I am in love with art,
With the way people create their own worlds,
Tell their own stories,
Decorate a blank space,
Make something beautiful out of nothing.
I am in love with art
And with people.
Different personalities,
Values, and passions,
But each one is special.
Soft moments of tender care,
Eyes full of fire,
Smiles of pure joy.
I am in love with the world
And with art and with life.
I am in love with blue skies and sunsets,
With wind and warm hugs.
I am in love with love.
I love with such intensity
It all becomes a part of me,
Sewn into my patchwork heart,
Invading every fiber of my being
And driving out the dark.
In ten years, I’ll be who I am today, but a little bit older and a little bit better. In ten years, I’ll still be writing. In ten years, I’ll still make art. I’ll still love my family and friends, still enjoy all of the little things about life. I might be busier than I am now, but I’ll still enjoy the journey. I’ll probably be out of college, with a budding career as a journalist. Maybe I’ll live in New York City, and I’ll go out every weekend to share my art in Central Park. I might have a part time job and a small apartment while my career is still getting started. I’ll probably share the apartment with my sister–we’ll take on the city together and travel when we can. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll be amazing. In ten years, I’ll still be me.
I am a pen
Picked up and set down
Again and again.
Some days I write
Lists of lies,
Others I’ll plan
One day at a time.
I’ve been ignored before.
I’m not like the computer.
I guess Google Docs
Holds onto thoughts better,
But the computer isn’t there
In your pocket
For sweet thoughts out and about.
The best poems come from pens
And that’s without a doubt.
She doesn’t stand a chance,
Won’t order on her own,
Can’t speak up to a stranger.
She can’t sing.
She can’t dance.
They tell her she should try.
“Never give up, fly high.”
She doesn’t stand a chance,
But she picks up the pen and writes,
Takes the brush and fights.
In front of the mirror,
She tries to dance.
Maybe she’ll get a chance.
She’s off to the big city.
She’s buying her own coffee.
She says, “I like your dress,”
To someone she didn’t know.
She’s dancing with the others
Outside before the show.
She’s only in the crowd
And no one even knows,
But she’s here,
And she’s alive,
And she has a chance.
“Who are your friends?” they ask.
Really, it’s a short list.
Still, every name is special,
A bead upon the string,
The string around my wrist.
We never did wear bracelets.
Our necklaces got lost,
No symbols to be seen.
Life’s the only string we’ve got.
K has always been there,
My leader, everything she shares,
A silver bead, the centerpiece.
A stood up for me,
Strength and care she shows,
A maroon bead that glows.
A and E don’t go too deep,
Still, excited fun we seek,
A sunlight bead of happy.
S is one who writes like I do,
He inspires me to try things new,
A cerulean bead who encourages me.
L and M have come and gone;
In distant past, R and J slipped away.
Still, their colored beads remain.
I’ve got these beads upon my wrist,
And if I had only one wish,
I’d repay all of their friendship
And give them only happiness.
I don’t want to be a poet,
Writing out my dreams.
I don’t want to be an artist,
Putting images to fantasy.
I don’t want to be a blogger,
Typing out relationships.
I don’t want to be a dancer,
Moving wild and free.
I don’t want to be a singer,
Shouting out a story.
I don’t want to be
Crippled by a dream.
I want to be a daughter,
Making my parents proud.
I want to be a sister,
Giving my siblings smiles.
I want to be a friend,
Giggling through the night.
I want to be an encouragement,
Picking others up.
I want to be a Christian,
Living in the light.
I want to be a human,
Living vibrantly.
Creating magic
In the world around me.
I don’t want to miss a moment,
Focusing on only one thing.
I don’t want to be alone
In my world of beauty.
I want to write.
I want to draw.
I want to blog.
I want to dance.
I want to sing.
I want to have fun.
I want to smile.
I want to talk.
I want to laugh.
I want to help.
I won’t be
Crippled by a dream.
I will be a human.
I will write, draw, blog, dance, and sing.
I will have fun, smile, talk, laugh, and help.
I will live vibrantly.
A rock hard sky glares down on a busy parking lot. People run for their cars to avoid the coming rain. The scene looks ordinary, but someone bursts into tears as soon as he’s safely hidden in his car. His thoughts are as dark as the sky. He watches the raindrops on the window without moving. He doesn’t have a home to turn to. “What’s the point, anyway?” he’s tempted to ask.
This is a made up scene, but many people who feel hopeless might ask the same question. The good news is, God has an answer. He created people with the purpose of glorifying Him. For Christians, our mission is more specific. We’re here to glorify God, and to recruit others to do the same.
This isn’t an end-all answer. It can be hard to glorify God when everything seems to be a mess. One way to practically walk through a valuable life is to pay attention to the little victories. Oftentimes it helps our mental state when we focus on the easy moments and pieces of beauty that God gives to us.
In God’s view, everyone has value. Every moment until the very end is special, so the elderly can still honor God and take advantage of His joys. The same goes for the disabled. More struggles simply means more chances for victory. Every life is important, even those that haven't started yet. They can see it all one day, too. With the right view of God, anyone and everyone can come together in peace and hope.
Maybe the sun begins to break the clouds and the depressed person smiles despite himself. The rain stops, and he exits his car to the smell of clean air. He might notice a soaking wet paper stuck to the pavement. He gently picks it up to see a Bible verse. Suddenly his world is full of hope.
Do you have something that you really want to accomplish in the future? Everyone has some sort of goal, even if it isn’t big or impressive. I have a page-long list of goals that doesn’t even come close to summarizing the dreams in my head, but I’ll focus on just one: I want to share my artwork with people. Not just drawings and paintings, I want to share poems and stories and anything else I can make. I want to create a bright future for myself, going on adventures and connecting with all sorts of people through the things that I love.
I’ve had to ask myself before why I want this. I think God gave me the passions that I have for a reason, so I want to use them to spread hope and to honor Him. 1 Peter 4:10 says, “Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.” Besides, I have a craving for adventure, and this sounds like the best way to satisfy it. Leaving an impact on people is the most thrilling thing that I can do.
Everyone has to start somewhere. Right now I’m posting pictures and blogs on a personal website, sharing them with a few
people on Instagram and my parents’ friends on Facebook. I’m learning all I can and trying out new things. I’m taking in the people and the world around me and enjoying it all with wide eyes.
I’m already on the first step to reaching my goal. Another part of this step is entering contests to gain exposure. From here, I’ll try to get featured in some blogs and magazines, and sell some of my work. I’ll work on writing my book, and when it's ready to publish, I’ll work on that. Once I’m a little older and have more money, freedom, and experience, I’ll go for bigger things; art galleries and exhibits, book signings, and who knows what else. The sky’s the limit!
