Young Writers Society

Life is a book

and there are a thousand pages

I have not yet read.

Every day, a new page,

Every year, a new chapter.

I write my own story,

Though I do not yet know the ending.

I talk to friends, meet new people,

And wonder for how many chapters

Will they last?

And when they are taken too quickly,

I mourn their loss

In every page after,

Like a coffee stain

That soaks through the pages,

Fainter the further you go,

But always there.

Every new encounter is a plot twist,

Each decision a cliffhanger

Until it is made.

Life is a book

And there are a thousand pages

I have not yet read.

My words feel flat

As I speak to friends.

They ask how I am

And I say “I’m fine”,

Instead of “I’m hurting”.

“I’m happy”

Instead of “I’m bruised”.

“I’m amazing”,

Instead of “I’m alone,

Even though you’re right here next to me.”

Life is a book

And there are a thousand pages

I have not yet read.

I pour my thoughts onto blank pages,

Turning white to black,

Building my characters

From torn pieces

Of my soul.

“She has your wit,” my readers say.

“He has your smile”,

“She has your eyes”,

“They have your compassion”.

But what my readers don’t know

Is that all of my characters are me.

Pieces of me,

Not unlike horcruxes,

That will live as long as my work does.

Life is a book

And there are a thousand pages

I have not yet read.

My stories allow me to live,

And others live through them,

Through me.

I know what it is like

To open a book for the first time.

To smell the dust

Billowing from the pages.

To feel the dried ink

And crinkled pages

Under your fingers.

To see the love it’s been shown

In the pressed spine

And bent and folded pages.

I know what it’s like

To enter a world for the first time.

To meet new characters,

New people,

New friends for the first time,

And to feel truly

You are home.

Life is a book

And there are a thousand pages

I have not yet read.

I had a friend once tell me

She would never talk to me again

If two of my characters

Didn’t end up together.

It was the first time I realized

My dream of building my own world,

My own universe

Could become a reality.

Now my readers talk about my characters

As if they are real people.

As if you could run into them

On a street corner

Or see them wandering the aisle

In a grocery store.

(Regardless of the fact

Most of them have no clue

What a grocery store is.)

My grandma uses made-up words from my stories

In Scrabble games,

And complains when they’re not allowed

Because they’re “fake”.

And me?

I see my characters

In the sparkle in my friend’s eye

When she has an idea.

I hear my characters

In the laughter of my dad

When he hears a bad joke.

I smell my world

In the wafting scent of

A freshly baked cake,

And I feel my characters

Anytime I touch my fingertips

To my keyboard or notebook.

Life is a book

And there are a thousand pages

I have not yet read.

My characters inspire me.

Most of my works

Spring not from my mind

Fully formed like Aphrodite,

But are based on others.

Women in history

Whose stories have yet to be told.

My great-grandmother’s stories

Of growing up during the Great Depression

And raising three kids in WW2.

The women of the 588th regiment

Who gave their lives for their country,

Only to go back to being housewives

After their services were

“No longer required”.

The women of history call out to me

Saying “we must tell our story,

But our voices have long since

Faded to the winds,

So you must tell our stories for us.”

And so I tell their stories.

I list their names

On a lined sheet of paper.

Ludmila Pavlichenko

Artemisia Gentileschi

Noor Inayat Khan

Irena Sendler

Franceska Mann

Phyllis Latour

And so so many more

Who’s stories have been buried

In the rubble of bombed cities

And crumbled buildings.

But just as the grass beneath the buildings

May someday see the light again,

So will these women.

Because, though the names on their tombstones

May be cracked and faded,

I will ensure

Their stories are not.

Their legacies will live forever,

Cementing their place in history,

Next to, not behind the men

They fought and worked beside.

Life is a book

And there are a thousand pages

I have not yet read.

I know the women

Who laid down their lives

For their countries

And ended up in nameless graves,

If they ended up in graves at all.

And I will ensure

They will not be forgotten.

Because, just as little boys

Have Presidents,

Generals,

Engineers,

And more to look up to,

Little girls deserve heros

They can see themselves in.

Growing up,

I had mine.

Her name was Ethel Hellenthal,

And she was the smartest person I’ve ever met.

And I know I would be

A very different person without her.

Life is a book

And there are a thousand pages

I have not yet read.

Every day, a new page,

Every year, a new chapter.

I write my own story,

Though I do not yet know the ending.

But I do know theirs.

And they deserve to have it told.

“Live is a book and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read.” - Cassandra Clare