Wishing

I definetly recommend this book that I'm about to quote. Seriously, this book was funny and heartbreaking all at once. It's like no other book you've read before, I'll guarentee you that. Even though it's written from a boy's point of view, I can still relate to this story. Here you go:

"'I wish..." She starts, then shudders because she's crying. 'I wish it was the summer, Albert.'

I wish it was the summer, too.

I shake my head.

'It'll never be the summer again, Mia.'

'Can we pretend it is, just for tonight?', she asks.

I don't say anything at first, too much is going through my head, I'm confused, and it's not until I look up at her when I realize...

'Okay', I say. 'Hi, Mia.'

I try to say it cheerfully, but she frowns at me.

'That's not how you did it when we first met.'

'I don't follow.'

She raises her right hand, palm out, and stares at me gravely.

'How, Albert', she says.

I raise my hand, too.

'How, Mia.'

~ from Stop Me if You've Heard This One Before, p 372-373

Not Famous

When I was little, and even sometimes now, I wanted (and still sometimes want) to be famous. I always would like to be known as this famous writer, or someone inspiring to people my age.

And then I look at my family.

My mom isn't famous, but she's one of the most important people in my life, and my grandma is the nicest person you'll ever meet. My brother is hilarious, and my dad is artistic. People before me worked hard for their food, and went through things I'd never imagine going through myself. I always catch myself looking at their pictures and just being grateful for who they are, and who my family is.

Sometimes, not being famous can be a good thing. Isn't it so scary, and so creepy, that there are so many amazing people out there that nobody knows about? I like to call this The Perks of Being Not Famous. Because they are perks. Most of you guys' (I think that's not gramatically correct. Then again, who cares?) blogs that I read are so interesting, and I really wonder why you're not famous.

All in all, it's a mixed emotion, because I'd love to be known by the world as someone influential. It's like the song Beverly Hills, because he says he wants to be famous, but deep down, he knows he doesn't belong with the celebreties. I don't want to be a celebrety, exactly, just a writer. Someone who tells stories.

...Do you want to be famous?

Count?

Last night, I had a dream I was watching these two guys out my window. I was automatically intrigued in them, the way they walked, their smiles, the way they were walking right past my house. Normally (as in, being awake), I would have just watched them go, and then be done with it. But instead, in this dream, I ran outside and across the yard to meet both of them. I remember my heartbeat in my chest, rough. I remember feeling unbeleviably happy to see them. And I remember embracing them, and then walking along with them.
Now, why can't I be like that in real life? The one that counts.

Wind Chimes

When I start to want wearing yellows and greens and pinks, and I find myself dressing up in summer clothes just for fun in the mirror, that's when I want spring to come. My neighborhood is big into get-togethers and cookouts, and everyone knows everybody, good and bad, and sometimes it's just fun to see everyone. I just miss taking walks around the block, and lake breezes and wind chimes. Out of all the things in spring, I think it's the wind chimes that steal me over. Because it's like sweet music clanking together, so delicate but loud at the same time. I also like the little lime green leaves that pop in contrast to a bright blue sky. Winter has been too quiet, too cold, and too vast and lonely. I need warmth. Wind chimes, can't you play your little song for me? Just once?

Staying Gold

"...But I didn't just write The Outsiders, I lived it. Looking back, I realize how important it was for me to have another life at that time. To be someone else. To deal with problems I had to face, and write my way to some sort of understanding and coping. This is all hindsight. At the time, I was mad about the social situation in my high school. I desperately wanted something to read that dealt realistically with teen-age life.
I knew I was going to be a writer."
~ S. E. Hinton

She is my role model, along with J. K. Rowling. While J. K. Rowling shows the world that you can come from nothing and be one of the most influential people out there, S. E. Hinton really makes her mark as one of the greatest teenage writers of her time. It's crazy; one day, she was angry and started writing a short story about a boy that gets beat up by "nice and popular" kids on his way home from the movies. At age fifteen. On the day of her graduation, she got her publishing contract. That's insane. And I want to be just that.
I want to make my mark.

The Painters

It's like they're still walking these floorboards, creeping up behind me, their stories flickering back to life, hitting me hard. It's like it was yesterday, me in baby blue standing under dusty lights in a freezing room, everything the color of navy, ice, and lace. I still see her paint-splattered sweatshirt and her tangled mahogany hair, standing on the porch, and letting her smoky breath curl out and turn to feathers on that freezing night.
Life inside is warm and freezing all at once, because you can see your breath, but still feel that heat of the lamp hovering over your head. Tubs of white paint perfuming the air, making me dizzy the slightest bit. Frozen fingers, lightened souls, all huddled under that same flickering pool of light, measuring out fate, and then cutting it for use.

Spiked Adrenaline

There's something so chilling and exciting about being thirty feet up in the air, my sneakers pressed up against only the wild breezes that creep through your bones. Maybe it's because the only warmth and comfort is the person to your side, and you finally have an excuse to just hide in their shoulder. Or maybe it's the wonderful feeling of my teeth chattering in the cold. Whatever it is, I could be up in the air forever, living on only hope and the feelings of trust in the ride, and myself. I just have to do that. Trust.
Yesterday I met an author. She had stiff white hair in a funky pixie and warm pink lipstick and a kind smile. I was telling her about how much I wanted to write books, and she looked me right in the eye and said, "Well, I love writing, but the only negative is that you can't retire." And she laughed, leaving me puzzled.
Well now I get it.
She meant that she loves writing so much, and it's totally addicting. I want to feel that way someday when I'm older, too.
Q: Why are oldies songs only and always about love? Can someone please answer???!
Guess I had something to say today :)

Let Me Out of This Deal, Please?

Sometimes I wish I were an animal. Things are so much simpler in their lovely little worlds.
They don't need to worry about school and schedules and just pressure in general.
They don't think things out, only doing something on pure instinct. It's just so true and split-second thinking.
They don't hold grudges. Whenever one of my cats tumble around on the ground together growling and hissing at eachother, a few minutes later I can find them curled up together in one of my sweatshirts. Gotta love that.
They don't have the tube shoving spoonfulls of mindless media down their throats.
They don't obsess about their weight.
They don't need to pretend to be happy socializing with others while inside a tiny voice is screaming I hate this. Let me out!!!
They don't need to buy clothes for all sorts of occasions.
They don't need to get a job when they grow up.
They don't think about death all the time.

...

Sitting in the kitchen watching the falling rain, I glance over at my cat, who's tucked into a little ball on an island chair, sleeping through the storm that lulls her to sleep. I wish I were you, I think to myself. My cute little orange cat looks up at me sleepily and lets out a small purr, tucking her head underneath her paw once again.

I envy that.

Wish I Got to Know You Better

I wish I could have known my great grandma longer than I did, because of what my mom and grandma tells me, she would have liked me, vise versa.

When she was little, she was very smart and skipped two grades just to get a challange out of school, but then her mother took her out of school to work for the family. I think she could have been a great author. So much potential.

I've been thinking about her a lot lately.