When I think about it, my goal isn’t very specific. That doesn’t matter; I don’t need to know everything when I’m only fifteen years old.The important thing is that I have a goal, even if it’s outlandish. I’m going to try my best to achieve whatever form this dream will take.
Am I mad?
This is a story told fictionally
About an insane girl named me.
Up is down, down is up.
Stop is go, go is stop.
The story happens in my head.
Is it real?
Am I real
Or am I dead?
My thoughts are one psychotic pool
And me, the fool,
Writing them out so they look cool.
Am I thoughtful?
Am I deep,
Or is this just cheap,
A plastic cover
Over my ravings and my rhymes
At the most confusingly normal of times.
I’ve got to write fourteen lines
So I’ll take it one step at a time.
First I’ll think of things I care about,
Then I’ll get some words and write them out.
What could the subject be?
What do I say in my poetry?
Should I reflect on the past,
Or speak of a future that will come at last?
Should I rhyme or use free verse?
Will a looser flow be better or worse?
Should I use techniques or just be free?
Which option is most easy?
Whatever I do it must be my own,
But look! I’ve already made a poem!
Six pages.
I have six pages
Of scattered words,
Broken rhymes,
Unhinged ideas of identity,
And fake confidence.
"I know who I am,”
The poems struggle to say.
Sure, I know who I am.
I'm not worried,
Not about that,
But what about who I was,
Who I will be?
If I can change so fast,
Who am I, really?
What does any of it mean?
Six pages
Of trying to understand myself,
Of brain battles,
Of tangling myself around.
I'm a spider
Caught in my own web.
What have I found?
Nothing.
I'm more confused than ever.
I've only learned that I,
Whoever I am,
Am my own worst enemy.
I still have six pages.
Six pages
That I'm trying to unscramble,
Six pages
That I will figure out.
Six pages
Can't get the best of me.
Whoever I am,
I'm determined.
Six pages
Don't stand a chance.
Pages and pages
Besides what’s in my head
So many phrases
Plus all my words unsaid
I don’t know what to do
How do I organize my mind
Are my words even true
When the perfect one is so hard to find
I see the vague shapes of thoughts
Like silhouettes on the horizon
I move towards them but I’m lost
I can hardly turn my mind on
Just faded mists of dreams
Beyond the reach of language
Maybe I’ll just express with color beams
I’d better try before they turn beige
"The Glass Menagerie" by Tennessee Williams, which was very popular when it came out, is still a classic today. One thing that made people love the play so much was the characters. Though the story is fiction, it was based on Williams’s real life, and the characters were basically his family with different names. Because they were so heavily based on real people, the characters felt very real, too.
First there's Tom, the narrator. Tom is probably the most relatable character since he was based on the writer himself. Tom, the youngest in the house, is also the main provider since he’s the only man. He works at a factory to help his mother and older sister, but it's obvious that he's restless. Tom is constantly arguing with his mother, Amanda, about how much time he spends out at night. Near the end of the play, Tom doesn't pay the electricity bill and the lights go out. This shows that he finally gave up on his family because his need for independence was so strong. I think Williams was admitting to his own regrets with this character’s portrayal.
Laura is Tom's crippled older sister. Throughout the play, she is presented as a bit odd and hard to understand. This reflects how Williams felt towards his real sister. Like her glass collection, Laura is fragile. Her entire character is very nervous and anxious. She was enrolled in college but dropped out because everything stressed her out so much that she couldn't do the work. Laura seems stuck in life, but she's content with that position.
Amanda is their mother. She is very picky, opinionated, and controlling. As I mentioned before, she argues with Tom a lot. She also has a habit of holding on to the past. She is always talking about all of the "gentlemen callers" she had at Laura's age. She regrets marrying their father, who left, and takes her feelings out on Laura by constantly pestering her about finding the right man. The climax of this behavior is when she makes Tom invite one of his work friends over to meet Laura. She acts over-eager and ridiculous the entire time, right up until the man, who Laura actually liked in high school, leaves after revealing that he already has a girlfriend. Then Amanda is able to squeeze out some genuine concern for Laura.
All of the characters in this story are unique. Tom is a hard worker who just wants to be free. Laura is an usure, gentle piece of glass. Amanda is an overprotective, controlling mother. As I said in my introduction, the characters are real to the audience because they were real to the writer.
"Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice."
These are the opening lines in Robert Frost's poem, "Fire and Ice." It might seem hard to write an essay about twelve words at the beginning of a poem, but there is actually a lot to look at because poets are so careful and intentional about their word choice.
First of all, the tone contrasts sharply with the subject matter. Obviously the end of the world is a heavy topic, but the wording doesn't fit that. It sounds like the narrator is just making a remark about the weather or some small thing like that. The tone is very offhanded. This is an interesting technique because it confuses readers and makes them think about what they're reading more. It almost offers a new perspective on the topic. This way of writing things also seems a bit sarcastic to me. It adds both weight and humor to the words, which is quite a skill.
The other thing about this opening is that it doesn't exactly sound like poetry. The tone is too casual. This is actually an effective technique because, while flowery symbolism can be ok, it's easy to get lost in some more poetic wording. Frost makes sure to get his point across so readers can understand it easily. The simple rhyme scheme throughout the rest of the poem helps with this as well. Casual language, especially when it has a meaning, is beautiful in its own way.
Overall the poem, specifically the opening, is very relatable to readers because of the wording. This just proves how important word choice is to writers and poets. I like Frost's style in this poem because it is unique and creative.
Ethan Frome, a novel by Edith Wharton, is about a married man who is actually in love with another girl who is boarding at his house. He grows to despise his wife because of the other girl. Interestingly, Wharton herself was living in a difficult marriage when she wrote the book. They say, "Write what you know.” Is this really effective? Did Wharton's experience help the novel at all?
The first thing to consider is imagination. Nobody can write a good work of fiction without being at least a little creative. The idea is to take readers to another world and, while everyone does have a unique and interesting perspective on life, that is hard to do without completely making some things up out of the blue. If you write only what you know, things can get quite boring.
Next, I want to think about authenticity. Writing based on the author's personal experience definitely feels more real. The author knows what the character is feeling, so they can then put words to that feeling, and readers can feel it, too.
Imagination is necessary to fill in the cracks and make an interesting story, but that means nothing if readers can't connect to the character. An author's personal experience is what makes the work credible, so that readers can connect.
Finally, there are the emotions involved on the author's part. Sometimes it might not matter so much what the experience does for the novel, but what putting the experience in the novel does for the author. Once in a while when I have a question or problem I'm worried about, I'll give it to a character and write a story to figure it out. This is extremely relieving. If other authors also do this, then Wharton probably just started writing because she was frustrated and had nothing else to do about the situation. That is called writing for yourself first and then others, and a lot of stories come out better that way.
