I Miss Holden

I have a foggy memory of hearing someone my age talk about how much they loved The Catcher in the Rye. I was about 11 years old. I think this was in hebrew school-- we all went around and said what our favorite book was. I remember whoever was leading the class mentioning that they were surprised that someone my age loved and understood that book. I didn't think too much about it, but from that point on I have been curious about this mysterious book that I would have to wait to be ready to read.

Thank goodness the time has come. I few weeks ago my english class and I began reading the book. And you know something? It is my new favorite book. If I had to go to a desert island and only bring one book I would bring this one. If I had to pick one person I wanted to always have around me it would be Holden Caulfield. (Or Aaron Rodgers.) If I have a baby boy some day I will name him Holden.

The hardest part about sitting here and writing this entry is the fact that there is so much to say. Maybe even too much to say. I guess I just have to pick one theme and try to control myself from talking about every other part of the book.

I think the thing I love about Holden so much is how misunderstood he is. How rare it is for me to find people that love him. This is what makes Holden so unique. He doesn't say everything point-blank. You have to find the meaning for yourself. At one point in the book Holden seeks advice from an old teacher of his, Mr. Antolini. Mr. Antolini says that if you want something, you have to get it. I took that to heart when I read The Catcher in the Rye. Someone can read the book easily and see our friend Holden as a whining bored freak. But if you take what J.D. is giving to you, I swear you can get something so beautiful from this book.

Poor Holden doesn't want to grow up. He doesn't want to grow up because he never even got a chance to be innocent and free and safe. His brother Allie died when he was so young and Holden's childhood was completely ripped from his as a result.

No child can come back from something like that. Someone who is a key part of their life being taken away forever? How would Holden or anyone be able to know how to handle any of it?

So Holden walks around by himself for three whole days. In New York City. Where an observer like Holden can look around and find something to criticize everywhere he goes. And unfortunately for Holden, people who see him do the same thing. Of course. Holden is different. He is a kid trapped in an adult's body and he is an adult trapped in a kid's body. Holden doesn't know who he is and who he is supposed to be. He doesn't know right and wrong because he never got a chance to experience both!

And of course, worst of all, Holden has such a hard time finding people who he can relate to and who can relate to him. Holden is living this complex life that is rare and hard to follow. But similar to what Mr. Antolini said, if you want something, only you can go get it.

That's what breaks my heart. If the characters in Catcher could just look at Holden and think about him maybe he wouldn't be so alone. If Holden could just look at everyone else in a not-so-negative way, maybe he would have the ability to let people in.

In the end of the book, thankfully, Holden becomes more optimistic and positive. But I and hopefully everyone who has ever read this book knows that changes and healing are not things that happen over night. Holden does not end the book as a perfect person but he does instill hope in you that it is going to be okay. Our job as readers is to just trust him. To promise him that his life isn't over and so maybe more challenges are in store, but that doesn't mean that he isn't going to be alright.

Holden is going to be fine. But what I have come to learn from reading this book is that reading is joint effort between the character and the reader. The only way that I can come to terms with the fact that Holden is going to be okay is if I allow myself. Holden tells me his story and I take it from there. If I want it, I have to get it.

As a reader of Holden's story, I can only be sure if Holden is going to be okay if I help him through it.

We have a responsibility as readers in this world. My friend Holden Caulfield taught me that.

I miss you, Holden. I know you're doing great though. I can feel it in my heart.

Dependable.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As If They Have Control.

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.

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.