August 31, 2013

Writing a Day Dream

First of all, I am currently obsessed with the band Walk Off the Earth and the BBC show Sherlock.

Now, my summer was spent producing blog posts and no other forms of writing. And though blogging is usually my favorite, I simply must start producing different kinds of writing again. (This is a self decided sort of must, no one is telling me to write, which is a wonderful feeling.) And so in an attempt to decide what I want to work on next, as well as the beginning of the journey of keeping my promise to this girl-- to write a novel, and in order to fulfill an urge, inspired by this girl, I am going to post some of my non blogging writing.

Music of the Week: Walk Off the Earth. Top Songs: Little Boxes. Royals. Red Hands.

Side note: This first part was written in the beginning of the summer, when I first started writing. Some of the details are a little outdated, but it was the beginning of this piece, and belongs there.

In the wintertime, I like to paint my nails periwinkle, that way I feel like I am wearing a piece of the missing sky on each of my fingertips. I remember a day in class when I looked up to find a pair of wonderful brown eyes watching me.

“Is that periwinkle?” The eye’s owner asked me, pointing to my finger.

It was February, so of course it was periwinkle.

I realized his question meant he still read my blog. Despite the fact that I now have a new boy who has held my hand exactly two Fridays in a row, and that big-brown-eyes boy hardly even looks at me in the hallway anymore, he still reads my words. 

That’s important to me -- having people read my words. You see, I have an irresistible urge to write, but so many stories are already taken. I can think of lines, and paragraphs, and essays, but not enough words to make up a book. Not yet. 

Because so many stories are already taken, my ideas seem so cliche. No one wants to read someone’s daydreams. But maybe that’s exactly it -- everyone is so scared of writing something average that they don’t search for the beauty that can hide behind a wall of cliche. I am going to take a chance and try it out. I am going to write a daydream. _________________________________________________________________________________

I have never been asked for my number by a stranger. And maybe this time was only different because I really did look too young to be in college, yet I was sitting in Barnes and Nobles during local high school hours. So was he, and though it was obvious he fought different battles than I (his skin was flawless, acne obviously wasn't a problem in his life), he was definitely not past the “most important decision making time in his life”-- the teen years.

It started with “how old are you?” Middled with “so do you consider yourself to be hipster?” And ended with “may I have your number?” That’s how we met, Sawyer and I. He asked a lot of questions.

Side note: I don’t quite consider myself to be a “hipster.” I wear nerdy tortoiseshell glasses because I greatly admire people who do that. While I was in school, I wanted to be part of what I would call the indie rock fans who actually like my sweater vest group. Even though I was friends with those people, I found myself fitting in with the more popular blondes group, despite my love for words and my Captain America t-shirt. On normal good days I convinced my friends to play chalk twister between outside tables during lunch. On extra good days I got to talk superheroes with my dream cohorts and share my favorite Regina Spektor songs with Amber. I have short bursts of “hipsterness” and they are becoming more frequent, but I am not yet a full fledged member of that clique. I found myself explaining this to Sawyer when the topic arose. Who knows why, I mean, I had just met the kid.

There I was, with my book and my glasses, reading in a corner of Barnes and Nobles. Sawyer walked up and asked how old I was.


“Why aren’t you in school?”

“Uh, I homeschool,” here I was forced to place my nerdy glasses more properly on my nose, which probably just pushed the homeschooler stereotype even more.

“That’s cool,” Sawyer actually sounded sincere.

“How old are you?” Might as well return the favor and ask.


“You’re not in school either, ya know,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, I homeschool, too,” he smiled.

My eyebrows definitely went up at that point. In all of my years of meeting homeschooling boys, very little of them looked like someone my best friend would pin on her “Mmmm” board for attractive men. Sawyer belongs there.

He asked if he could have my number. I gave it to him. He smiled a well, nice to meet you and I gave him one of those as well. We have been giving eachother things ever since then-- I give him books to read, he gives me butterflies in my stomach.

As he started to walk away he remembered and turned back,”oh! My name’s Sawyer, by the way.”

