:00

Once every year, I go out to Milwaukee, WI over break. I always look forward to coming out here to see my Dad's side of the family, for some many reasons. One, is that I can totally let go from everything in my life when I come out here. Every morning, I'm welcomed with waffles and Aunt Jamima syrup. A huge television, and a comfy couch. The Wii game system lets me forget about all my troubles, and the close by movie theatre, and candy shops do aswell. Though, as you can imagine, there's no time to do the thing that really allows you to let go and forget about all your troubles, better then any of the regualr activities I do at my cousin's house. Read. There's no time. I'm always being called over to play Rock Band, watch a football game, log on to Facebook on this beautiful computer.

Another thing I do once a year, is go near the Berkshires, to a small area called Hillsdale. Here, is one of my mother's best friend's country house. Here, there is a T.V, but one that does not have cable. Here, are laptops, but most are being used by our parents. So here, I have an excellent reason to read, and so much more time to do so. So I have to compare, because I am now in Wisonsin, not really reading as much as I could, and in a couple weeks, my family and I might be going out to the 'Hillsdale House,' where I plan on reading 600 books in the short week we are there.

Well, now that I'm done with entry, and this observation, I think I'll go read.

Excuses

2009-12-07T18:51:00.000-08:00

I love to find excuses to read. That way I feel safe. That everyone around me knows not to bother me. To let me be. Because if I get a good excuse, I can read for hours.

On Sunday, I unleashed one of my many qualities of a klutz, and fell at the ice skating rink in Prospect Park. My mom not in sight, I tried limping and skating at the same time which didn't work at all. I crawled over to a bench, not making eye contact with the dad I knew from somewhere or other. I blinked back the tears, and finally saw my mom's familiar brown coat in the distance. I dragged myself to the entrance gate a desperately waved and called her name. She looked over, but it was my six year old sister who reached me first.

"What happened??" She questioned. I just looked at her, I didn't have the strength to answer her. My mom came to me then and lifted me off my feet to carry me to a bench. I started crying at once. While telling my mom everything that happened, I realized that I was the only one in the family who had never severely injured herself. I didn't know what it felt like to be hurt badly somewhere in the body. We drove home, and I was carried to my room where I was greeted with a bag of ice and a pillow to elevate me leg.

My dad came into the room, and sat down next to me. Just the simple strokes of his fingers made me feel better. He leaned over to reach for my book, and a smile came across my face. I read for so long, that I could feel my knee thawing off from the ice, not necessarily the effect my parents were looking for from it. But I simply didn't care. In what seemed like ten minutes, I had gone from page one to page 36.

I always look for excuses to read, and sometimes I don't at all. Sometimes it's good enough to just sit down and read. Sometimes all you need is a great book, an ice pack, and a sprained knee.

Making Connections

2009-11-30T14:39:00.000-08:00

I think that every author writes a book for a different reason. All of the their reasons are different, but I like to think that there's one thing that many authors share with each other: that their reader walks away with something they learned.

Maybe it's a joke, or a cry, an angry feeling, or a happy feeling. But most of all, maybe it's to make a connection between the book and the reader.

I know how special I feel when I read a book and feel connected to a character. Or when I find a book on a book shelf in a book store and know I want to read it automatically because the title connects to me. Those connections give me pride in a book. It's one thing to just be able to jump into the book, but another to become a character who shares something in common with you.

Over the summer, I played the game "Jax" at camp with my friends, and when I arrived home, I played all the time as well. When one of my friends came over near the end of summer vacation, we played Jax and something came up in which we decided to make a song out of one of the tricks you could do with them. The trick was to place two Jax on one side of the floor, and eight on the other. You picked up the two Jax while saying "two men," then you took your index finger and circled the eight and said, "went around the World." and then you pick up the eight while saying, "in eighty days." That was about four months ago, and I still haven't forgotten the song.

Last Sunday, I was in a bookstore with my dad, and while roaming the bookshelves, saw a book that was titled, "Around the World in Eighty Days." I immediately grabbed the book, and read the first two chapters without, surprisingly, even bothering to yank out my cell phone and call my friend up to tell her what had just happened to me.

