Ella and the Basement

I’ve developed a new habit of locking myself in the basement for hours on end and forcing myself to write, and when the writing doesn’t go well, I read actual books to study successful authors’ technique instead of looking up weird things on the Internet.

And I have to say that it’s been working out very well. I like having a space all to myself that’s secluded and isn’t being used for sleeping or entertaining. There are six large bookcases at my disposal along with two craft closets, my father’s recording studio, piano, and seven guitars, a foosball table, a large table with eight chairs, and a large sofa. There’s also a tv, but I don’t think I’ve watched any actual show while it was airing for about a year at this point. No one else spends much time down there, and I could jump and down and scream without anyone hearing me (This is a theory, as I have yet to have an occasion to try it out.)

It’s much easier to force myself to adhere to the butt in chair rule when I’m not in my own room. My bed isn’t asking me to take a nap, and I don’t feel the need to reorganize everything on my desk. In the basement, I can take out my fancy markers and outline a scene on brown paper if I like and spread out on a table that’s bigger than Pippa’s bed.

Of course, at some point the novelty will wear off, and I’ll switch to writing somewhere else, but for now, I’m enjoying it.

In other news, Max woke me up at four a.m. to announce that it was breakfast time, so I have been a very sleepy Ella today.

In Which Ella Loses the Internet

I haven’t had proper Internet in four days, and it’s freaking me out, in the same stupid way that I get anxious when I don’t have a notebook with me or we’re out of orange juice. Suddenly, all I can think about is desperately needing what I don’t have. It doesn’t matter if it isn’t necessary for survival, I just yearn for them with the same passion I feel for my bed or air.

Yes, it’s selfish and foolish and whole other slew of incredibly negative attributes, but I can’t help myself. My normal habit of looking something up the moment I’m curious has been compromised and not knowing which Civil War battle involved a deadly trench created with explosives makes me incredibly anxious. My solar plexus tightens, I feel as if I’m going to hyperventilate, and I am physically uncomfortable for hours on end. (If anyone has the answer, please post it in the comments. I am waiting on tender hooks.)

And in a way, the denial of the object only increases my gratitude for it when it returns.

“Darling bottle of orange juice,” I’ll say, “You must never leave me alone again. I love you and your perfect sweet and tart taste, and your yellow hue was crafted by God himself. We were made with each other in mind. I miss you with my whole heart and simply can’t get on without you. Let’s hide out in the kitchen and toast the miracle of oranges with big tumblers filled with your beautiful nectar.”

Alright, I won’t really say that. I start laughing the moment anyone so much as says soul or begins a long declaration of love.

(I mean, cut to the chase, will you? I don’t need to hear about your yearning heart or that you think your love is like a haiku. Make it short and to the point, cut the Romantic Era pontifications, the ridiculous sonnets, and read Billy Collins’ “Litany” before I come in contact with you again.)

But I will spend a long time feeling happy and thankful and be very slow and through about enjoying whatever I’ve gotten back.

So Internet, we will spend hours researching the discovery of Kimodo Dragons and looking up articles on Syria when we return and be exceedingly happy about the time we’ll spend together. Get ready.

In the meantime, I’m indulging in something that never requires so much as electricity: reading. I’m going to have to ask you to whisper while I lie in bed with Max and flip through the pages.

Ella Surrounded By Books

I have always lived surrounded by books.

As a child, it was normal to check out at least twenty titles a month from the library and receive copious amounts of literature on holidays and birthdays. I assumed that it was common for people to constantly run out of shelf space and have long discussions about where to put new bookcases. The first thing we thought about while renovating was where we were going to put new shelves. Books have always mattered intensely to my family, and I thought that everyone else felt the same way.

Of course, by the time that I was school-age, it became quite obvious that the rest of the world did not operate as a mirror image to my home life. Some people don’t know what lentils are or prefer to spend large amounts of time watching television. We all make different choices about how to spend our free time that–as long as no one is being hurt–are all equally valid. But I still can’t shake my surprise that other people don’t care for books the way I do.

Last year, I read easily over a hundred books for school and pleasure. It wasn’t hard, and I still feel like I should have read more. I could have spent a lot less time on tumblr and watching The Office. I still feel like I have a huge book debt left over from high school when I was too busy to read over forty books a year.