To answer the original question, writing what you know is very effective (although it's important to spice it up with creativity, too.) The personal life of an author helps shape the author and that shapes the author's work. Wharton's experience helped her novel by making it more credible and more compelling.
I listen. I think. Always when I hear someone talking about something other than video games, I listen. Always when I have a question, I think. And then inspiration strikes. Out of nowhere a careless comment or a silly question creates the basis for a short story of even a novel. They say writers are great thieves, and it's true. I wrote this all down. If it is too amazing to wait, I start working right away. Otherwise I save it to fight off any writer's block I may encounter.
I pull out a notebook, take it to my back deck, and start with that inspiration. I take that idea that fell from the sky, and then I build it out with creativity. I breath life into the characters by answering a list of simple questions about them, making them unique pieces of myself. I map out the plot, making it different from the story I found it in, adding my own bits and pieces until it can only be recognized as my own beautiful idea.
Next I write the first draft. I just get it out. I write a page or more and then I stop to think, to find more inspiration. Sometimes I need a chocolate break, or to take myself away from it entirely and play outside. However long it takes, I get it all down and then
the editing process begins.
I edit thoroughly, pausing to consider every detail and reworking many parts. I go through my checklist of aspects to pay attention to, and then I reread it again to get it to perfection. After this I type it into Google Docs, making little changed along the way. And then my baby is ready and I find a way to share it with someone.
This is how I work. Maybe it's different for you, but I love to write with the birds chirping around me. I pause occasionally to look towards the woods before turning back to my paper and pencil. I like to plan it all out first. Once I start the real writing, then it can just flow free without any hindrance. That is the best part.
Dear Future Me,
How does it feel to be an adult? It feels weird enough to be 13! Today Mom was working on school for next year and I saw a paper that said 'Abigail Rater -- Grade 8' at the top. It just looked so big! Not as crazy as 'Kennedy Rater -- Grade 10', though. How about 'Mason Rater -- Grade 4' or 'Maddy Rater -- Grade 2'. I can't believe how old we're getting! Your well past all of those by now, though. Did you go to college like I plan to? Were you able to major in art and writing? Did you make a career for yourself? Enough questions. I've been trying hard to get my work out there and I'm sure the answer to all three questions will be yes! If not, well, I guess it's God's plan. No matter what, I hope you have, do, and will use the talents that God gave you for His glory. If not, it's never too late to start. 2020 has been a bit of a rough year for us, but there is still so much to be thankful for. God gives us new reasons to smile every day, after all.
Sincerely,
Your Past Self,
Abby Rater
In all of my 13 years of life, I've always lived in the same state in the same county. Though I used to live in what Mom now calls "the ghetto" my family has really always been country folks and that's my only cultural influence.
Although I only live in one physical world, I have another sort of fantasy world inside my head that is in some ways separated. When I was little I would get very concentrated on something that nobody else saw and Dad would say that I was in Abbyland. Nobody talks about Abbyland much anymore, but I still have a whole world up there. The only difference is that now whatever happens in that world gets spilled upon pages in either words or pictures, whichever suits the mood best.
My worlds are both equally real, and they help each other stand and make me who I am. I want to show this by bringing you into each of my worlds.
It's almost lunchtime and I sit at the dining room table waiting for Mom's help with my science book. She is busy
explaining some complicated algebra in front of the computer. She sits at the wooden extension on the end of our table. Her hair, graying at the tips but dark everywhere else, is pulled into a loose bun and her hoodie has a cross on it. Kennedy wears a look of annoyance and confusion with her eyebrows scrunched together on her tan face. Her greenish-hazel eyes keep darting towards the clock on the oven.
Meanwhile, Mason has already finished his schoolwork. "Hey Dad!" he begins.
"What?" Dad asks with a smile as he looks up from his phone. He had been working on a sermon with his brow wrinkled in two lines of concentration.
"It was funny, on Veggie Tales..." Mason begins explaining every detail of one little joke that he heard on TV.
"Well that's fun!" Dad says brightly, though I can tell he doesn't really care. With Mason's big mouth and glasses, I'm surprised there's any room left on his face for the fat Rater nose.
Maddy and Benjamin are in the living room playing with Frozen dolls and Mario stuffed animals. They also finished school. "Benjamin, make Bowser say, 'What are you doing?'" Maddy commands.
"What aw you dooen?" Benjamin repeats in a monster voice. The game continues on like that. Maddy brushes her messy hair out of her face and has a hard time getting her purple glasses untangled. Benjamin has a quizzical look on his face, I don't know why. His thin legs are just the right length to reach the couch, which is their play surface.
Gracie makes the scene even more chaotic. She is sitting on the table holding a board book and pretending to read when she sees our dog, Annie, trot by. Gracie's curls frame a face that is taken over by a giant smile. "Kit-ty, kit-ty, kit-ty!" she says in a high voice. Then she crawls over to look and ends up falling right off of the table! Everyone drops what they were doing and runs to see if she's OK. She is, and now she has seven family members comforting her and calming her cries.
This is my first world; my home with my big, caring family.
Now enter my second world. Wade through the questions I ask myself and the answers that are the foundations of my stories. Find the strings of ideas just waiting to fly off the tip of a pencil and feelings anticipating expression. Look around at the peaceful thoughts, hopes, and dreams weaving together into a beautifully calm fantasy.
I am sitting amidst whatever scene I wish to draw. Right now it is a bright green dome of leaves full of light and color. A notebook is in my lap and I am scribbling vigorously, pausing often to think and stare into the distance. My eyes light up with an idea and I send it around the test tracks in my mind before squealing in excitement. Then I turn back to my paper.
This is my second world, full of ideas and fantasies. It doesn't take as much explaining as my family, or maybe I just don't have the right words to tell any more, but it is just as crazy in a peaceful sort of way. Maybe nobody understands that besides me, but I love it nonetheless.
My two worlds are very different -- that you can clearly see -- but I need both of them and they both need each other. My family often serves as inspiration for what goes on in my mind and notebook, and my younger siblings are always glad to listen to my writing and share their opinion. My family is always supportive in my attempts to make my work into something big, and I am so thankful for that. On the other hand, when I have a problem with someone, art and writing help me to calm down and/or know how to deal with the situation. These are just a few examples. My worlds aren't like oil and water. They mix, but at the same time they stay two different things, so they are more like salt and water.
One thing, or being, really, permeates both my worlds and holds them together. That being is God. My parents have always taught us the Truth, and everything special about our family focuses on honoring God. Meanwhile, I try to bring glory to Him with all that I do in my fantasy world.