I'm enjoying this book so much, even more then I would have if I had just found it out of curiosity on the bookshelf. And all I needed to enjoy it so much was to remember that small connection-- that song we wrote while playing Jax--and use it throughout the book.

Who knew that it was possible to make a connection with a book before you even knew it existed? Now I know that anything is possible when it comes to a book, and all you have to do is jump in and enjoy it.

Entry Block

2009-11-23T15:02:00.000-08:00

This week's reading entry was very hard for me. For some reason, I couldn't find a topic in my book that seemed good for putting into an entry. I wonder if it's because I've already read Twilight, or I already wrote an entry on it. But that's when it hit me. I could write an entry about how hard this week was for me. A perfectly acceptable topic for my entry. While on the train on Sunday, I was thinking of a couple ways that I could connect this writer's block to the story Twilight.

It seems that Stephanie Meyer, never has a dull moment in Twilight. I feel that even though I don't even know if she had writer's block while writing the book, which she probably did, she never lets anyone know. Stephanie Meyer knows what the reader wants. She knows the parts where she needs to put extra description because she knows that we will want extra description. If she gets to a kind of boring topic, she knows how to cover it up. And last, if she gets to a part where we're on the edge of our seat, she knows how to add dialogue or description so that she can give us more, or make us want to read more by giving less.

I admire this skill of Stephanie Meyer, and as a growing and developing writer, I hope to gain this skill. I believe that along with enjoying the book, learning a skill or two from the author is very important.

Rereading

2009-11-11T15:46:00.001-08:00

I love to reread books. I believe that reading means so many different things, but mostly I think it means learning something new every time you read a book. My favorite book in the whole world is "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" By Judy Blume. That book changed my life. I'll never forget discovering it on my mother's book shelf, and me being so curious about it. I'll never forget how when she was finished explaining it to me, I knew that that book was the one. The one book that would be by my side forever. But when I asked my mom if I could read it, she said I was too young. I was 7. I longed to open the pages, those delicate pages that I knew would be the perfect fit. Then in third grade, my class went to our school library. I noticed the book on the shelf. I looked around to see if anyone was looking, and took the book to the counter where I would check it out. The first thing the librarian said to me when she saw that book was, "You need to put that book back, you aren't ready for it." It seemed like everyone was against me. What was so bad about that book? Finally, the summer going into fourth grade, my mom took the book out of her purse. It was a newer copy, a copy that she had bought for me as an end of third grade gift. She knew I was ready. I opened the soft pages that were now mine. I longed to march straight up to that librarian and show her I was ready. I finished the book in a few short days, and when I finished it, I was tempted to flip back to the beginning and read it again. It's been about 4 years since I read "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret." And I would say that I have read it about twice a year since then. Every time I read it, I learn something new. I notice something new. This year when I read it though, it was very special. I was, for the first time, older then Margaret. More mature, a totally different person. I thought of Margaret looking up to me after all those years of me looking up to her.

Now, I am currently reading "Twilight" By Stephanie Meyer. I read this book in the beginning of 6th grade, and I was absolutely obsessed. I was obsessed with the perfect Edward and how when Edward kissed Bella I thought he was kissing me. I went out of my head, the posters of him on my wall became what looked like wallpaper. I almost became so obsessed that I wasn't paying attention to the story, more so how I would "faint" when I saw the name "Edward" on the pages. Now that I have recovered from this insane obsession it seems like a totally different book. I remember how much I hated when I saw the name "Jacob" on the page. But now that I've taken a break from hating him as a character; I want to see more of him. How it almost seemed like I wanted to skip the pages where he showed up. But now I want him to show up. And now I'm not so excited to see Edward because I'm tired of obsessing over him. But who knows, maybe the next time I reread "Twilight" I will want to see Edward and dread seeing the word Jacob" printed on the page. I look forward to rereading books, not just reading them and not just "Twilight" or "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret." I wonder what I will read, or reread next.