A happiest of blogiversaries, one and all! I can’t believe we’ve been at this thing three years now.
Thank you. Whether this is your first post or your three hundred and seventy first (yes, that is really the number we’re up to), thank you SO MUCH for reading this blog. When I began three years ago, I never imagined this thing would turn into what is has.
You’re awesome. Your support means the world to me. And to thank you for three years of awesomeness and support, I’m giving away three signed books.
DRUM ROLL PLEASE.
Mark of Athena by Rick Riordan
Rick Riordan spoke on a panel at BookCon this past May and they were selling signed copies of Mark of Athena afterward, so OF COURSE I had to pick one up for you. (You’ll notice I’ve been hoarding these books to give away since May. That’s how much I love you.)
I adore how snarky and stupid-funny Riordan’s writing is. It never fails to cheer me up.
GoodReads Plot Summary:Annabeth is terrified. Just when she’s about to be reunited with Percy—after six months of being apart, thanks to Hera—it looks like Camp Jupiter is preparing for war. As Annabeth and her friends Jason, Piper, and Leo fly in on the Argo II, she can’t blame the Roman demigods for thinking the ship is a Greek weapon. With its steaming bronze dragon masthead, Leo’s fantastical creation doesn’t appear friendly. Annabeth hopes that the sight of their praetor Jason on deck will reassure the Romans that the visitors from Camp Half-Blood are coming in peace.
And that’s only one of her worries. In her pocket Annabeth carries a gift from her mother that came with an unnerving demand: Follow the Mark of Athena. Avenge me. Annabeth already feels weighed down by the prophecy that will send seven demigods on a quest to find—and close—the Doors of Death. What more does Athena want from her?
Annabeth’s biggest fear, though, is that Percy might have changed. What if he’s now attached to Roman ways? Does he still need his old friends? As the daughter of the goddess of war and wisdom, Annabeth knows she was born to be a leader, but never again does she want to be without Seaweed Brain by her side.
Narrated by four different demigods, The Mark of Athena is an unforgettable journey across land and sea to Rome, where important discoveries, surprising sacrifices, and unspeakable horrors await. Climb aboard the Argo II, if you dare….
Panic by Lauren Oliver
I met Lauren Oliver at her book signing in London this August. She’s one of my favorite authors ever and I absolutely spazzed on her, but she was very gracious and awesome and signed like a billion books for me. (I normally would have written a very freaked out blog post about the experience, only I was on a blogging break at the time and also had picked up a signed copy of Delirium to give a friend for her birthday–and her birthday wasn’t until November, so posting here in August that I’d met Lauren Oliver kind of would have given it away.)
Anyway, though: I looove Lauren Oliver and I’m so excited I get to give away one of her books this year.
GoodReads Plot Summary: Panic began as so many things do in Carp, a dead-end town of 12,000 people in the middle of nowhere: because it was summer, and there was nothing else to do.
Heather never thought she would compete in Panic, a legendary game played by graduating seniors, where the stakes are high and the payoff is even higher. She’d never thought of herself as fearless, the kind of person who would fight to stand out. But when she finds something, and someone, to fight for, she will discover that she is braver than she ever thought.
Dodge has never been afraid of Panic. His secret will fuel him, and get him all the way through the game, he’s sure of it. But what he doesn’t know is that he’s not the only one with a secret. Everyone has something to play for.
For Heather and Dodge, the game will bring new alliances, unexpected revelations, and the possibility of first love for each of them—and the knowledge that sometimes the very things we fear are those we need the most.
David was awesome on the panel and hilarious, and his writing is beautiful.
GoodReads Plot Summary:In the small, lakeside town of Huntington, the Firelight Festival marks the end of summer. A time to laugh, to live, to love. And for Jackson Grant, it is a chance to begin again.
But there is a darker side to the Firelight Festival, a deadly tradition known as the Firelight Fall. A secret game. A legendary lie. A test of bravery. Those who fall risk everything, and Jackson is on the edge. Until he meets a girl who pushes him over.
For Jackson, falling for Sarah Blake might be as dangerous as jumping in the Firelight Fall. As summer burns away, Jackson and Sarah ignite an unstoppable love game. For her, his heart is on fire. And soon, Sarah shows him life, saves him from loss, and opens his heart to an infinite and wild love found between the stars and sky.
Lyrical and deeply romantic, Between the Stars and Sky is a poetic and heart-stopping read for fans of Lauren Oliver, Gayle Forman, and E. Lockhart.
So, how might one win one of these excellent signed books? Easy.
All you’ve gotta do is click on the link below to the Rafflecopter giveaway and complete one or more of the entry options. The giveaway will run until midnight EST on December 31st.