For a while Thanksgiving seemed to bring bad luck for my family. When I must have been about seven years old, Great Grandma got sick on or near Thanksgiving. I think we were at Nana's house when Mom told my sister and I, but I'm not absolutely sure. There might have been a lump of worry in my stomach, but I wasn't too concerned. Great Grandma had been sick before and she was always fine. Nobody I knew had ever died, so I guess it didn't seem possible.
It was probably a few weeks later that we took the drive that I don't remember in our dirty red van with Dora stickers on the inside of the windows to the hospital. There was a long wait in the clean but stale smelling waiting room with Grandma and Grandpa and a lot of other family.
Someone brought sparkly beads and pipe cleaners and I made a bracelet that I thought should be in a jewelry store. Kennedy (my sister) and I played with our baby dolls that we had brought on the sticky hospital cushions. Eventually I got board and got crayons and construction paper to make a storybook about those dolls. My first story. Kennedy's doll was the magic princess
named Makaila. The story was called "Magical Makaila". It was very heavily inspired by Sofia the First and Cinderella even made a special appearance in it. I was proud of my tiny illustrated book when it was finished and stapled together (though I'm not sure where I got all the supplies). I think it was Grandma who said that Great Grandma would love for me to read her my story and Dad who explained that Great Grandma wasn't able to talk so I knew she wasn't ignoring me.
So the two of them took me to the small room where she was. I think I got a hug from those weak arms. She looked so different laying there in some hospital gown instead of her usual big shirts with teddy bears and kittens on them in old lady designs. I sat down and read the story and she smiled when it was finished. I don't exactly remember what happened next, but in a while we were in our red van again, getting ready to leave. I remember most of the time I felt a little bit nervous but mostly indifferent about the whole situation. I didn't think she could die because I just couldn't imagine it. But then Dad was telling us about her last breath and how she had smiled, excited to see the Lord. "Don't say 'last breath,'" Kennedy said through tears. "It sounds too sad."
I love my Great Grandma, who, even while she was dyeing, listened to me yammer on about princesses. She heard my first story and I can picture her up there smiling about how far I've come. Great Grandma was an amazing Christian woman and I know she is in heaven praising God right now. I can't wait to see her again one day and read her another story. This one will be about God's grace.
Students, consider your attitude about school for a moment. How would you feel if you heard that you get school off for a week? Most people would probably be excited about this. What if your school got cancelled for a month? What about the rest of the year? What if you weren’t sure when you could go back to school? What if it turned out to be never? These last two questions are the reality of many children living in poorer countries. Maybe you think that this sounds wonderful, but it’s not. School is important. It may not feel like it matters in the grand scheme of life, but it does.
Though most of the news is currently about the coronavirus outbreak, this does not dismiss other topics from importance. The lack of education in poorer areas, especially for girls, may not seem important to us now, but surely it affects those experiencing it. They are very real and so is their problem. While they are experiencing these troubles, we who can learn are likely complaining about how hard our school is or how long it takes. I believe students, myself included, should be more thankful for the ability to learn.
Research shown on youthtruthsurvey.org says that although a majority of students feel engaged in school, only about half actually enjoy going. I am homeschooled, but this still applies. This applies whether you go to public school, private school, homeschool, or cyberschool. There are differences, advantages, and disadvantages to each, but it is all school. All learning. All taken for granted. Here is an example:
I am doing my math at the kitchen table. I read the description of points and lines in my book for the second time, realizing I don't actually understand this explanation of the concept I've had a chapter on every year since second grade.
"Mom, can you please help me?" I ask.
"What do you need help with?"
"This doesn't make sense."
So Mom explains it to me carefully. I still don't understand. She explains again. And again. And again. I won't allow my mind to understand, by now I'm frustrated.
"That is so dumb!" I exclaim. I'm about to cry.
A week or two later I pick up my reading book, I am Malala. In horror I read the true story of a girl who's country is in conflict over many things, including education for girls. Schools were being bombed. Malala got shot in the head at age 15 for standing up for education. In one part Malala wrote, "When someone takes away your pens you realize how quite important education is." And here I am reading in my own bedroom near the window, perfectly safe. I shamefully remember my tantrum over math.
While we look at our books, frustrated that we don't understand it, another child somewhere else is looking at last year's books or a friend's books or the picture of books in their mind's eye, wishing they could be learning right now.
According to humanium.org, about 72 million children can't go to school and about 759 million adults are illiterate worldwide. These numbers are simply crazy, and much of the credit for that goes to poverty (though sometimes, as in Malala’s story, it has more to do with legal conflicts). Poverty affects education in a number of ways. This is proven by globalcitizen.org, which lists a few. The funny thing is, while poverty is preventing learning, education really has the power to end poverty. Concernusa.org says that if all children in countries experiencing poverty could simply read, about 171 million people could get out of poverty; if every adult had an education, poverty rates could be cut in half. Keep in mind that while this is going on we students are probably complaining about our own school. We have this weapon against poverty, why don't we use it?
It's all too easy to find excuses.
"My teachers are boring."
"This subject is too hard."
"School is tiring and I can't think when I'm tired."
According to spielgaben.com, there are legitimate reasons for students to seem to lose interest in school and not care about learning. It is the job of those running the school to minimize these things, however, that does not mean we students are allowed to stop trying. The main issue is attitude. With a good attitude and some effort, we can enjoy school, or at least be thankful for it, despite it's annoying problems.
Education is important in my life. Maybe I’m a bit of a nerd, but I love feeling smart. I am always excited when I find myself reminded of something I’ve learned while doing an ordinary activity. It is an amazing feeling to realize how naturally you can connect your textbook to the outside world. I also want to be an artist and a writer when I grow up and both of these things require education. Anyone can see how education is required to be a writer, but it may be harder to consider it a crucial part in becoming an artist. Art is a creative process, but facts and knowledge are necessary to share it and to make better works. Education is being used all the time in obvious or hidden ways to help people achieve their dreams. Because of this and since we have access to it, it would be simply foolish not to try as hard as we can to get as much as we can out of our education.
Many students who can learn don't want to, and 72 million children who can't learn wish they could. Students may have very good reasons not to like school, but they still need to try hard to learn. We students need to be thankful for the blessing of education. The least we can do is try to have a good attitude about our own learning. If we, as students, take our education seriously, we could help others with their education, too. Learning is very important and before those of us who can learn can help those who can't, we must understand just how much this matters and have a good attitude about it. Education can change the world.
From the moment she woke up, Abigail knew that this was not going to be an ordinary day. Then again, was any day ever ordinary? She allowed herself a few more minutes to soak in the warmth of her patterned pink comforter before opening one eye, then the other. She smelled the aroma of lavender that spilled out of the diffuser. She liked how the scent matched the purple curtains. The window shade was closed above the air conditioner and the colorful fairy lights surrounding it were not plugged in, but sunlight still peaked through to light up the room and dance on the off-white walls. The dresser along the right wall held Abigail’s art supplies and a large stack of books on top of it. On that same wall hung all of Abigail’s drawings and in that corner her dolls played. The other side of the room had a tall dresser with a backpack, a camera, and a guitar belonging to Abigail’s sister, who was waking up in the top bunk. Her dance mirror, framed in hundreds of photos, colored the wall and a giant stuffed sloth sat next to it.
