What a ridiculous question.

“Who is in control of your life?” Why does anyone have to be in control of my life? What does control even mean? And who says life should be controlled at all??

But by all means, let us debate the question. Bring on the pompous philosophies, my solipsistic scribblers; bring on the existential crises and self-affirming verse!

For I might be mistaken. Writing does help one think, help one untangle and re-tangle and stylize the skeins and chains of our much-beleaguered brains. By laboring over metaphors and using sibilant similes to pin abstraction to the corkboard of our pages, we might very well find all the answers we’ve been aching for.

So please, try to prove me wrong. Try and answer honestly, answer curiously, answer wonderingly. Attack the question, probe the question, laugh at the question! I don’t care what you do, as long as your words and pauses and your very punctuation all declare to the world that you have rejected banalities, trivialities, conventionalities.

Because even if you don’t find any answers, at least I’ll have found one for myself: for the few minutes (or few hours, I won’t judge) that you embrace this challenge, someone will indeed be in control of your life.

Me.

Happy writing.

You alone are enough. You are alone enough. Enough, you are alone. 

No one cares. No, one cares. 

See the beauty you do. Do you see the beauty? Do you see--the beauty!

It is wondrous and terrifying and a laughing disease.

Laughing: a terrifying disease is wondrous, is it?

You are but you. But, you are you!

Loneliness--Oneness I'll--I'll on sense--Less en lion--

What do you see?

                                surge                                                                     is

                        soaring        Water                                                Water    the 

                shaking                         is                                       cheek               giggle

          the                                          the                           your                             of

       is                                                    tear                on                                          a

Water                                                         crystallizing                                            child 

                                 is                                                          waves

                        Water    the                                           roaring         Water

                puddle              strangled                          the                           is

             a                                scream                'neath                                 the

         in                                         of          pulled                                           sloshing        splashing                                           a man                                                          of

                             and                                                   as it

                      gulp        slurp                                  wave      wanders

                 you                   and                           the                      near

            when                         sip                     of                                 and                  the

      belly                                  Water       whisper                                    far            is

your                                                is the                                                      Water

                                      eminently                                                  Water IS

                                the            rhymable                                     is

                        definable                  force                              Water

               chemically                            behind                    is

          the                                                    all            Water

unfathomable                                                  our lives

Beginnings are damned tedious things.

Seriously, who has ever liked writing beginnings? Enjoyed trying to make that first, all-important sentence pithy enough, shocking enough, interesting enough? My high school English teacher always used to say that the end of a story is like pie—it’s got to fill you up with joy and delight, yet because of its very sweetness leave you desperate for just a little more. But what does that make the beginning of the story? An appetizer? The salad course? Chocolate-covered Brussels sprouts—scrumptious enough on the outside that you decide to take a bite, to take a risk, even though the rest of it might not live up to your expectations?

I never liked Brussels sprouts. And covering them with chocolate is just a tragic waste of a good thing.

So I have decided that this beginning, my beginning, will just bypass all the salads and sprout-y expectations. There will be no rambling prelude to the action, no eye-roll-inducing “These characters are just having a natural conversation, no really, this totally isn’t just a thinly transparent attempt to provide a whole bunch of background information” exchanges, no Shakespearean pronouncements as to the tragedy, romance, and literary profundity that currently await you.

With me so far? Great. Let’s get started.

                                          *             *              *

Right now you're probably wondering, how the heck is she going to pull this off? She's got to start the story somewhere. If she starts in the middle, that's still a beginning, just in medias res. Lame. If she starts with the ending and then circles back to the beginning, she's just ripping off something that's already been done. Like that melodramatic "I never thought I would die" prologue in Twilight. Even more lame.

So what's a girl to do?

None of the above, of course. Yes, endings are technically the antithesis of beginnings, but as stated above, beginning with the end is so last season.

So I'm going to not-begin-not-end by skipping to something that's not even technically part of the story: the book reviews.

I'll have you know, I did my due diligence when it came time to send my book out to reviewers. I mailed advanced reader copies to Publishers Weekly, The Washington Post, William Faulkner (just for kicks--you never know who might decide to come back as a ghost), and a whole slew of budding book bloggers (on the off chance one of them becomes famous, I can totally go on talk shows and do interviews about how I always knew they were going to be a star and mailed them a copy of my book because I recognized their genius before anyone else did).

Not everyone agreed to provide a review, but I did get a few rather good ones. I believe the words "glorious" and "mind-blowing" were mentioned on more than one occasion. Along with "pretentious" and "utter swill," but hey, I never expected Faulkner to give me a GOOD review. I was honestly just happy to get any sort of feedback from him at all.

This one's definitely my favorite, though:

                                "What the fuck?"—New York Times

Don’t you just love that? They’ve sure got a way with words over there in the Big Apple.

They’ve got a lot of bossiness, too. My editor works there, in a big office with a tiny window and a basil plant that always seems to be just one day away from deciding to throw in the towel and go into that gently beckoning light.

During one of our initial meetings, I asked my editor what she thought about distributing the book in manuscript form: no cover, no dust jacket, just a simple binding to keep the thing together.

“Are you crazy?” my editor asked calmly.