Besides, I like to use books to sort of spy on people. When I’m at someone’s house, I love reading the titles of books they have lying about. You can learn quite a bit about someone from what they’re reading. (i.e. Audrey’s bookshelf is littered with books about the Middle East, a testament to her passion for social activism and human rights, and works from the Beat Generation, reflecting her interest in counterculture.) It’s a wonderful way to gain insight into their lives. Free time is limited, and people rarely read something they don’t have any form of connection to. The books we read are extensions of ourselves and our interests.

My bookshelves are stuffed, books cram my desk and bedside table and sit on the floor in rather precarious towers. I own fat tomes about American history and silly YA romances. I have Salinger’s complete works inches from my pillow, and I keep a few books in bed with me. (I’ve woken up with weird crease marks on my face too many times to count.) Test prep books and heavily annotated school texts sit in two fat stacks in a corner, banished as far away as the room’s perimeter will allow. If you were to look at the hundreds of titles in my room, you’d have a fair understanding of my personality and interests without ever meeting me.

I simply can’t imagine a life without books.

Day two of being sick draws to close. I think I managed to bruise my nose by hitting my face on a cabinet.

Here’s a third of my books that are currently without a home in a bookshelf. This is the stack of books I’ve purchased or been given in the past six months. I’ve read all of them.


In Which Ella Visits Many, Many Parks on Her Way to Maureen Johnson’s In the Name of the Star Book Launch

A month and a half later, I am picking up the story of the time I went to Maureen Johnson’s book launch and got to talk to Libba Bray right where I left off, sitting in a park and reading The Help at about 2:30 in the afternoon.

If you’d like to read the story start to finish, which I highly recommend you do, you can start here with A Scintillating Story in Which Ella Nearly Loses a Boot, Takes a Train, and Eats Lunch and then move onto In Which Ella Has a Costume Change. Those links will open those posts in another window, so you don’t have to worry about having to find this post again.

Okay, done reading?

Great, let’s go.

I had chosen a bench half under a shrub, in an attempt to avoid the sun, and was instead rewarded with a healthy amount of leaves taking up residence in my hair, which optimistically, gave me the look of a wood nymph, but more realistically, made me look like I stuck my head in a shrub. I am nothing if not glamorous.

Leaves or no leaves, I continued reading The Help. Like with any good book, all it took was a few paragraphs for me to fall into a new world. The heat and humidity suddenly didn’t just belong to the city, and I was no longer sitting on an uncomfortable green metal bench. No, I was in Jackson, Mississippi in the early 1960s, a few years before my parents were born, drinking lemonade and contemplating the injustices of racism and the poor treatment of maids by their white employers. I was hanging over Skeeter’s shoulder as she labored over the typewriter in her stifling attic bedroom and following around Aibleen as she did her ironing while watching soaps.

But then the spell was broken when a man in a suit sat down next to me and began to have an extreme loud conversation on his cellphone with his health insurance company. Next, a dog ran through the park chasing a squirrel, nearly knocking down several people in its zeal, and I was totally distracted. So I got up, stuffed the book back into my purse and went to go find the bookstore to make sure I knew where it was for later.

I found it, the store almost perfectly bisecting a long numbered block with a huge Maureen Johnson display set up right in the front of the store. But I still had almost three hours to kill. I owed my mother a Mother’s Day present, the result of an agreement where she would tell me what she wanted when she found it, and it seemed like thanks to the power of texting pictures and calling her, I might be able to find something for her in one of the many boutiques in the area. And indeed I did.

Right next door to the bookstore was a very large art supply store. I went in, enticed by the neoprene laptop cases and my love of paint color charts. (While I may not be a very good artist, I have always been fond of art supplies and lucky enough to have family members who are very artistic, namely a mother who is known for her impressive gift wrapping and card-making skills and an uncle and aunt who are architects who also spend a lot of time drawing and painting and designing.) Speaking of my mother and gift-wrapping (And I’m talking about the fancy type of gift-wrapping here, not the I-got-this-pretty-paper-and-tied-a-bow wrapping. She spends all year visiting stationary shops and buying sheets of beautiful wrapping paper, tissue paper, stickers, ribbons, and cardstock. My favorite picks of hers so far this year have been a piece of incredibly soft paper that looks like eyelet fabric and some textured rice paper. This Christmas, I’m going to take pictures of the presents so you can see.), right to the right of the door they had a gift wrap section, with sheets draped on at least ten displays. Of course, I immediately called my mother.