This week’s Wordy Wednesday is a short story I wrote for Lauren Oliver‘s (Don’t) Panic Contest, in honor of her new YA contemporary thriller Panic. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize until after I’d written it that I missed the contest deadline by a day, because I’m super intelligent like that (blame it on the summer vacation), but oh well. It was fun to write, anyway.
You can read the winning entries from her contest HERE (and I highly suggest you do, because they are brilliant).
(By the way, I don’t really know what that title means, but it was the random thing I saved the document under. And since at the moment I’m not really feeling figuring out a proper title, it’s staying.) (Boom. Look at them writing skillz.)
You are small. You are the teeniest, tiniest little ball in the grass. No one can see you. No one. I swear.
Open your eyes. Slowly. That’s it. Sloooowly. Slow is okay. This isn’t like ripping off a Band-Aid. Slow won’t hurt more. Slow is cautious. Safe. Good.
Look up. It’s a blue sky. Endless blue. It’s the shade of an Easter egg pulled too quickly from dye.
The grass is just tall enough to tickle my chin when I raise my eyes to the sky, still huddled in the fetal position.
That’s it. That’s good. Keep looking. The sky is safe. Blue, so blue, so light, like I’m up in the mountains and there’s not enough air.
The sky is safe. There you go. Not so quickly now. Don’t look too deeply. Don’t think.
Stop it! Breathe. Slowly, now. One… two… three… Tell your heart to beat with your breaths. My lungs could collapse, they can’t suck the air. One… two… three. Slowly. Easy, now. Gentle. Don’t close your eyes. I’m fighting not to close my eyes.
Now peel yourself from the ground. Sit up. You can do it. What did I say? Don’t close your eyes. The air, my throat, my eyes are too dry. Careful—careful. You’re doing so well.
Hands in the grass. Fingers, palms, thumbs against the soil with green-brown blades wrapping around you like chains, but they are easy to break. Push yourself up until you stand.
Standing. I’m standing now.
The trees are too far, the sky is too close, the air is thin and thick and spinning all aroun—Stop it. You’re okay. Stop it.
Breathe. One, two, three. Slowly, now. Breathe.
I can do this.
It’s just a field. It’s just a cloudless sky. They’re just cameras. The cameras are focused on me, lenses as big as plates zoomed all the way in to see the expression on my face.
Don’t lick your lips, that’s a tell that you’re nervous. Keep your eyes open. Wide. Open.
A breeze sweeps across the field, makes the grass sing, whips the ponytail off my shoulder. It is shards of glass against my arms, my legs. It is acid licking my face. It is fear, a knife through my stomach. I am afraid, I am afraid, no you’re not. You aren’t allowed to be.
You’re okay. Shut up. Focus. You can do this. Just focus.
You just have to make it across the field. You just have to reach the cameras in the trees and press the red button. It’s easy. Easy. You can do this. I have to do this.
You knew what you were getting into when you signed up for this. It’s too late to back out now. The only way out is through. You can do this. I was so stupid to sign up for this.
You just have to get to your feet. Walk across the field, one step after the other, and press the button. That’s all. This would be easy for anyone else. It’s not spiders. It’s not bees.
It’s just a field. Just a blue sky. Look—there are even flowers around your feet.
Dandelions, turned to white cotton that dances in the air around me as the breeze swoops past, rushes through, brings with it the grass’s song.
I can hear their voices. “She’s been standing there for three minutes.” “Are you serious, this is what that girl’s afraid of?” “This is going to make for pretty crappy television if she doesn’t get a move on soon.”
They’re right. They’re right. This is stupid to be afraid of. You’ve been standing here for long enough. You need to move.
Come on. Just take one step. One step. Let the breeze swirl around you, it’s just a breeze, you can do this.
I can do this.
It could have been the top of the Empire State Building. It could have been zip lining through a rainforest. But instead they gave you a field. A nice, easy field. This isn’t bad. The sun is overhead, warm on your back like Lipton down your throat, and it smells like dandelions, grass, sunshine. I want to smell laundry detergent and mint gum and—Stop that.
Focus on the details. The here-and-now ones. The little, teeny, tiny parts. Focus.
The tips of the grass blades are gold in the sun. The birds are chirping from the trees. The dandelion petals are a thousand million wishes floating free in the air.
You’re not alone. You’re not alone in this field. Just take one step. One. Show them that you’re strong. Show them that you aren’t dizzy with too much space; you’re not suffocating from too much air.
I take a step.
Breathe, now. Breathe.
The breeze is growing, growing stronger—wind, a gust like a slap to my cheek and I’m running.
I’m running now. It could knock me over.
It’s just wind.
It could steal my breath, my heartbeat, my thoughts.
Don’t show them that you’re afraid.
It’s too late.
You’re not afraid.
I’m terrified. My heart must be a hundred pieces all beating simultaneously, fast, fast, fast, for how quickly it’s racing.
