Meeting him was the end of life as I know it. I found something in him. Almost like my other half. Something that brought me from the brink of the abyss back to life.
Not that either of us knew it at the time.
I met him as he leaned out a window and hollered at me in the middle of the night. It was nearly midnight in Ashland that cool night in October. The dorms were still awake with laughter and music. Bright yellow lights dotted the windows of the cement building all around me as an autumn breeze whispered through the night.
I didn't mind it. The way I was feeling, I embraced the cold. I was drowning in despair every second of every day. At least when the crisp night air seeping into my skin I was able to feel something other than an unstoppable pain.
That night, I sat on the stone ledge staring at the vast beauty of the stars, pouring my heart out on paper, when my agonized thoughts were interrupted by a jovial voice on the wind.
Looking around, I spotted him hanging out a second story window of the building to my left. He was drunk, that much was obvious. But he was cute, too, and endearing. It's not a feeling I could explain, but I found my initial irritation at being interrupted dissipating into idle curiosity and an unexplainable desire to get to know this strange, somewhat goofy, boy calling to me in the middle of the night.
He introduce himself, explained yelling at me like he had was part of a bet and asked if he could come down.
While I was waiting, I couldn't help wondering what was on his mind. Why me? What made him want to talk to me in the first place? As time went on, I began to wonder why me on many levels.
To this day, I do not know the answer.
I think this is incredibly unfortunate. Why is there such a stigma around reading? I have talked to people who are actually proud of the fact that they don't read and I will never understand it. I learn so much from books. Things I would have never even thought about being interested in have captured my mind and inspired me to read more about them. Because of this, I know things about subjects that aren't necessarily assumed that I would know. My horizon is broader and I look at the world differently with each new thing that I learn. The fact that some people don't read, don't aspire to learn new things about the world around them and prefer to stay locked in their own narrow little bubble makes me sad.
Pick up a book. Learn something new. Enter a world entirely not your own. See things through another's eyes. Walk a mile in their shoes. Experience a perspective you never would have had the chance to experience without a book. Enjoy the words another has so painstakingly put to paper. Respect their hard work and respect yourself by bettering your mind each and every day.
There are people I love dearly who don't read. I'm not judging them. To each their own. I don't think it makes someone a good or bad person. I don't think their lack of reading material makes them stupid. Not by a long shot. What I do think is that they're selling themselves short, passing up opportunities everyday and missing out by not opening a book---any book---and feeding and exercising their minds the same way they do their bodies. It's not a judgment at all, just an opinion.
Learning should never stop at 18. There is so much out there, so much TO KNOW. I hope to learn as much as I can about the world before I die, be it tomorrow or in 70 years. If I read an hour a day about something that interests me, I'll be an expert on so many things. Isn't that a good goal to strive for?
One of my favorite authors just posted something about bad boys and how she's never wanted one and doesn't understand the appeal.
The thing is, I think most girls want a bad boy. There's something about the dangerous aspect, the fact that your parents won't approve, and yes, the possibility that they will decide you are the one girl who can make them a better person, that is incredibly appealing.
Then they grow up and realize that the bad boy is just that: a boy. And they want a man who knows how to treat a woman, who will take an interest in what drives them and treat them with respect. Who will think of them and be kind to them just to make them smile. They say nice guys never win, but a good man doesn't need to win. He is the prize.
Spark in the Ashes (Book) - Writing.Com
My book! I'm not done editing, it's on like its 6th round of full draft editing and it has not actually been published. HOWEVER, if you would like to give it a read and post a review, I would love to hear about it! Please, tell me what you think. I never pass up an opportunity to improve.