After about ten minutes of debate, I selected three sheets (pictured below) and got them wrapped up in brown paper, also purchasing some funny sticky notes and jars to give to Maureen Johnson. Whenever I know that I’m going to meet someone whose work has really impacted me and that I really enjoy, I always feel like I need to bring them a present, to have some sort of tangible way of them knowing how much I care.

With that shopping done and a very excited mother waiting for me at home, I walked north again, towards another park to purchase dinner and read. I am not sure if many of you know about the glorious burger place called Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, but if you don’t, I highly recommend that you make its acquaintance posthaste. It’s part of Danny Meyer’s Union Square Hospitality Group that also runs other amazing restaurants like Grammercy Tavern and Union Square Café. Being somewhat of a hamburger and chocolate milkshake fanatic, I was throughly ready for dinner even though it was only four in the afternoon.

Some man had been collecting Venti-sized Starbucks coffee cups and was in the process of creating an amazing mobile like structure in a storefront. He was seated in the lit window display on a short, worn wooden stool, cup in hand, holding a thin paintbrush, painting a beautiful swirl of dark blues over the green mermaid logo. A palate was at his feet, covered with thick globs of paint, and there were scattered rolled up, but still carefully and tightly capped tubes of paint, covered with dried paint fingerprints and flecks. I would have paused and watched him, but the young children with their noses pressed up against the glass, fresh out of school, nannies holding their backpacks, seemed to be bothering him, so I walked on. Maybe someday soon I’ll walk past that store again and see it completed, cups twisting about on their strings as they are buffeted about by the air from heating ducts. But more likely than not, by the time I’m back in that area of the city, the cup mobile will be gone, part of only an endless tide of seasonal window dressings.

The park was crowded, the way it always is, so I walked its perimeter looking for an open space on a bench, trying to avoid eye contact with the homeless people begging for change. One followed me for a while, but there really was no reason to be scared. The whole park was full of people and if anything remotely bad would have happened to me all I would have needed to do was scream and thrash about and someone would have come to my aid. Besides, just because someone is homeless does not mean that they are a bad person or have any intent to harm, they are simply in need of aid. (However, I would advise you to rarely give money to them on the streets because in many cases they use it to further their drug habits. Instead, hand them unopened food or donate to organizations that help the homeless.)

I bought myself a hamburger and chocolate milkshake and settled down on my second green metal bench of the day and read as I ate and drank. Finishing The Help, I moved onto skimming one of the Maureen Johnson books I had brought along for her to sign. At some point some man sat down next to me to talk on his cellphone and then when he finished the call, which I hadn’t been listening to, he apologized for using so many curse words that he thought I would be upset by, judging by the “innocent” book I was reading. And then he started asking me about the book and myself. So I did what I very frequently do when on airplanes and made up an alternate persona.

Now there is uncomfortable I can put up with, and there is uncomfortable that really creeps me out. And maybe it’s because I am automatically and somewhat unreasonably distrustful of adults who start talking to me in parks in the city (unless they have young children with them or are asking for directions), but I really did not want to continue talking to him, no matter how normal he seemed. So I made my very speedy exit from the park and went back to the bookstore even though I still had close to an hour before the book launch.

And it actually turned out to be a good thing that I left when I did. When I got to the store around ten minutes later, there were already plenty of people there and it took a while for the store to get the book I reserved. I don’t normally go to events alone, and it was strange to be standing with no one to talk to in a room full of people chatting. But it sure made for fantastic eavesdropping. A few more minutes of standing around awkwardly later, it became apparent that hardly any of the other people knew each other before the event, either.

And that’s what I like about books: they bring people together. Every person there felt passionate enough about Maureen Johnson and her books to go to go to a bookstore for her book launch even though it was a school/work night. Some people even drove from Massachusetts (a state I will never spell properly, despite my sometimes residency) and Delaware. That means that they would be getting home quite, quite late! And yet they came because people love books, and people also love Maureen Johnson.

And let me tell you, even if Maureen Johnson wasn’t a fabulous author, I still would have gone to any event she hosted, because Maureen Johnson is hilarious and so much fun. She’s got a very funny blog and is amazingly fun to follow on Twitter. She tweets constantly and is known for such gems as:

But she also tackles more serious topics. Today, she was talking about Penguin deciding to stop allowing libraries to atop lending ebooks and the scrutiny books aimed at women are placed under, specifically Twilight.

I’ll leave the story here for the night, and pick it back up again tomorrow. That post is already written and has been set to publish at eight p.m.