Fine. Give up then. You’re almost there.
The red button the red button the red button. It’s only twenty feet; ten, five, I’m there.
My skin is sticky with sweat or tears or blood I cannot tell.
It’s not blood. Press the button. I can’t believe you’re afraid of a field.
My fingers are shaking.
Press the button.
I can’t breathe.
Press the button and this will all be over.
Everything’s spinning in five different directions and I can’t feel my feet and I can’t tell which way is up, which way is down.
Press the button. Easy, now. Just press it. They’ve stopped laughing. They’re concerned, now.
Red plastic under white skin. Press down.
There. It turned green. You’re done.
PS. I’m sorry I haven’t been posting as much the past couple weeks. I’ve been busy with other stuff (*cough* watching Once Upon a Time), but don’t worry! I haven’t forgotten about you. Things should slow down soon (I hope), and I should be getting back onto a schedule of posting more often. (You know. Just in time for fall semester to start. Oops.)
So I finally convinced my parents to get our family a Netflix account yesterday. Bad decision–since then I have watched two episodes of Once Upon a Time and two episodes of Sherlock and done absolutely nothing of a productive nature. Oops. (Better get on making that mask for the masquerade party I’m going to tonight. That and revising. And cleaning my room. And doing chores. Goodness, why did I get Netflix again?)
This week’s Wordy Wednesday is a short story I wrote about half a year ago, for the Requiem Contest on Figment. The prompt asked for a short story, 1,500 words or less, in which love is dangerous. “Memory” didn’t win (and I’m actually glad it didn’t, because the story that DID win is AMAZING–read it here), but I’m still happy with how it turned out.
His hand is warm in mine. I can feel rough calluses, short nails worn smooth around the edges, and skin sticky with lake spray. The outline of the identification chip in his palm matches up perfectly with my own. Wind blasts my face while the lake’s cool water laps around my knees, but his hand is warm, enveloping mine, so my hand is warm in kind.
Moonlight glints off the water, so bright and white and distant that I want to believe it is real, even though I know it is not.
“I miss you,” I say, not looking at him. I am scared to look at him. Another gust of wind carries off the lake, lifting all the fine blond hairs along my arms, and I shiver. I wish we were somewhere warmer—inside his house, with the static-filled blankets, and the old fashioned radiator heat, and his homemade hot chocolate fresh off the stove—but this is the last place I saw him that he was happy, so this is where my memory takes me. This is the only place I ever see him now.
“I miss you,” I repeat, this time quieter.
He can’t hear me. No matter how badly I want to have a new conversation with him, and see him somewhere other than the lake at night, I know reliving this memory is the closest I’ll ever get.
Sometimes I wonder if this is worse, seeing him here rather than not seeing him at all.
I count to five in my head and, right on cue, right as he has every other night for the past week, he lifts his free hand to point to the moon and says, “Look at how beautiful it is, Adena.”
I could cry, his voice is so earnest. I did cry the first few nights. But now I don’t. Instead, I look up at the moon, trying to see it the way he does, trying to find some new meaning in its glowing, hazy light. It is round and full, up in the sky. Heavy like fruit ready to drop. I feel as if I could reach up and pluck it straight out of the stars and hold it in the palm of my hand.
If this was a dream, rather than a memory masquerading as one, perhaps I would.
“I’ve never seen it so large before,” I say automatically, because those are the words I spoke to him when this was real. Even though I’ve seen that same large moon every night this week. Even though I will see that same large moon every night until my guilt washes away, same as the steady, thrumming tide pulls the sand from the shore.
His touch is fading now, his warmth growing weaker and weaker until it is nothing but a cool pressure against my skin—air where there once was a hand, calloused and careful.
I open my eyes to find myself at home in bed, red light creeping in around my curtains and the sound of popping grease coming from the kitchen down the hall. After a minute, I become aware of the salty scent of bacon and the sweaty heat my tangled blanket leaves around my ankles.
I shiver despite the warmth and glance reflexively down at my left hand, grasping at nothing, the identification chip’s glow just barely visible under my palm’s too-pale skin. There is a pang somewhere deep within me, sharp and unnatural. I don’t want anyone to hear me cry, so I stuff a wad of blanket into my mouth and let the cotton absorb my sob and the word on my lips that wrenches its way free, unbidden: “Chandler.”
His name. Always his name.
My tongue is dry against the fabric. I spit it out before I have a chance to start coughing like yesterday, when my mother found me lying with my head dangling over the side of the bed, my blue-tinged fingers spread against the mattress. Despite my efforts not to, I had heaved against the blanket in my mouth while inwardly I urged it to go further down my throat—to act as a snake, to be like a poison. I hadn’t been able to stop hyperventilating for twenty minutes after she finally managed to pull the blanket from between my clenched teeth. The entire time, she stroked my back, her fingers just barely skating over the sticky fabric of my shirt, words of peace and hope flitting past her lips.