Abigail rolled over and took her Bible off of her bedside shelf. She dutifully read a chapter of Luke, underlining several important verses.
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She mentally went through her list of things to do to get ready for the day as she picked out a floral dress and pink capris to wear. Several whiny voices drifted through the door crack from the living room as she dressed.
Oh, did you think this was the story of a perfect girl with a perfect life? Not quite. This is the story of Abby Rater and her crazy but wonderful family. More importantly, this is the story of God’s way of working in their lives.
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As Abby smoothed a brush through her tangled bedhead, she looked over at her sister’s perfect hair. It was dark at the top where the dye had grown out, but everywhere else were waves of a lighter, almost golden, brown. Abby thought bangs looked awful on most people, but Kennedy could make them work. In fact, she could make anything work; everything about her looked perfect.She could be a model if she wanted to. Now look at the contrast between this and Abby’s frizzy mess, which she was now pulling into two tight braids.
Kennedy was bending to kiss Patches, who was napping in her usual spot on Abby’s bed. Kennedy loved cats, sometimes too much, according to all of the scratches on her hands. Macey was a timid little angel. She gave a friendly ‘Brrrroew!’ of greeting whenever she entered a room and she let anyone in the family do anything they wanted to her without so much as swattimg at them. She got scared of new people, though and hid well when visitors came.
Lets just say that Patches had more spunk. Abby liked that Patches had personality, and it likely added to her own bond with the cat. Since the day Patches was found, Abby had been her favorite. Patches made Abby’s bed her own, always there for comfort or cuddle. In return, Abby was often petting and cuddling to show her love. She was, however, careful not to smother like a certain older sister.
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Kennedy threw on a hoodie and saved her extensive outfit styling for after breakfast as she turned on her phone, Abby’s virtual enemy. Kennedy was always staring at that screen texting friends, playing Roblox, watching YouTube, and who knew what else. The one and only good thing about Kennedy’s phone was music. Kennedy seemed to be full of music. She played guitar at church and danced to K-pop songs at home. Abby didn’t understand K-pop whatsoever (what’s the point of music if you can’t understand the words?) and she didn’t like the tunes much, either, but she knew that Kennedy liked it a lot so ultimately (though she would never say so out loud) Abby was glad that her sister had that. After all, her older sister was also her best friend and, when she put the phone down, Kennedy made a great one. The girls did practically everything together and there was nobody Abby liked better to laugh with than Kennedy.
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In the living room ten minutes later, Abby found her four younger siblings. Mason, Maddy, and Benjamin were all watching a YouTube video of someone playing video games on the TV. They may have gotten out of bed earlier than she had, but they hadn’t gotten dressed yet and Abby knew that they hadn’t moved from the couch much.
Judging by the mess of toys, pillows, books, and baby wipes in the room, Gracie had been busy. She sat on the sill of the big triple window holding a bag of chips as big as herself. A smile showed in her dimpled cheeks and scrunched up nose. The morning sunlight came through the window and created a golden halo to surround Gracie’s curls.
“Are we still walking Tucker later?” Abby asked Mason as she shoved pillows and cracker wrappers aside to set a basket of clean laundry down on the long sectional couch.
“Sure,” Mason said happily. He held out his fist for their special handshake.
Tucker was the newest addition to the family, a seven month old hound from the ANNA Shelter. He wasn’t trained at all yet and had a tendency to annoy the rest of the family, but he really was sweet and loving despite it all. Abby and Mason tried to walk him every day to get him out of the house and teach him to behave.
Annie then trotted into the room with her ears perked up. Her tongue hung out of her mouth in what looked like a smile. “Yes, we’ll bring you, too, Annie,” Abby said, bending down to pet their well behaved dog.
“Aww, you’re such a good girl,” Mason cooed, giving Annie one of his signature hugs.
“Kitty kitty kitty!” Gracie squealed as she ran to the dog on her chubby legs.
“Benjamin, want to play Mario stuffed animals in our room?” Maddy was asking.
“Shuw,” Benjamin consented and they scurried off, Maddy humming a tune as she made it up. Maddy was like Kennedy with her love of music, but in several ways she was much more like Abby. She was just as fun and quirky, she said some surprisingly thoughtful things, and somehow they just seemed to come from the same dreamland.
Like Kennedy and Abby, Maddy and Benjamin did nearly everything together and were constantly laughing hysterically about nothing. They were “best buds”. Maddy was the sassy boss and Benjamin the quiet follower. He was very quiet when he wasn’t crying. He did cry somewhat often, but that was the price of his sweet, sensitive heart. It was well worth it.
Abby was folding (and wishing she could fit into) Maddy’s unicorn shirt when Mom and Dad came in from the back deck. Dad was discussing a trucking job that he had applied for. This job had better hours than he was currently working at FedEx so he could provide for the family and have time to see them, which was what he cared about most in life. Mom was listening to him -- she was great at listening -- while putting bread in the toaster, holding Tucker on his leash, and helping Abby with the laundry. It may have been summer vacation and a Saturday no less, but the parents were still working hard and making it look easy.
“I’m sorry, do you need help with anything?” Dad asked Mom as she brought a stack of plates to the table.
“I think I’ve got it,” Mom said with a certain brightness in her tone that matched her smile.
“Let me help you, woman!” Dad exclaimed loudly in his pretend old man voice. The kids all giggled and Dad continued. “Back in my day you accepted some darned help!” The children continued to laugh as they gathered around the scuffed, cluttered, happy kitchen table and Dad continued to tease in his funny voice.
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After breakfast Abby grabbed one of her many notebooks and dashed outside. She climbed up her favorite tree and fondly looked around her. The mossy yard was full of trees, a trampoline, a kitty pool, and several other toys. The paint was still peeling on the deck and the house was far from a mansion but it was cozy and it was home. What Abby loved most about her home city, Harborcreek, was that no matter which way she looked, if she strained her eyes far enough, they would eventually fall on woods. She didn’t have to strain her eyes much to the left, for there was her own little wood that stepped into the yard.
The soft hum of voices
Sends me into daydreams.
Every note of the encouraging message
Makes my heart sing along.
A friend's sparkling smile
Prompts me to burst.
Her funny texts
Are like candy in my mouth.
A book is a portal to another world
That I joyously bring back to my own.
Each character is so real,
It's like they're all my friends.