(Note: This is the second time I’ve written this post, as the first copy was destroyed when my computer crashed. Thankfully, this version is far superior to the original. I’m beginning to think that my blog was conspiring against me to improve the quality of my work.)

For the month, you can find me updating my word count on NaNoWriMo here. (I need to do it more regularly so that it doesn’t become flat for a few days, only to receive an enormous spike, indicating that I somehow magically wrote about twelve thousand words in one day.)

And as always, you can also find me on tumblr at http://emleng93.tumblr.com/, if, you know, you’re into that kind of thing.

Lola and the Boy Next Door

Lola and the Boy Next Door by Stephanie Perkins

17-year-old Lola seems to have it all: an awesome best friend, a hot rocker boyfriend, and the coolest clothes. That is, until the dreaded Bell twins move back in next door. Cricket Bell is suddenly part of her life again, and her current relationship with Max seems to be developing some deep cracks. And what about the Marie Antoinette dress she’s making for the winter dance?

Stephanie Perkins’ sophomore novel is just as delightful and swoon-worthy as her 2010 Anna and the French Kiss, and readers who couldn’t get enough of Anna and Étienne St. Clair, will be thrilled that they make a reappearance that feels authentic and unforced.

Set against the backdrop of San Fransico, Perkins makes the city feel as dynamic as the characters themselves. You too will feel like you’re walking around the Castro district and living in an old Victorian just like Lola. One of the novel’s greatest strengths is how Perkins portrays Lola’s family. Lola has two gay dads, and by avoiding preaching about LGBTQ rights and presenting Lola’s family as perfectly normal, Perkins ends up makes a bigger statement. Additionally, unlike so many young adult fiction romances, Perkins’ characters are wonderfully realistic with legitimate shortcomings and quirks, and the love story unfolds in an incredibly lifelike manner.

It will be impossible to finish this novel without also falling in love with the boys and dreaming of creating outfits as awesome and daring as Lola’s. Move over Sarah Dessen, Stephanie Perkins just might be the new queen of YA romance.

And as always, you can also find me on tumblr at http://emleng93.tumblr.com/, if, you know, you’re into that kind of thing.

Ella’s Review: The Future of Us by Jay Asher and Carolyn Mackler

I finished The Future of Us by Jay Asher and Carolyn Mackler a few weeks ago, and I thought that I’d share my review with all of you this evening.

The Future of Us by Jay Asher and Carolyn Mackler

Josh and Emma had always been close friends until an incident the previous November, but when Josh gives Emma an AOL CD-ROM for her new computer their lives collide once again as they embark on an amazing digital adventure. Not only does Emma have access to the limited internet content of the late nineties, but she also discovers her Facebook profile fifteen years in the future. During a whirlwind week, Emma and Josh are faced with the ethical dilemma of whether or not to change their future through deliberate actions now or to let their lives unfold naturally.

While the perspective alters from Josh to Emma every other chapter (written by Asher and Mackler, respectively) the book reads fluently with no disruption in style. Also, by writing for their own gender, Asher and Mackler create a more realistic tone for the characters than you find in most YA novels. For those of us old enough, this book will bring back nostalgia of the nineties, the days when using the internet meant listening to the funky noises of a dial-up connection and websites could take (gasp!) over thirty seconds to load, while younger readers will wonder how we all managed to survive without cellphones and Youtube. But perhaps the book’s greatest strength is the way in which you, the reader, will find yourself pondering Josh and Emma’s dilemma long after you finish the final pages. Would you change your future if you could?

If you’d like, you can leave your answer to Josh and Emma’s dilemma in the comments. I’d love to hear what you all think.

Also, I’m looking for some fun ideas for challenges I can do in the coming weeks. I’ve got about eleven days before Nation Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and my daily writing schedule has been getting a little monotonous. Any post ideas or things you’d like to see me complete? You can also ’em in the comments along with your answer to the first question.

And as always, you can also find me on tumblr at http://emleng93.tumblr.com/, if you’re into that kind of thing.

Ella and Holden Caulfield

I am currently in a writing and talking time-out because I just finished reading The Catcher in the Rye (for the millionth time) and can’t stop talking and writing like Holden Caulfield. Also, the book makes me cry a lot. Because there is nothing more upsetting than sitting on the edge of that cliff between childhood and adulthood. And sometimes, I want to be with Holden, running interference in that field of rye, stopping the children from falling over the edge. Grabbing their little bodies in bear hugs, trying to let them remain blissfully ignorant of all the hurt and badness in the world for just a little bit longer. But that would never work. We’re all supposed to fall over that edge at some point and tumble down the rocky cliff.