Now I sit up in bed, the blanket sliding off me, and the pain changes to disgust at the back of my throat, thick and foul. I try to hold onto that. I try to remember the anger and the embarrassment. I try to remember the flames as they reflected in his eyes, and the thought that this was right. Of course it was right.
I have to believe that, since I was the one who turned him in.
The tile floor is cool beneath my feet, although not in the way the lake was, and I focus on that burning coldness, letting it leach the heat from my toes, as I get ready to face the day. I pretend this is the reason I shiver as I spot my reflection in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door, when truly it’s because of the residual effects of the memory.
He called me beautiful that night, like the moon.
The memory is my punishment for loving him.
Dr. Rafney says I will experience the memory every night until it no longer hurts to think of him; until I am numb as my heels are against the hard, slick surface of the tile. I don’t know how she knows though, since she has never had the misfortune of falling in love. She has never had the misfortune of the human part of her betraying the microchip in her brain—the microchip that states how showing favor for one person above all other people in society is wrong, unjust; dangerous. Because although Dr. Rafney is just as much a part of the aristocracy as I am, and had a microchip implanted at birth just as I did, she has never had the misfortune of meeting someone like Chandler. She has never had the misfortune of the microchip and her brain suddenly becoming two very separate things, with very separate goals.
I blink away the sight of my reflection in the mirror and reach out to open the door.
In the kitchen, Chef is just finishing making breakfast. My mother sits at the head of the long, marble dining table, reading a tablet. In my mind, I can feel her stroking my back yesterday morning, murmuring and tucking a strand of yellow-blond hair behind my ear. She would have done that for anyone. It is her job, as Leader. But I would not have stood in the freezing lake with my nose running and the wind biting at my cheeks for anyone other than Chandler. And that was my mistake.
I sit down beside my mother and smile at Chef as he serves me a plate of bacon and eggs, but I do not eat. The disgust is still strong in my mouth—stale and sour and constant. Dr. Rafney might believe me when I say it is disgust for Chandler, for what he did to me, but every night as my eyes flicker closed and the memory takes over once again, I know that it is disgust for myself. For what I did to him.
I loved him; the microchip can verify it. But my guilt won out in the end. It was hungrier than even his touch made me feel, so I confessed my sin of loving him.
The guilt didn’t go away then, however. They burned him at the stake, for all of society to see, and the guilt changed—but it didn’t go away.
Every night I tell him I miss him. And every night he cannot hear me, because all that is left of him is an echo, fading, unable to think or feel or be. His hand becomes less and less solid each time I take it in my own, and the moon grows less and less bright.
Soon he will be gone, and I will be myself again. Soon I will take over as Leader, and I will lead society properly—unbiased and just and kind. I will not love anymore.
But still there is the image in my mind of his dark green eyes, narrowed against the smoke, reflecting back the flames; the words carrying on the ash and heat, despite everything: “I love you.”
He loved me. And I let him burn.
PS. Must… resist… the urge… to have a one person How I Met Your Mother marathon…
Hey there! So I’m currently at home for spring break, busily revising novels and watching too many movies and plays (I’m literally seeing one or the other every single day over break–this is like Julia Heaven), and I’ve got some exciting news to share with you. So without further ado, here we go:
Requiem–the last novel in the Delirium Trilogy by Lauren Oliver–is coming out this week!!! AND I AM SO EXCITED. Ever since I got to read Requiem as an ARC a few months back, I’ve been dying to gush about the book to you, but I knew I couldn’t say anything until the book was actually released. AND IN A COUPLE OF DAYS I WILL FINALLY BE ABLE TO. So be watching out to a review or something sometime in the next couple of weeks!
I made a Facebook page! I’m going to be using it to put out smaller updates than what I’d talk about on here, but still very fun stuff, so I’d love for you to like it. 🙂 Thanks!
Well, that’s it for now I guess (I’m sure there’s something else I’m supposed to be telling you that I’m just forgetting), but I’ll talk to you soon! Have a great week!
So today’s been a good day. Like a really good day. First, I got my first not-horrible grade on a Spanish test this semester, along with scoring well on some other things. Then I got guaranteed by the professor teaching the intro to creative writing-type class next semester that I can take it, which I have been super nervous about getting into, up until now. And then, I just was scouting around los Internets (that’s literally the Spanish for “the Internets,” by the way), and I found this: http://lauren-oliver.tumblr.com/post/35784854467/requiem-givaway-winner-16
Lauren Oliver posted an excerpt from my (extremely long) personal essay on her Tumblr, guys. Please excuse me while I go scream in the corner.