Swirls of color make someone's dreams
And I can't tear my eyes from the canvas.
The sheer beauty
Takes my breath away.
Life is amazing
And incredibly inspiring.
I feel buoyant and beautiful
Taking it all in.
I itch to be in action;
My fingers vibrate for the nearest pencil.
Ideas are being stirred.
I can feel it fizzing up inside of me.
The yearning is too much
When I see the world outside.
Every frosted branch,
All of the clear water,
It calls me.
I pour out all of my feelings.
With the brushes on my desk.
Intense inspiration flows from my fingertips
And a smile is always on my lips.
I dream and I create.
Maybe someday
I’ll inspire someone else
And the cycle will keep on rolling
And coloring the world.
Art--
My brush floats across the canvas,
Dashing to and fro.
I let all my feeling out right there,
Living colors
Of joy.
I don't need
To be shy.
There's no reason
To be afraid.
I can let myself go,
Be crazy as I want,
Dramatic as ever.
No one will judge.
Mistakes are ok,
In fact, bound to happen.
It's all part of the process.
Art makes me feel free,
Transparent as my watercolors,
Graceful as the dove
Emerging from my brush.
I can be
Whatever I want
To be!
I can capture all the beauty;
Everything magical
In the world around me,
All that I see
With my eyes.
Eyes--
They let me see the world outside.
I take it all in:
Deep blue skies,
Blooming flowers,
Falling leaves,
And soft ripples in the water.
My eyes let me see
All the people around me
With their smiling faces,
Tender looks of love,
And every emotion.
I see their eyes,
And then their personality.
Are they big and bright,
Taking it all in
With enthusiasm,
Or half closed,
Just waiting for slumber?
What about the color?
Is it clear and sure
Or dull and muddled?
Is there a mix of color--
A range as wide,
As deep,
As confusing and utterly wonderful
As the personality
Of the eye's wearer?
Please, I invite you,
Dive into the shining pool.
Of mystery.
Now please don't take for granted
This privilege that we have.
I urge you, take advantage
Of your windows to the world.
Share with those
In a world of darkness.
I want to let them see
Through my eyes
With my words.
Words--
Feeling out on paper,
Running across the screen,
Or just hanging in the air.
Feel how they twinkle and gleam!
Like the laughter of the creek,
They express our greatest joy.
Like the moaning of the wind,
They portray our every longing.
Each feeling comes alive
And is set free
By the simply clicking syllables.
Stories come to light,
Offering comfort
Or confrontation
As we step into
A whole new world
And bring back a treasure
To beautify our own.
Oh, when the right words click!
I suppose the angels sing
At the flood of satisfaction,
The completed perfection
Of one heartfelt sonet.
When I write,
It makes me feel brave
To say what is true,
To really be me!
Oh, the relife
When a smile breaks out
At the sound of my words!
Above it all,
I love the fall
Of the sounds
In every place.
It brings such a beauty
You just can’t erase.
Have you ever had the feeling
That your heart was made of air,
Buoyant as the clouds,
Beautiful and fair?
When all the good seems multiplied,
Your happiness is doubled.
When all bad feelings are left behind,
Were you ever really troubled?
I'm not sure about you, but I do.
I start to feel this way,
So peaceful and so pleased,
On a bright, vivid fall day.
When the orange trees reach and reach.
They try to touch the deep blue sky,
Which reflects the other's brightness
As the hours and days go by.
I'm reminded of my friends,
Our giggles as we play.
We laugh and laugh and laugh,
Or talk the time away!
I think that some of us are the sky,
And others make the trees.
We're made to glow brighter together
As we smile on with ease.
Wind rustles in the leaves,
I notice as each one gleams
That the sun is setting from behind.
The world is gold, it seems.
I see all of this beauty
As the leaves remember summer sun.
They put on quite a show
To keep up all the fun!
I remember this day last year
And all of the good ol’ times.
I'm excited for it all again
When there's nothing new to put in rhymes.
I always keep my eyes open.
There's always something new.
I love, love, love the past,
But there's more fun in the present, too!
Everything is so exciting!
I can't bear to wait for tomorrow,
Though I never want today to end!
There's always a thing to learn, a new way to grow.
True, school can be quite dull.
Over math I feel my eyelids drop,
But I love to know I'm learning,
And sometimes I don't want to stop!
I like it best to have art before my eye
Or perhaps a book in my hand.
I get the strangest feeling,
You might not understand.
I feel the ideas stir inside of me.
I itch to grab the nearest pencil
And pour all the inspiration out.
My hands and mind just can’t sit still!
Excuse me, sir?
Have you seen my words?
When I reach for them they scatter
And run away in great herds.
Are you sure they didn't pass by?
Where could they be?
Could they hide in the sky?
Will they ever come back to me?
I can feel them like they're there,
But when I try to touch them,
I cannot catch a hair!
Not even a dress hem!
If you find my words,
Please let me know.
They fly away like birds,
But I don't want to let them go!
I am now a new teen
And so I'm in between
Young and old,
Old and new.
I'm stuck inside my chrysalis,
Waiting to become a butterfly
But not really wanting to.
I miss being a caterpillar,
When my days were all just fun.
I’m just above the limit
Of my innocent MG books.
And just a bit too scared
For the daunting YA ones.
Too big for my old, simple bike,
Too short for my 10-speed.
Young enough still to love my dolls,
Old enough to be embarrassed about it.
I can enter the contests for teens,
But their writing all stands over mine.
I'm eye level with their elbows,
And their shoulders lock together,
Blocking out the sky for me.
The days of those clean stanzas
With ever-perfect rhyme,
They are all gone.
My words are scrambled,
But falling back together
In a lovely loose verse.
I will be a butterfly
And spread my colorful wings
With an intensified joy,
With more freedom than ever
To be me.
Monday.
I eagerly await the end of this week,
The start of May.
Maybe I'll take a stroll in the creek,
But will it be to celebrate
Or to ease my disappointment?
To know this I cannot wait.
Did they like the entry I sent?
Tuesday.
The ground is a magical carpet
Of a flowery array.
Only a few have not bloomed yet;
Most have opened up their glorious petals
To show what makes them so lovely
And when the right time calls
I will bloom, too. Just wait and see.
Wednesday.
I have smiled all night in bed
And also all day.
My art has been accepted!
I have new confidence
That my writing could be, too.
My excitement is immense;
How to contain it, I have no clue.
Thursday.
I bickered with my little sister
In a childish way.
She offended me about a picture.
I came at her with my paintbrush.
I failed to keep my anger in
But next time, into rage I will not rush.
When we fail, second chances let us win.
Friday.
I did not do it this time
But it's okay.
I'll keep on using rhythm and rhyme
To honor God, the One who made me
And gave me the talent and passion.