“Mine’s Elle.”


“How often do you go to Barnes and Nobles?” I rolled onto my stomach to read the text message. It had been two days since Sawyer and I had met. More than a day had passed, so it didn’t seem creepy for him take advantage of the new number in his contacts yet, but he hadn’t yet gotten past the three day long “cushion of new acquaintanceness”. But afterwards I decided two days was the perfect amount of time for him to wait to text me-- just enough patience and just enough desire to talk to me. (Another side note: I tend to overanalyze text messages.)

Upon reading that text I realized it was time to decide whether Sawyer really was a 17 yo homeschooler with good intents. Of course I wanted him to be, but until I knew for sure I couldn’t really tell him how much I was at Barnes and Nobles.

“Eh, every once in awhile. You?”  

“Every week! This is Sawyer, in case you hadn’t figured that out by now...”

“Oh good, I was worried it was someone trying to do some bookstore survey or something ;).”

“Oh, well I guess I should tell you I only make friends with pretty girls so that I can get them to take surveys...”

“And I only take surveys when they give me free stuff after I answer all of the questions.”

“How about we make a deal? I write a survey for you to to take, and after you’re finished I’ll buy you a treat in the cafe :).”

After thinking about it for a while, okay maybe a few seconds, I decided free food was just too much to resist. As was the possibility of seeing Sawyer again.


“When will you be at Barnes and Nobles next?”


“Alright, I’ll get writing questions then.”

“Alright :).”


Sawyer politely waited until I finished the paragraph I was reading in Stargirl before he sat down and slid a piece of paper across the cafe table to me.

The Elle Survey was printed in big letters across the top.

“Got a little font happy, did you? What size did you use, 48pt.?”

“Sorry about that, I got a little excited.” Sawyer smiled.

“So, am I supposed to take this survey now?”

“Mmmhmmm. Here, I’ll be a dear and fulfill my side of the deal early well you get started on those questions. What do you want to eat?”

“Something with chocolate, you can pick.”

Sawyer gave me a thumbs up and walked away as I started looking at the questions.

The Elle Survey
Rules: Answer questions fully and completely. I don’t care how long it takes you to finish and how long it takes me to read. If you feel uncomfortable answering a particular question, simply draw a picture of a dinosaur in that question’s answer space and move onto the next question. Note: The same type of dinosaur may not be drawn more than once.

1. What is your favorite adjective?
2. When you can spend your time doing what you want, what do you do?
3. Name a person who completely inspires you. Why?
4. Who is your favorite superhero? Why?
5. Is there anything you try to do or achieve everyday?

I started answering: Lovely. I write and sit in bookstores, duh. Audrey Hepburn. Captain America. Some questions required more thought. Some of them were just to make me laugh. By the time I was half way done, Sawyer had returned with a slice of chocolate cake for me and some quiche for himself, and I had drawn a T-Rex, one of those long-necked dinosaurs, and an embarrassing rendition of a pterodactyl, signaling I didn't want to answer certain questions.

Sawyer finished off his slice of quiche and then got out Ender’s Shadow. He kept glancing up at me.

“I know you’re watching me.”

“And I know that you know that I’m watching you,” he remarked. “I want to know what you like when you don’t think anyone is watching you.”

“Here, I’ll add it to the survey.”

21. What do you look like when you don’t think anyone is watching?

I usually act like someone is watching, just in case. So I try to always look like I do right now, while I’m writing this, and you’re staring.

When I finished the new question Sawyer snatched the paper back across the table.

“Wait! You can’t read my answers while I’m sitting here!”

“Just this last one,” he scanned over my answer. “Why do you care if people are watching you?”

He watched in amusement while I scribbled a triceratops on my napkin and held it up for him to see.


The thing with writing a day dream is-- in my brain it's in movie form, not book form. And if it doesn't make any sense when I attempt to change forms, I would love to know that. Comments are welcome, constructive criticism is asked for. This just a beginning, and it is raw. Every once in a while I like to share other pieces, besides my normal blog musings. Should I continue to work on this one?