And this is after already getting to freak out over my ARC of Requiem a couple weeks back:
THERE ARE JUST SO MANY EMOTIONS TODAY. CONSTANTLY.
Also, while we’re on the topic of Requiem: I can’t wait until March when you get to read it too, and then we can freak out about it together, because it is a fabulous book. And Lauren Oliver is a fabulous person. And I am on her Tumblr.
PS. My wonderful and talented friend Kira won NaNoWriMo a couple days ago. (Yeah. That’s the full 50,000 words in less than two weeks. But don’t worry, you don’t have to envy her–I’ve already got you covered.) If you’d like to go check out her blog instead of working on your own NaNo novel, here’s the link: http://kirabudge.weebly.com/kiras-blog.html
I went into this weekend knowing that it was about to be super busy, but unsure what all that super-busy-ness was going to entail. Friday evening I had the kick off of a weekend-long theatre event, followed by more theatre stuff running all day Saturday, and then finally a whole lot of homework to do today (including meeting with a Spanish study group, which begins in a half-hour, so let’s make this post quick, shall we?).
This has by far been my busiest weekend since beginning college, since I normally reserve my weekends for getting caught up on homework and sleep, and–despite how exhausted I am (and, either allergy-ridden or getting strep or something)–I’m glad I had this busy-as-heck weekend. It reminded me a lot of how many of my weekends were back in high school, running from one event to another, and it also helped me realize a few things about myself. Hence the title of this post.
A) I love theatre. I love it, I love it, I love it–but I don’t want to major in it. I don’t want to do it for a living. I’m definitely going to keep doing it, mind you, but it’s no longer one of my career goals; I’m thinking community theatre is looking pretty good as a goal now, instead. Which is quite a relief, since I’ve been back and forth on this issue a lot for like three years now–whether I wanted to actually go into acting or not. But it finally occurred to me this weekend that I don’t have enough time for theatre, between school and writing, and the fact of the matter is: If it was truly that important to me, if it was truly something I should be pursuing as a career, shouldn’t it never be the question of whether or not I had time for it? If it meant everything to me, there would ALWAYS be time.
B) I love writing. I love it, I love it, I love it–and it’s all I want to do for the rest of my life. Which I’ve known my entire life, but didn’t realize quite how much so until this weekend, when in the midst of all the theatre stuff, I realized what I really wanted to be doing was writing. Always. Constantly. (And then, you know, finding out I’d won a Requiem galley today definitely helped, too.)
C) Speaking of the tail-end of B, there–I WON A REQUIEM GALLEY! You may remember that a while back I entered a writing contest hosted by Lauren Oliver to win an ARC of the last book in her Delirium Trilogy, and I WON I WON I WON!!!!! (You can read my entry here, and eventually it’s going to be up on Lauren Oliver’s blog, too! EEEEEE!!!!!! 😀 😀 😀 😀 :D)
D) I am such a prude. And I don’t like to party. Which marks me as a total and complete weirdo, but I don’t even care. I’m proud of who I am, even if it’s different from the majority of other college students. (And note that this doesn’t mean I’m antisocial or don’t like having fun–it just means that my idea of a good time is eating dinner together, or going for a walk, or having a movie night. NOT getting drunk and having sex constantly.)
… Fun revelations for the weekend, right? Now I’m going to go attempt to finally wash all this stage makeup I slept in off my face, and hopefully make it to my study group on time.
Okay, so this is really more of a personal essay than a memoir (you rock for picking this category, by the way, because I was getting sick of posting the others every week), but it’s what I’ve got to offer you today. Lauren Oliver is currently hosting a competition for fans to send in their stories about how her Delirium trilogy has affected them, the winner of which gets a really freaking awesome ARC of the last book, Requiem. And if you’ve read the second book, Pandemonium, you should know that getting your hands on Requiem as quickly as possible is a good idea, especially after that stupid, freaking, horrible cliffhanger ending. (I love you, Lauren Oliver.)
It was the time of night when shadows crept up the walls and it was quiet enough to hear the house creak; when any reasonable human being would be asleep, dreaming, unaware of the hopelessness that comes from being all alone in the darkness.
But I was sixteen years old, and it was midwinter break, and I was awake. So awake, without a wink of sleep in sight, and I had nothing to do.
It was a waiting game, for me. I was at an in-between stage in my life: in-between friends, in-between my school’s winter play and the spring musical, in-between replying to partial requests from literary agents and waiting to hear if I’d get any full requests back, and in-between being one person and being another. I was in-between before and after, beginning and conclusion. I was stuck in the sagging middle, with no climax or end in sight.
I lay in bed with my laptop cradled against my stomach, my body curving up in a weird adaption of the fetal position so I could see the screen. Its too-bright glow cast shadows against my cheeks and my eyes narrowed against the light, and I was so, so tired, but I was too wide, wide awake to even imagine sleeping.