I will always be loved by Him, you see.
He is here, no matter what may happen.
Am I a poet?
I might not be.
Am I a poet?
Some poetic devices are lost on me.
Am I a poet?
My words are clear and straightforward.
Am I a poet?
Understanding some poetry is hard.
Am I a poet?
Words weave together inside my head.
Am I a poet?
I don't match any poems I've read.
Am I a poet?
I love to write what's on my mind.
Am I a post?
Inspiration is easy to find.
Am I a poet?
With beautiful words I captivate.
Am I a poet?
I was made by a God who can create.
Am I a poet?
He gave me love for poetry.
Am I a poet?
I write for Him with glee.
I am a poet.
I want my own book of poetry,
My heart in words for all to see.
All of my hopes and all of my fears
From all of these wonderful years,
Years of me only being myself,
In a neat volume on the shelf.
I want my poems there to inspire
And to make hopes rise a little higher,
But what I want more than that would be
To honor the God who loves me,
To share his mercy and grace about.
You see, talents aren't just given out.
No, God examines carefully
To see what most fits you or me
So we can do our best possible
And use our talents to they're full
To spread the love
Of God above.
"Come on Eric, hurry up! We need to get to the airport so we can see Shaline!!!" Steffeny hollered up the stairs as she grabbed her suitcase and her pillow from the landing.
“Geez Stef, I'm coming," Eric emerged from his bedroom wearing pajama pants and an old sloppy T-shirt.
"Go hurry up and change, we need to look trés magnifique when we get to Pari," Steffeny said, smoothing down her light pink quilt material tank top dress. She wore a short shawl of the same material. The look was completed with a black belt studded with fake jewels.
"You do know that we probably won't land in ‘paree' until it is midnight there," Eric said as he patted his little sister on the head, causing her pink beret to slide further to the side of her head.
“Still gotta look great for the plane ride!" Steffany said cheerfully as she grabbed all her things and skipped out to the car. She was too excited to argue with Eric. This was going to be the adventure of a lifetime!
“Eric! Steffy! Get ready to leave in the next five minutes!” their mom called from the car. ‘I hope this adventure will give me some good ideas to publish
in Girl World,' Steffeny thought as she ran to the car and threw her stuff in the trunk. ‘Here we go!’ As she buckled her seatbelt she wondered what adventures lie ahead.
Steffeny woke up to a gentle tap on her shoulder.
“Time to wake up sleepyhead!" her mom said, "We're in Paris!" Steffeny sat bolt upright, sending a notebook and pencil sailing onto the floor. Oops, hurriedly she picked up her things.
"Mom do you know where my phone went?" Steffeny asked as she ruffled through her bag.
"I have it in my bag charging. You took some cool pictures by the way," her mom said.
"Thanks, too bad the height made me so dizzy I couldn't take any more pictures," Steffeny said.
“At least you got some, now let's wake up those boys and start our adventure!" her mom said. "Already on it, WAKE UP ERIC!" Steffeny hollered as she jumped on Eric's legs and pulled away his blanket.
“Alright, alright, I'm awake!" Eric laughed.
“Kids, we are still on a plane!" their mom scolded.
"Sorry Mom," they both said at the same time. Soon their dad was awakened and they headed off. Two hours later the four of them were riding through the heart of France in a taxi. "Mom! I think I see the Eiffel Tower!" Steffany shouted.
"Oh look there it is!" Mom said.
"Wow," said Dad.
"Cool!" said Eric. They all stared at the beautiful structure for a long time, speechless.
“It's like one of those aesthetic pictures you see on the internet but in real life!" Steffeny finally exclaimed.
“Oh shoot, I left my phone in my bag in the trunk,” Eric said.
"Dang, so did I,” Steffeny said.
“Mine's dead." Dad said.
“I don't have a very good angle from up here but don't worry, we have a tour of the city tomorrow by Shaline so we can get lots of pictures then.
“Yeah!” Dad exclaimed.
“Woo-hoo!” Steffeny cried.
“Awesome!” Eric shouted.
"Mom, Dad, wake up, is that the hotel?" Eric asked, nudging his parents awake.
"Oh my gosh I think that's it!” Steffeny squealed. It was very late so they loaded their luggage into their master suit and then crashed down in the beds. The next morning everybody woke up at 1:30pm Paris time. Except Steffeny, she woke up at 10:20am Paris time and finished writing in her diary. Once that was finished she pulled out a purple notebook and began a story about a girl who traveled to Paris all alone, hoping to become an architect by studying the Eiffel Tower. Steffeny paused, biting the eraser nub of her pencil. “It was as if the whole world stopped for a moment as Linda stared up at the amazing structure. It shot straight up into the black sky. Lights flickered on top of the tower, probably tourists. A loud ‘honk!’ sent the girl back to reality. Linda turned around and froze as she saw a navy blue SUV headed straight towards her!" Steffeny stopped and examined her work with satisfaction. "Steffeny! Come have some lunch!" she heard her Dad call.
“Coming!" Steffeny replied as she set her notebook on her bedside table.
"Is Shaline up yet? Please say she is!" Stelleny asked as she skipped into the large suite's kitchen.
"Right here waiting for you little sis,” Shaline said from somewhere behind Steffeny. She whirled around and was caught up in a huge hug from her sister.
“I missed you so much!” she said, trying not to cry.
“I missed you, too, but I'm glad you got to come here. You are going to love it,” Shaline replied.
“Excuse me, hello, it's just me, you know, the big brother you haven't seen in a month,” Eric said.
“Eric!” Shaline cried. Once the hug fest was done the family decided to rent a car and drive to a café for lunch. Shaline said she knew a great one in the heart of Paris so she whispered something to Mom and directed her where to drive. Soon they arrived at the Eiffel Tower. Later Steffeny wrote in her diary, “I was so excited when we pulled up in front of the Eiffel Tower. It looked even more amazing from up close. The tower rose high above me and the rest of the city. Being there made me feel like I could do anything. Then about six strangers bumped into me as they passed. I was sucked back to reality and as I looked around I saw just how many people there were, hundreds and thousands. Oh boy, I am super duper shy. We had to park a few blocks away and getting there was like trying to get through the crowd at a firework show times a million. I was getting very anxious and then I looked up at the tower and calmed a little. We finally got through the crowds of tourists and entered into the Eiffel Tower. It was very loud inside but once we got to the table that Shaline reserved for us it was ok. The food was SO GOOD! I don't remember what it was called but something delightfully French. We got macaroons for dessert and if Paris had a taste that is what it would be. Dad was a little uneasy about going to the top of the tower but we convinced him. I couldn't enjoy it though! All the people everywhere and all the noise made me want to curl up in a ball somewhere and hide. The view was breathtaking. I took some good pictures. We stopped in the gift shop and then there was the long walk back to the car. They all wanted to see the lovelock bridge but I begged Mom to drop me off at the hotel first. It took a lot of whining, but eventually she gave in. So that's where I am now. Alone in our hotel. Waiting for my family to get back from the fun they are having without me. All because I am too shy. So much for a fun vacation. I would have been better off staying home, then I could at least go outside.”
