Don't worry about what you're writing or whether it's good or even whether it makes sense.
Lauren OliverStichwörter: writing-process nanowrimo
One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart.
Lauren OliverMost things, even the greatest movements on earth, have their beginnings
in something small. An earthquake that shatters a city might begin with a
tremor, a tremble, a breath. Music begins with a vibration. The flood that
rushed into Portland twenty years ago after nearly two months of straight
rain, that hurtled up beyond the labs and damaged more than a thousand
houses, swept up tires and trash bags and old, smelly shoes and floated
them through the streets like prizes, that left a thin film of green mold
behind, a stench of rotting and decay that didn’t go away for months,
began with a trickle of water, no wider than a finger, lapping up onto the
docks.
And God created the whole universe from an atom no bigger than a
thought.
It’s weird how much people change...
It’s kind of sad, if you think about it. Like there’s no continuity in people at all. Like something ruptures when you hit twelve, or thirteen, or whatever the age is when you’re no longer a kid but a “young adult,” and after that you’re a totally different person. Maybe even a less happy person. Maybe even a worse one.
Love will turn the whole world into something greater than itself.
Lauren OliverStichwörter: life love good true
So how's Cupid Day treating you?" He pops a mint in his mouth and leans closer. It grosses me out, like he thinks he can seduce me with fresh breath. "Any big romantic plans tonight? Got someone special to cozy up next to?" He raises his eyebrows at me.
[...]
"We'll see," I say, smiling. "What about you? Are you going to be all by your lonesome? Table for one?"
He leans forward even more, and I stay perfectly still, willing myself not to pull away.
"Now why would you assume that?" He winks at me, obviously thinking that this is my version of flirting--like I'm going to offer to keep this company or something.
I smile even wider. "Because if you had a real girlfriend," I say, quietly but clearly, so he can hear every word perfectly, "you wouldn't be hitting on high school girls.
I’ve learned to get really good at this—say one thing when I’m thinking about something else, act like I’m listening when I’m not, pretend to be calm and happy when really I’m freaking out. It’s one of the skills
you perfect as you get older. You have to learn that people are always listening.
I’ll tell you another secret, this one for your own good. You may think the past has something to tell you. You may think that you should listen, should strain to make out its whispers, should bend over backward, stoop down low to hear its voice breathed up from the ground, from the dead places. You may think there’s something in it for you, something to understand or make sense of.
But I know the truth: I know from the nights of Coldness. I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It’s hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside of you like a stone.
Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging at your back and running its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do—the only thing—is run.
Are you sure you can't dematerialize? Not even a little?"
"I'm sure.
Stichwörter: funny human-problems
Summer explodes into Portland. In early June the heat was there but not the color--the green were still pale and tentative, the morning had a biting coolness--but by the last week of school everything is Technicolor and splash, outrageous blue skies and purple thunderstorms and ink-black night skies and red flowers as brights as spots of blood.
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