And of all things, I was on Facebook.
It was 2:00 in the morning during a break from school. Vacation. I was supposed to be doing things with friends, or else sleeping like the rest of my family, and instead I sat in the dark and scrolled through my newsfeed, waiting for something to happen.
Here’s the truth about Facebook: Nothing ever happens on it, least of all at 2:00 in the morning during midwinter break. Things happen in the real world, and then just get relayed to Facebook eventually once they’ve already passed.
The thing is that I knew that, too. But I was still there, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling through the newsfeed, searching for something, anything to grab onto and pull me out of my loneliness.
Freeze. Stop. That’s when it happened; the spark, the serendipity, the perfect storm, whatever.
I glanced from my central newsfeed over to the ads on the right-hand side of the screen, and there nestled amongst the advertisements for zit cream and online classes was one for Delirium.
It was 2:00 AM. I had nothing better to do but stare in increasing despair at my newsfeed.
So I clicked it.
Experts say that a person can fall head over heels in love in as little as a fifth of a second. That’s what happened with me when I stumbled upon Delirium. The writing was beautiful, the plot was exciting, the characters were flesh and blood and breathing. I couldn’t stop reading once I’d started.
I had been awake for hours. I had been awake for days. But reading the first lines of Delirium, it was like I was finally stretching my arms, opening my eyes, sitting up and seeing the world for the first time.
I didn’t have enough money to buy the ebook right then and there like I wanted to, so I only read the free sample on the Harper Teen website that night. And then finally—satisfied for the first time in weeks—I shut off my laptop, and pulled my comforter up around my shoulders, and let the stillness of the night fall over me.
It was cool, and it was dark, but all I could think of was the amor deliria nervosa, and how everything was different now. In that moment when I clicked on the Delirium ad, my entire life changed. For the first time in forever, I had found a novel that engaged me, that involved me.
It wasn’t meant to be read, but experienced. It wasn’t meant to be experienced, but felt.
I fell asleep, and I dreamed of Lena and Alex and their world. And when I woke up to the sunlight later in the morning, I no longer felt so alone.
It was an entirely different time of day two months later when, bored during creative writing class, I clicked onto a website my best friend Hannah was always bugging me to look at. It was called Figment, and right there on the homepage was a contest being judged by none other than Lauren Oliver herself.
I hadn’t written much in months—at that point, I was waiting on two full manuscript requests and hadn’t had the energy or inspiration to do much of anything since sending them out. I was awful at writing short stories, and I still hadn’t had a chance to get my hands on Delirium to finish it, but truthfully, I didn’t have a choice or a decision in the matter. I simply logged onto Figment, wrote out a scene as quickly as I could, and then submitted it to the contest, without thinking once of what might come of it.
I didn’t realize at the time how much my life would be affected by that contest. How much everything would change for me.
Heck, I didn’t even know if my story was any good or not. My thought was that it was more than likely terrible—I had just begun to experiment with a new style of writing that was more lyrical and (slightly) less jokey than what I’d previously done, thanks to my discovery of that sort of more serious writing through Delirium, and I still hadn’t quite found my way around it. On top of that, I had posted work on Figment before and gotten no comments outside of the very loyal Hannah, so I was scared to put myself out there, especially in a contest with such a big-name author judging the entries.
But it was Lauren Oliver, my idol. It was Lauren Oliver, the person who made the night seem bright as day.
I had to get my writing read by her. I had to be a finalist.
It became a do or die mission in my mind, making it to the top ten. I posted about it on my Facebook profile, asking for people to read my entry and vote for it if they liked it. I printed out flyers explaining the contest, and passed them around during my classes and theatre rehearsals. I gave speeches, and I talked to people I had never talked to before, and suddenly I was no longer in a state of in between. I was in a state of doing, and being, and living.
I had a purpose, again. I had a drive, again. And I wasn’t spending nearly as much time on Facebook.
When I found out I was a finalist in the Dystopia Contest, I might have cried a little. Not that I’d ever admit to that or anything. But there was certainly running around my house, screaming my lungs out until my throat was raw and my voice was hoarse. There was noise, activity, laughter and happiness and pure, unabated joy that wouldn’t go away for anything.
People I barely knew, hadn’t even talked to before the contest, stopped me in the hallways between classes to congratulate me on making it to the finals, on accomplishing my goal of getting my piece read by Lauren Oliver—Lauren Oliver!—and to wish me luck, hoping that I’d win.
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” I told one of the girls who had come up to me. We stood outside our AP language and composition class, waiting for the teacher to come unlock the door and let us in. Other students crowded around us, jostling for a position closer to the door, and several of them looked out the corners of their eyes at us. Since the contest had begun, I had gone from being that shy girl who liked to write to being The Writer. A title, a recognition. People knew me now.