I think this is true. Without the reader, a book is just words on a page. It's sheets of paper bound together with glue and thread surrounded by a cover. Nothing remarkable in itself. But then something magical happens. Someone picks it up, opens the pages and begins to read the words and suddenly, the book is no longer just a pile of paper filled with ink. The words come alive, swirling through the mind of the reader, the characters acting out the stories so intricately designed, born from the imagination of the author and taking on a life of their own. When you read a book, you are no longer just reading words, but living a life far beyond your own. You are experiencing what the character experiences and the trials they endure stay with you. Through the heart of the reader, that book becomes alive and will live on in infamy. May we all give life to some poor, starved book. It is the holidays ;)
It's amazing how intricately you get to know someone by reading what they write. I, at least, tend to feel like I know the author as well as I know the characters. Ridiculous, yes. I don't know them personally. They have no idea who I am. Yet, because I've entered another world through their words, met unforgettable people, seen amazing things and been privileged with a glimpse into their soul, I feel a kinship with the author that makes no rational sense, and yet the affection I feel for them is as real as any person I've actually met in the flesh.
I often wonder what it would be like to meet them. Would it be disappointing? Surreal? Amusing? Who are they really? Are they anything like the characters I love so much? What is their lifestyle like? Who do they turn to for advice? Who makes their blood boil, their heart race? What makes them smile? What makes them cry? And while I don't know the answers to these questions, I still know a bit about how they think, what makes them tick, what makes them laugh. I've seen it through the eyes of the people they create, the worlds they walk through. I've felt it in a kiss I've read. I've laughed with Puck, mourned with Bella. Sighed with Edward and ridden with Jacob. I've fought with Jace and for him with Clary. I've joked with Simon and pined with Will. I've been torn with Tessa and smiled with Jem. I have loved with Ash, been stubborn with Meghan. I've learned with Daemon and flown with Lucivar. I've shared evenings with Saetan and gotten into trouble with Jaenelle. I've sang with Katniss, baked with Peeta. I've hunted with Gale and drank with Haymitch. Fought fires with Reena and been slightly crazy but loveable with Bo. I've flown with Harry, gotten into trouble with Ron, and who can forgot that I've learned spells from Hermione. I've walked the corridors of Hogwarts, traipsed through the Wylds of the Nevernever, gone to an Orioles game in Philly, lived through three arenas, navigated the politics of Terrelle and witnessed the blessings of Kaelar. I've flown through the streets of New York, fought on the plains of Idris. I've gone to school in Forks and lived in the Institute in London.
I may not know these writers personally, but in a way, I do know them. Because I know their characters, I know their worlds. Every time they put pen to paper, they poured out part of themselves and as readers, we are gifted with a chance to read it. If I have one goal as a writer, it is to have my readers feel about my characters, and through them, me, the way I felt about my favorite authors since I first opened their books. One day.
The problem with writing is that sometimes I have so much to write about that I don't even know where to start. it is overwhelming, and daunting and then I start to think about other things. The laundry I have to do, the book I could be reading (the book I could be writing), the studying I need to do, the fact that food sounds awesome right now, how hard it is to decide when something's ready, the fact that the whole process of getting published is long and involved and somewhat depressing, the fact that I desperately need to sleep and yet, though I don't really know what to say, I'm having trouble stepping away from the keyboard. Then I start to think that maybe it's not a problem with writing. Maybe it's just the trouble with life. Any path worth taking is going to be hard. Isn't that what people say? (Or some version of it.) So suck it up, make a freaking list, and do what has to be done next. (1am pep-talk done. Crisis averted. For now.)
Running from the past is a task that is incidentally obsolete. There is no escaping it. No matter how far you go, how fast you run, it will always be there. It's a part of you. It doesn't stay behind you, it stays with you, interwoven into the fabric of your soul. The only thing you can do is turn and face it. Then you have two choices. Succumb to it, or move on.
At some point, your past is no longer an excuse for the actions of your present. There comes a time when everyone, for whatever reason, must take responsibility for their own life instead of living for the past, be it the memories of their childhood, a lost loved one or a broken heart. No matter what it is, the part it can play in the screenplay of your life is only so big.
The only real question then, is when do you make the decision to live for your life now instead of living in the past? When does who you are now become more important than who you were?
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