"What boring stuff have you been up to while we had fun?" Eric asked Steffeny.
“I wrote in my diary and then I worked on my story for Girl World," she told him.
“What's Girl World?" Eric wanted to know.
"Girl World is a company that makes dolls, books, and magazines, right now they are holding a contest for young girls like me. The winner gets their original story published in the magazine and the basic plot and character ideas for their next Star Girl doll and story." Steffany explained.
“And a star girl is?” Eric asked.
"Oh right, every year they come out with a new star girl. It's basically the newest character whose story is set in the present time so on January 1st a new star girl will be released for 2039,” she explained.
“Gacha, that is all very weird but I hope your story does well,” Eric said.
“Thanks, I think,"Steffeny said.
"Any time lil sis."
"I'm starving! What do you guys say we stop at a café for dinner, I have a few up my sleeve. Or we could go to the park and have a picnic, oh! there is this patisary that you guys just have to see! It is sooo good! Or we could stop at le boulanger for croissants, what do you guys think?" Shaline was talking a mile a minute, she had been in the city longer than the rest of the family and took her role as tour guide very seriously.
“Um, I think we should just eat here, I mean, café food must be so unhealthy. Mom, I know you really care about our diets and stuff," Steffeny said, proud of herself for coming up with such a good excuse.
"Actually food laws here are much more strict than they are in the USA so we would really be better off going to a café than eating what we brought from home," Shaline told them.
“Plus we’re on vacation, I don't mind breaking a few household rules just this once," Mom said.
Dang it! “Well, um, doesn't Shaline have to rest up before the Olympics, isn't that why you aren't training this week?" Steffeny said, thinking fast.
“I'm fine, nothing more relaxing than dinner with my family." Shaline said, grabbing her purse.
“But, but um, well," Steffeny stammered.
“Steffeny what’s going on? You were so excited to come to Paris, don't you want to actually experience it?" Mom asked in concern.
“No I don't, not anymore, but everything is fine!" Steffeny said fiercely, willing herself not to cry.
“Everything is not fine sweetie, what's wrong?" Dad asked.
“If I tell you, you will think that I'm a greedy, selfish, ungrateful jerk, because I am," she said, letting just one tear slip down.
“You are not any of those things and you know it, just tell us what's wrong, maybe we can help," Shaline said.
"Fine," Steffeny said.
“...Then I poured it all out. How scary and stressful it was to see so many people everywhere and how nervous I got. I told them how ungrateful I feel because every girl wants to go to Paris and I'm here but I just want to go home. I told them how disappointed I am. Paris not what I thought it would be. The more I talked about it, the more I just wanted to go home. When I finished telling all my problems Mom gave me a hug.
"Oh sweetie, l know how it feels. When I about your age I went to New York city and I had the same problem,” she told me.
"What did you do about it?" I asked.
“Nothing, I was miserable for the whole trip and when we got home I was disappointed that I had wasted such a cool adventure," Mom said.
"If you really don't like the city, fine, but don't let shyness or fear stop you from having fun,” Dad added.
"Oh, I love the city!" I exclaimed.
"The Eiffel Tower is amazing, everything is beautiful, and the food is like a bite of heaven, but I can't enjoy that," I said sadly.
"Why not? What are all those people doing to stop you? Nothing. Just ask yourself what you have to lose," Shaline encouraged.
“I get what you guys are saying but I still just don't know how to stop being so shy," I said in frustration.
"I know,” Eric said. I was surprised he had spoken up, my brother tries to stay as far away from feelings as much as possible. “If every one of those people out there was either a friend or a relative, would you still be scared or shy?” he asked me. No, I would not. "Ok well just imagine that everyone here is a friend. It's a nice place, if you knew them I bet they would be your friends. Here you can be as crazy as you want, nobody will judge you,” Eric went on. Wow, well said.
"I guess I'll give it a try, is that patisserie still open?" I asked Shaline.
"Yup, they close at nine,” she replied. So we had baked treats for dinner that were apparently healthier than a USA burger. When I looked around I noticed that every single person was laughing, smiling, and joking around with somebody else. All except one girl, a little younger than me. Before I knew what I was doing I walked to her and asked what was wrong. She muttered something in another language.We tried to communicate for a minute but it was hopeless. I pulled up a translation app on my phone and pieced together that she had been separated from her parents in the crowd. She showed me a picture of them. The girl and her mother looked similar with light brown skin and golden brown hair pulled back into braids. The girl's father had darker skin and hair with a mustache. All three of them had beautiful blue eyes. We asked a few people and then I spotted them near the far corner. I pointed them out and the girl ran to reunite with her parents. Then she turned and pointed at me. I waved at them and then went to find my family. They were all very surprised and proud of me. Honestly I was pretty proud of myself. I guess that was the end of my people phobia. I can't wait to find out what other adventures are headed my way now that I can enjoy them. Let's see!”
Steffeny closed her diary with satisfaction. ‘Now that is a good story,’ she thought. That gave Steffeny an idea for her Girl World story. She smiled. ‘Dreams really do come true in Paris,’ she thought, Shaline’s dream of being in the Olympics, her dream of becoming an author, and so many more! That just gave Steffeny another idea!
Sitting at a table in the Eiffel Tower café, Steffeny looked over the beautiful landscape below. Then she looked at her computer screen. Steffeny quickly scrolled through her story one last time to make sure everything was just right. She had written a brief summary of the story that she hoped would be on the back of the book.
It read: “Annabella loves the Ukulele. She also loves singing. Annabella's twin sister Izzy is a poet and she loves to write songs for her twin. Annabella, unlike her sister, is dreaming big and trying to make it reality. When her parents surprise her with a trip to Paris for her birthday Annabella sees her chance. Izzy isn't so sure about all of this yet. So, two sisters, different talents, dreams, worries, and the trip of a lifetime. How do you think it will all shake down?”
Taking a deep breath, Steffeny closed her eyes and hit submit. ‘Yup, this is real,’ she told herself.
Steffeny scrolled down to read entries by other girls her age. She wondered what had inspired their stories. “Tink, tink, tink," Steffeny checked her phone to see who had texted her. It was Shaline, she said, “We’re just leaving the grocery store, Mom wants to meet you in the parking lot in 5 so we can get to the Olympics early, can't wait!”
Steffeny quickly typed back, “Ok, can't wait to see you crush it!”