“What do you mean?” the girl asked, shifting her weight and scrunching her eyebrows down low on her forehead. She uncrossed her arms for a moment, drawing attention to all the medals on her varsity jacket. “Contests are about winning.”
I half smiled at that before trailing off with an, “I know, but…” I twisted my fingers around themselves as I thought it over. The bell rang, our teacher came and unlocked the door, but the girl and the people standing around us, listening in on the conversation, didn’t move. “I guess it’s just that I’ve already won, in my mind,” I said. “Lauren Oliver’s reading my story. She might even be reading it right now. Who cares if I win, as long as I know that such an amazing writer’s read my stuff? That I’m worthy of her reading it?”
The girl twirled her strawberry blond hair and kind of shrugged in this way that told me she didn’t entirely get where I was coming from, but that was okay because I did, and for the first time in my life it seemed like that was good enough. Although I was enjoying all of the attention from my classmates, it was like I finally didn’t feel like I had to be accepted by them, as long as I accepted myself.
I had made a goal, and I had set out and completed it. There was nothing else like it in the world. There was energy and confidence in the way I walked and spoke and carried myself. I felt like I was alive, like the amor deliria nervosa had taken root in my heart and spread to my mind and my hands and my feet. I had taken a leap off a diving board by entering that contest, but I wasn’t drowning. Instead, I was swimming, and so well that I’m sure I could have given Michael Phelps a run for his gazillion gold medal endorsements.
“Well, I’m really happy for you, anyway,” the girl said as she turned to walk into class.
“Thanks.” My lips turned up in a smile as I followed her in.
Entering that contest, becoming a finalist—and eventually placing second, as the runner-up, despite the fact that after I finally got to read the rest of Delirium over the summer, I realized how much of a knock-off my story was… it changed my life.
Delirium made me brave again, after I had spent so much time being silent. It made me realize that it was all right to be myself, after I had spent so much time trying desperately, desperately to be anyone in the world other than me.
I spent no more nights feeling sorry for myself, staring at Facebook. Instead, I went out and did things. I entered more contests, set a record for most wins on Figment, got interviewed by them in New York, and had my work featured on the website’s homepage. I won other writing competitions, and got interviewed by a newspaper, and the valedictorian of my class mentioned me by name in her speech at graduation.
But at the same time, I also got rejected off of my full manuscript requests, and I didn’t get the part I wanted in the school play, and I got deferred from my dream school. My cat died. I found out some truths about the people around me that I really didn’t want to know.
Because life can never be perfect for long, right?
I got hurt, and I got broken. But the thing is, every time something bad happened to me, there was my copy of Delirium and a book light resting on my desk, constant and stable and waiting for me. There wasn’t despair.
Delirium became my go-to book all throughout my senior year of high school as I battled with writer’s doubt and grief. Lena was my shoulder to cry on, when there was no one else to run to. When things sucked in my own life, the gorgeous writing and amazing storyline reminded me why I loved to write, and why I loved to live—so that I might be half as good as Lauren Oliver one day. Because when there was pain in my life, writing helped wash it away on a tide of ink and notebook paper.
Delirium changed my life. When I learned one day that some girls in my mythology class had read it too, I struck up a conversation about it with them, and now they’re some of my closest friends. When I knew I was lost in my writing career but didn’t know how to fix it, discovering Delirium showed me exactly what I needed to see: that writing could be more than just a medium to convey emotion. It could be emotion.
It gave me the forward motion I needed to get out of the sagging middle and on to the climax. It took me out of a rut and built me new and gave me hope that there was more to life than shadows and quiet and loneliness.
Delirium made me realize that maybe I wasn’t so lost, after all. I just wasn’t looking in the right places.
Experts say that a person can fall head over heels in love in as little as a fifth of a second. That’s what happened with me when I stumbled upon Delirium.
I fell in love with it. And I fell in love with myself again, too.
Choose what next week’s Wordy Wednesday should be!
Today was my last day of school before summer vacation, which means that, yeah, I just finished my high school career — sat in my last classes, took my last exams, waved to my friends in the hallway for the last time.
It’s surreal. It’s bittersweet. I’ve been really nostalgic and sad about it for the past year or two (I’m not even kidding).
But then I also basically look like this right now:
(You tell ’em how it is, Puck!!!)
In other news, here’s your Wordy Wednesday for this week. 😛 This is a short story I wrote around this time last year for the Dystopia Contest with Lauren Oliver on Figment. It was the first contest I ever entered on there, and I was extremely honored to be awarded as runner-up/second place (despite the fact that I later realized this is basically exactly like Lauren Oliver’s own novel Delirium, which I didn’t read until after the contest — go figure).