I think that the act of falling is both the scariest and the most important part of your life, that time when you know that you’re not a kid anymore, but you haven’t hit the ground and become an adult yet. You can see the ground rushing up underneath you, and your body is painfully tensing for impact because the closer you get, the more your blithe assumptions are shattered. It becomes suddenly apparent that adults aren’t these foreign, super-hero or villain characters. They’re just as human and fallible as everyone else. It’s like falling in love with a celebrity or someone else you hardly know and then discovering what they’re really like. And it’s such a crushing diappointment.

When I was a kid, I had two theories about the world, and I don’t know which was more insane. I thought that some people were born adults, that was the way they always were, and when they talked of their childhood, it was all a lie and they were just preprogrammed to say it. And if that wasn’t it, I was convinced that I was the only real being in the world and everyone else was made up. Now, I know that the first one can’t possibly be true because as of now I’m pretty much what I had formerly deemed a preprogrammed adult, and I sure as heck wasn’t born yesterday. It took me eighteen years and close to five months to get to this point. All of those things in my childhood when I was running through the rye really did happen. But I’m still not sure about the second. It’s downright selfish and I don’t think about it a lot, but if it is true, then this is one heck of an interesting dream or experiment.

What really gets me about the book, though, is just how much Holden is hurting because he knows he’s falling, and he’s petrified. That scene where Phoebe asks him what he really likes and all he can truthfully say is her and Allie kills me. It just kills me. But it’s a book, and I can’t run screaming through the streets of New York City looking for Holden so that I can tell him that it’s alright and that I understand. But even if I could do that, I don’t think he’d accept my help–he just doesn’t seem like the type. But I want to. I want to so much that it makes me crazy.

I get hung up on that scene where he’s playing checkers with Jane and she starts crying, so he goes over and sits next to her on the glider and starts kissing her anywhere on her face but her mouth. And I think that that’s one of the best parts of the novel because it’s so impossibly kind and good. Holden’s just comforting her the best way he knows how, but he never ends up getting that from anybody in return. I find myself rereading it over and over and crying. And the hand-holding with Jane–that gets me too. But everything in that book makes me cry: from the descriptions of the Museum of Natural History to his memories of James Castle and the turtleneck sweater.

I can’t even put into words how much this book affects me and how much I care for Holden. It just makes me all achy in my solar plexus*. But what I really mean to say is that I love Holden, and I want to comfort him so badly, and I can’t, and that hurts.

I don’t really know how all of this reads or if it actually makes sense. I just know that I’m also falling and as much as I’m scared, I’m fascinated with the whole process. I could spend my whole life thinking about that fall, and in many ways, I want to. I’m trying desperately to write a novel about it, and I want to keep writing story after story of people falling. A million bildungsromans.

And I don’t ever want to forget about this falling, the way that it seems most people do or deny how difficult it is. Because right now, that seems like the biggest problem with adults. They get too focussed on their patterns of living, of going to work, fixing dinners, raising children, to really think–and I mean think–about growing older. Not in the way that their hair is turning grey and their eyesight is degrading, but what’s going on inside their heads and what happened and changed in there when they were younger.

* And I know that solar plexus sounds all weird and scientific, but I can never make myself say gut or stomach because those both aren’t even remotely true. And I hate it when people say stomach when they’re referring to their abdomen. If they’re going to be inaccurate, they should at least say small intestine, because that thing takes up an awful lot of space.

In other news, there is someone in a SUV in front of my neighbors’ house, waiting for their daughter to run outside and honking, never mind the fact that it’s one a.m. Apparently, the people in the car have forgotten the concept of ringing a doorbell or using their cellphone to alert them that they have arrived. There are so many families with young children on this block that really do not need to be woken up. And whoever is driving that car has obviously never before tried to put a crying two-year-old back to bed.

You can also find me lurking about on tumblr at http://emleng93.tumblr.com/.

Ella’s Shocking Discovery

Today, I discovered something shocking: Not everyone likes The Great Gatsby.

To be clear: Some part of me always knew that this was true. Not every person likes every book. But the knowledge that someone would vehemently dislike what I deem to be the masterpiece to end all masterpieces is very difficult to comprehend.

