Triple.

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.

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!!

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!

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.

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.

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

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

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

Her time.

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

Her time.

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

My time.

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

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

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

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

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

**

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

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

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

Yes.

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

7 Novels.
9 Years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There you go, straight answer.

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

I Have Found Another Voice!

Let me set the scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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