“Tara.” Ryan comes up right behind me, taking my hand in his. With the other, he sweeps my too long bangs out of my face and back behind my ear. His rough skin leaves a series of tingles behind and I look down at our intertwined fingers, mashing my lips together.
“It’s too dangerous,” I whisper.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth.” I shrug away from his touch and turn so that we’re face to face. “What if we get caught? You don’t even know for sure if They exist.”
“They do.” He takes a step towards me, but again I step back.
“Please, you can’t go –” I break off as my eyes reach his.
“Stop pretending like you have any choice in the matter.”
At first I think he’s joking, and I crack a smile, but his caramel brown eyes remain stony and I feel my muscles tense, my features melt back into a frown.
“I’m going whether you want me to or not. If you’re too scared to come along, you don’t have to, but I’m going to find Them, and then we’ll come back for you.” He takes several steps forward so that he’s so close I can feel his breath on my cheek, and he cups my chin in his hands. “I love you, Tara.”
There they are. The four words that started it all.
It had been an accident the first time, I’m sure. A test of authority. A brush of lips on pink cheek, faint in the twilight the academy building cast during lunch, his voice a whisper, “I love you, Tara.”
Ryan hated it then, hates it now. All of it. The rules – inside before sunset, silent before 10:00 PM – and the checks – breathalyzers at the door, do you look too happy? Quick, check your blood, run a scan, what are you hiding?
We are human, our very existence our demise. We live to crave touch, affection, longing, and this is our problem. Love distracts us. At times like these, when the entire world infrastructure is on the brink of collapse, we need to focus on furthering our knowledge, being innovative above the other cultures as they try desperately to be innovative above ours… not love.
There’s a purpose behind the documents and rulebooks, regulations and regulators, but Ryan has never seen it.
When we were twelve, he pulled me back behind the gym and pressed his lips, wet with mist, to my cheek.
“What did you just do?” I had asked, touching my skin, surprised by the warmth.
“I love you, Tara,” he said simply.
If he had been anyone else, I would have reported him to a teacher and they would have sent him to a reform academy – it sounds crazy, but societies need order, and order doesn’t come from letting people off the hook just because they don’t, can’t see the bigger picture – but Ryan and I were friends, best friends, and I couldn’t do that to him.
After that, there were more and more infractions; kisses, crooked smiles, long talks into the night as we lie under a canopy of treetops where no one could see us, while on the streets just on the other side of the woods regulators searched for delinquents.
To love is to commit a crime, and somehow we have become criminals.
There was a way out, Ryan said. They, the Resistance, living in the northern part of the country, the part that the government abandoned after stripping it of its resources – we could sneak out, join Them.
“We can go there and be safe. We won’t have to hide anymore,” Ryan whispers, now.
“You know I can’t go,” I say, my voice a sigh, a quiver. I rest my head against the hollow between his collarbone and throat and feel the beat, rhythm, pulse, that marks him alive, warm and constant.
He’ll come back for me, he promises again before leaving, disappearing into the tree trunks and foliage. I bite my lip, try not to cry.
I turn back toward the road, toward home, when suddenly an arm wraps around my waist and spins me to face its master. Ryan presses his lips to mine, pulls our bodies together so that his hands are in my hair and mine are looped around his neck; one last kiss that fades far too quickly.
“I love you, Ryan,” I whisper into his shirt.
“Don’t forget that,” he replies. “Whatever you do, don’t forget love.”
This past Sunday was the annual awards gala for my theatre company. This is always a really big ordeal — all the girls wear their prom dresses and the guys wear their tuxes, and everyone walks around eating fancy desserts and stuff — but this year was particularly big for me since it was my last gala. And, as a senior and one of the leaders of the company, I was up for two really big awards.
I was completely blown away when I actually won both of them.
I got a fairly hefty scholarship from our drama boosters to spend on college stuff, aaand… wait for it… I WON THE OUTSTANDING THESPIAN AWARD!!!!!!!!! That is LITERALLY the highest honor the theatre company offers, and it means that my name’s going to be on a plaque in our lobby with all the other Outstanding Thespian Award winners from the past however-many-years we’ve been doing this award (along with the other two people who won it this year, too — who, by the way, it is A HUMUNGOUS HONOR to share the 2012 slot with! 🙂 ), and it’s just… incredible. I started crying. I never thought in a million years I’d get it, because there were a lot of other awesome and dedicated and talented people in my class, and they’re all a lot funnier, or more outgoing, or whatever-it-may-be than me. I’m just kind of there all the time, I’m not the kind of person who you really notice. Or who’s even really particularly likeable. And the Outstanding Thespian Award is based completely on the votes of the company, so it’s usually the really popular, I-am-the-face-of-the-company kids who get it.
And yeah. It was just incredible. IN. CRE. DI. BLE.