This should not have made me cry.

Or sulk in my room for the next hour.

But it did.

Fingers crossed that tomorrow will be a better day.

And as always, you can also find me on tumblr at http://emleng93.tumblr.com/, if you’re into that kind of thing.

In Which Ella Reviews The Name of the Star

It’s 2011, not 1888, but Jack the Ripper is loose in London, and once again he’s impossible to catch. Murdering women and this time also men right in front of the watchful eyes of the CCTV cameras, he’s recreating each of the six murders down to the exact dismembering of the bodies. And just like in 1888, he has the attention of the entire world.

Enter Rory, a seventeen-year-old girl from Louisiana attending Westford, a London boarding school. One night Rory catches a glimpse of a creepy man walking away from the scene of the fourth murder, the man the police believe to be their prime suspect. But there’s a catch—only Rory was able to see him, not even her roommate who was with her at the time or the CCTV camera pointed directly at the crime.

The Name of the Star will send tingles up your spine as you uncover the reasons for why only Rory can see the Ripper and keep you on the edge of your seat as you follow her attempts to catch him. But the book is more than just your average YA thriller. Sure, it’s got suspense and plenty of action, but it’s also a story of friendship in light of troubling times. Despite branching out into a new genre, Johnson retains her humorous and witty style that her fans adore. She will make you laugh out-loud with her descriptions of Rory’s family back home, her negligee-wearing grandmother and uncle who freezes jars of peanut butter and yogurt, and you’ll wish you had friends as loyal and fun as Rory’s new British ones. This book is impossible to put down and a must for the spooky Halloween season.

Warning: Do not read this thriller at night or you’ll find yourself unable to sleep for hours as every creak in the house sounds like the Ripper’s footfalls coming and closer to your bed.

And as always, you can also find me on tumblr at http://emleng93.tumblr.com/, if you’re into that kind of thing.

In Which Ella Declares Her Love for the Night

Oh for goodness sakes am I tired. My eyelids burn, my head is heavy, and I want nothing more than to lean over, bury my head in the pillows, and just sleep. For hours and hours and hours. But it’s not exactly an option.

It is night, and I hate to waste it sleeping. These dark hours are my favorite. It’s as if I am the only one alive in the world, and I can do whatever I want without anyone ever seeing or knowing. I do my best writing after midnight, and I’ve grown accustomed to the clock showing one, two, even three in the morning before I drift off. But the exhaustion is worth it just to have those quiet hours where it’s only me and the crickets chirping.

Perhaps it’s because bad things never happen in the middle of the night, and you don’t have to deal with all of the sucky parts of the day. You’re running away from them, but this time it’s okay. You can’t be expected to fix an argument or stop being so depressed because everyone’s asleep and every place is closed. So it’s okay to pretend that everything is alright and that you’re gonna be okay.

And the cats are always up. They climb up on my bed. All three of them. Rolley fur-balls, nuzzling their wet noses and mouths against my hand and settling down in the most inconvenient places, forcing me to contort my body in order to share the bed. But I don’t mind. I think they might be the best companions in the world. But people are still pretty good, too.

Sometimes, you don’t have to share the darkness alone. Sometimes, there’s someone there with you to talk to and say things you never would if it were light out. The night makes life feel a little more safe to let down all of those barriers. I love talking on the phone, leaning halfway off my bed, seeing how close I can get my head to the floor before I overbalance and have to grab at the sheets to avoid falling. I love talking to people at sleep-overs until the wee hours and when they fall asleep in the middle of an answer, leaving me wondering how lucky I am to have friends like them.

But most of all, I love how not so many people like the night as much as I do. It’s my time, all for me, and it’s rare that I ever have to share it. I get to be horribly selfish with absolutely no consequences.

But as much as I’d like to, I can’t stay up until all hours tonight. I really ought to go to bed. Because tomorrow morning, I’m going on an adventure.

I’m taking my self to MoMA and to a book launch for Maureen Johnson’s In the Name of the Star. I might go my favorite book store and to nerdfighter MJ party. Maybe I’ll take some pictures to share. I’ll write in a park and make up stories while I’m riding on the subway. It’ll be amazing.

But when I come home, it’ll be dark again, and I’ll have these wonderful hours just to be, exactly the way I like it.

And as always, you can also find me on tumblr at http://emleng93.tumblr.com/, if you’re into that kind of thing.