A Room Without Books Is Like A Body Without A Soul

-Marcus Tullius Cicero

Have I ever been more content, especially in the last several weeks, than I have been while roaming the shelves of our school's library? Probably not. I can think of very few things that bring me more joy than to select a book not-quite-at-random (I do have my own ill-defined standards) and to read some lines, paragraphs, or pages. I also like to take a look at its history; how often has it been checked out, when, and by whom? I am always sad when I find a book that has never been checked out. How sad! Sometimes, if I find a check-out card that is fairly full (of stamps, varied handwriting with different colored ink, and lots of names), or has a familiar name (such as that of a teacher's), or hasn't been checked out in a while (but was quite popular in 1978), I will steal the card. I suppose that, to these books, I am something like the Grim Reaper. What are these cards to these books? Their memories, their souls, their pasts? Are they grieved to be parted with the cards? Are they looking forward to a new card? Or are they just books who could really care less about the piece of cardstock in the pocket glued in their cover?

Whatever.

You know I love books, and I would never intentionally hurt their feelings. Books are the only reliable escape for me and so many others. Movies are good, yes, but they are over so quickly, and there are some things that you can capture in a book that you just can't get in a movie. It is difficult to explain - but if you have ever read such books as Wuthering Heights or The Thirteenth Tale or any book that delves deeper than just what happens, then you can understand. With a movie, it is hard to capture any more than just what happens. In a book, there are no such limits. Your mind isn't limited to just what happens. If you are lucky enough to have found a good book, you are consumed by what happens, why it happens, who these people are, why they are who they are, their interactions, their feelings, thoughts, questions, uncertainties... You can become completely lost in just one character of a good book, nevermind the all-involving story!

I love the characters. Every time I open a book, I can't wait to meet the characters. I am always looking for one to connect with, and once I do, I emulate them. I think I can honestly say that my personality is a mesh of the characters I have met, adored, and mimicked throughout my life. My stubbornness and fits of passion? Catherine Earnshaw/Linton. My ability to be manipulated and attraction to mystery? Christine Daae. My desire to shock and surprise and be strong? Felicity (Gemma Doyle Trilogy). My belief that you should always help if you can? Samantha (American Girls). May I point at that there are some contradictions in some of those qualities? That would account for my confusion. I am constantly trying to decide: Is it more desirable to be like this character or like this character? In each book, each character is presented as the most desirable... none of them are presented objectively. So trying to emulate all of them is a very confusing and self-contradicting process. Not even just self-contradicting, but other-character-contradicting.

Being wild and without inhibitions is intimidating, but intriguing. Being gentle and generous is defenseless, but offers an opportunity to be defended. Pessimism is unromantic in its negativity but romantic in its possibility to be denied and defeated. Optimism is unromantic in its lack of need, but romantic in its endless joy. I have spent my entire life reading, absorbing traits from all over the specturm, and observing their advantages. I want to be both ends of all spectrums - I can't be - but in any situation, I am instinctively moved to be both. This is confusing in oh-so-many ways. Not only am I confused now by what I want to be, by my lack of knowing which is better to be, but I am also confused by the fact that I don't know what I really am. Without the influence of any books or characters, where on these spectrums would I fall all on my own? I think it's too late to ever know for sure.

I have quoted Muriel Rukeyser before, in August, as having said, "The world is up of stories, not atoms." I want to remind you of the truth of that. I, for one, am certainly made up more of stories than atoms! I surely am not the only one. But, if I have to be made of anything other than atoms, stories are surely the best thing.

I have to admit that writing this post while sitting anywhere other than a library feels a tad bit like blasphemy; however, I have yet to encounter a library that will allow me to access my blog, and so I will simply have to cope.

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The World is Made Up of Stories, Not Atoms.

-Muriel Rukeyser

Four years ago, I was fourteen. I was in Junior High, I believe... or possibly a freshman. And I thoroughly enjoyed The Phantom of the Opera--the book. I don't know if the new musical movie was out at the time, but I had become so intrigued by what I had heard of the story, that I decided to read the book. It was very difficult for me, and much that I didn't understand--but I loved it.

I loved it so much that I wrote a really lame fanfiction story that I don't really expect you to look at, but thought that I might provide for you in case you were curious. It was a sequel to The Phantom of the Opera, and it wasn't very good--I was fourteen, after all.

But it got a lot of really good reviews! I was so encouraged! I had a very elaborate plot worked out that I was proud of--meaning in all the weird things that happened. I think I even had an ending in mind.

Then I got one bad review. It was the longest one I had yet to recieve, and it was rather upsetting at the time. Soon afterwards, I had reviews that said not to worry about what that person said--develope the characters how I wanted to. It is my story, after all, and I am the one writing it. So I tried. I really did. But the sixth chapter just never did meet completion, and now it had most certainly been lost forever, since all our computers have certainly been reformatted since then--probably more than once--and I don't even remember which computer I was writing on.

But tonight, I felt this urge to write, and I was looking around on a few writing sites for some ideas, and one of them was fanfiction.net. I remembered that I had put something on there before, so I decided to go for a moonlit stroll down memory lane. I read all five chapters, and then I went back and read the reviews.

And I wished I could finish it. I wished that all the people who were online four years ago would be guaranteed to still be online... just like I wasn't. I wished I knew how I should end it. I wished I had not disappointed all those, "Please post the next chapter!"s and "I can't wait to see how it ends!"s.

And even more so, I wanted to write. I wanted to write so bad. I wanted to be able to pull an intriguing thought out of my head, and organize it into an intricate plot, and share it with anyone who would be willing to spare a few minutes. I wanted it. And I want it now.

Unfortunately, my brain feels so garbled right now. My head has hurt regularly, without fail, every night for several nights in a row now, and I am so stressed with school starting. I have never been more upset about the beginning of school.

I have started and worked on so many stories, but never to complete one. I've tried. I've mapped out chapters, done character designs, descriptions, and sketches. I've illustrated covers, drafted scenes, written prologues. I have worked so hard, but I just can't seem to accomplish anything substantial... I lose my momentum, I forget about, I lose my papers... and it's back to square one.

Always on square one.

<3 o.