hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards, more words.

"was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me"

There are different types of books- non-fiction, fiction, literary, popular, kids, teen, adult- but the the dividing lines for me tend to bridge some of these gaps. There are good books, books that I nearly can't make it through because they don't capture my interest, and books that capture me completely. These are the books that I can't put down. The books that I don't want to end, but I can't stop reading. The books that I have to remind myself to eat while reading. The ones that my fingers itch to re-open. The ones that I re-read again and again. The ones that leave the pit in my stomach, to the point wherre I am physically hungry for the story.

These rare few aren't even always literary masterpieces. The writting might not always be the most eloquent or noteworthy. But that doesn't mean they aren't either. Dostovesky made me fall in love with a murderer. McEwan made me hope for a romance based on what was basically a one night stand. Rowling made magic real. Dessen used flaws to show the perfect. Collins made a horrific world that I still wanted to belong to. I wanted to be Hermione and Katniss and Macy and Anna and Liesel. And I fell in love with Peeta, Etienne, Wes, Raskolnikov, Razmuikhin, Jacob, Robbie, and Arthur. I wanted to be in their worlds, no matter how messed up they were.

This is why I want ot write. If I can't actually go to Panem, Hogwarts, Narnia, or a French boarding school, then I want ot create my own worlds. I can guaruntee they won't be as beautifully detailed as McEwan or as psycholoogical as Dostovesky- and not for lack of trying- but they will probably be more of the YA persuassion. Hopefully I won't ever sink to a Stephanie Meyers level either though. If nothing else I want to write these stories for me. To get them out of my head, but not lost. I realize that this is the most likely senario. It is the most practical. But that isn't really my scene either.

The stories never leave my head. They distract me and send me into wild daydreams. They are based off of every book, song, movie, and real life I've ever experienced. I could probably name at least one song that directly inspired a story in my head. Or multiple. I had to stop doing homework one day to begin a story inspired by Ryan Adams "Come Pick Me Up" because it was distracting me from what I was actually trying ot accomplish. These stories transport me, but that is because I know where they lead. I know the world they are in and the characters that populate them. I know the characters better than myself and yet they still surprise me. But what I want to know is if they would have the power to take other people somewhere else. If they could be a sanctuary and escape. If they could make the decript beautiful and the flawed perfect.

That's all I want. And it is too much to ask.

"more words than I have ever heard and I feel so alive"

Winter Winds

I went for a walk in the rain today. I had somewhere to go, but I took my time on the way back. Even with my hood up the tips of my hair was dripping and the front of my pants were soaked. I love to walk through the cemetery and I've always wanted to take pictures of the crumbling stones and trees that stand like pillars holding up the canopy over the path. Today, in the rain, I did. I almost wanted to spin around and dance in it once I was sufficiently drenched before I realized that even in the rain there would be plenty of witnesses to my madness.

I've walked down this path in sunshine, in mist, at night, with friends, in heels, and today in the pouring rain. I remember the first Sunday I realized the trees looked like the architecture of an ancient building and that night in my reading discovered that Charles Baudelaire had once seen the same thing I had. He had seen living pillars. He had felt words that were dim and confused. But his words, even when translated into a different language, did not seem dim or confused. I saw the image perfectly. I wanted to write my own to make someone else see. But I didn't try. I knew it wouldn't go quite right.

The winds remind me of home. I didn't realize they were absent until I heard them in the oak outside my window one afternoon. I always used to complain about the constant bluster, but now it delights me when my hair is picked up and tossed around by the breeze. I miss falling asleep to the white noise of a wind storm.

I haven't been home in three months and I won't for another three. And even then it may not be for long. I get to see family soon and I've never been one to turn down the chance to see somewhere new, but I kind of want to go home. Either way I wouldn't see my dad and by going to California I get to see my brother and his family. I won't have to deal with dreary Idaho March either. But I kind of envy my friend who is going back to Idaho to see his family for the first time in three months also. I miss my dog. And my bed. And being home.