I thought about it for a moment.*

“No,” I said. “But I don’t want a book army.”

A pause. “A book army?”

“You know, when you go into a bookstore and see all the copies of a new release stacked up on a shelf or table? They’ve all got the same gorgeously gowned girl or computer-designed pattern plastered on the cover. Each and every one of them the same color, the same shape, the same everything. Like a uniformed army ready and waiting to go out and conquer the minds of the world’s citizenry.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m not paranoid. I know they’re not an actual army. But the text itself means something different to each individual reader. Why shouldn’t those readers be able to design their own covers for the book—or just doodle on the title page, whatever floats their boat—so that it truly is their book?”

My editor gave me a look (picture the scowl of your scariest grade school teacher crossed with the expression of a Chihuahua whose owner just entered them in a sheepherding competition). “Because not everyone is an artistic snob. Because no one will buy a book that looks like a sixth-grader’s half finished English project. Because if your books are not covered, they will become ruined in a matter of weeks.”

Like I said. Bossy.

*After the thirty-eighth time someone asked me this question, I realized something important: it’s only polite to spare one moment for genuine reflection when someone seriously, rationally inquires whether or not you’re absolutely bonkers. But no more than that. It’s not like your parents ordered your brain from a catalogue, after all. 

Title: Title of Your Choice

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: In Progress

Age Range: 16-40

Author Name: Sara Deeter

Education: Bachelor’s degree in English from Yale University

Bio: I live in Chicago with my rather fat and extremely spoiled Siamese cat. I primarily work as a legal and creative writer, but I also do a bit of freelance writing for a website called Am Reading. I thrive on sarcasm, am hopelessly addicted to coffee, and have already accomplished one life goal by meeting the inimitable Seanan McGuire.

Why My Project: Although I hope that this novel will appeal to a broad range of audiences, my particular aspiration is that it makes an impact on young adult and new adult readers. Over the past few decades, those markets have been flooded with books that place well on best-seller lists but always seem to recycle the same plot devices, characters, and conflicts. In Title of Your Choice, I hope to show young readers that there’s more to an enjoyable book than just dramatic plots and drawn-out love triangles. Using humor as a hook, I present the manipulation of the literary forms and conventions (e.g. narrative framing, footnotes, and bibliographies) that those readers typically see as uninteresting as an area of enjoyment as well as intellectual engagement.

Beginnings are such damn tedious things.

Seriously, who has ever liked writing beginnings? Enjoyed trying to make that first, all-important sentence pithy enough, shocking enough, interesting enough? My high school English teacher always used to say that the end of a story is like pie—it’s got to fill you up with joy and delight, yet because of its very sweetness leave you desperate for just a little more. But what does that make the beginning of the story? An appetizer? The salad course? Chocolate-covered Brussels sprouts—scrumptious enough on the outside that you decide to take a bite, to take a risk, even though the rest of it might not live up to your expectations?

I never liked Brussels sprouts. And covering them with chocolate is just a tragic waste of a good thing.

So I have decided that this beginning, my beginning, will just bypass all the salads and sprout-y expectations. There will be no rambling prelude to the action, no eye-roll-inducing “These characters are just having a natural conversation, no really, this totally isn’t just a thinly transparent attempt to provide a whole bunch of background information” exchanges, no Shakespearean pronouncements as to the tragedy, romance, and literary profundity that currently await you.

With me so far? Great. Let’s get started.

                                           *             *             *

Right now you're probably wondering, how the heck is she going to pull this off? She's got to start the story SOMEWHERE. If she starts in the middle, that's still a beginning, just in medias res. Lame. If she starts with the ending and then circles back to the beginning, she's just ripping off something that's already been done. Like that stupid "I never thought I would die" prologue in Twilight. Even more lame.

So what's a girl to do? 

None of the above, of course. Yes, endings are technically the antithesis of beginnings, but as stated above, beginning with the end is so last season.

So I'm going to not-begin-not-end by skipping to something that's not even technically part of the story: the book reviews.

I'll have you know, I did my due diligence when it came time to send my book out to reviewers. I mailed advanced reader copies to Publishers Weekly, The Washington Post, William Faulkner (just for kicks--you never know who might decide to come back as a ghost), and a whole slew of budding book bloggers (on the off chance one of them becomes famous, I can totally go on talk shows and do interviews about how I always knew they were going to be a star and mailed them a copy of my book because I recognized their genius before anyone else did). 

Not everyone agreed to provide a review, but I did get a few rather good ones. I believe the words "glorious" and "mind-blowing" were mentioned on more than one occasion. Along with "pretentious" and "utter swill," but hey, I never expected Faulkner to give me a GOOD review. I was honestly just happy to get any sort of feedback from him at all.

This one's definitely my favorite, though:

"What the fuck?"—New York Times

Why, thank you. Thank you very much.

Beginnings are such damn tedious things.

Seriously, who has ever liked writing beginnings? Enjoyed trying to make that first, all-important sentence pithy enough, shocking enough, interesting enough? My high school English teacher always used to say that the end of a story is like pie—it’s got to fill you up with joy and delight, yet because of its very sweetness leave you desperate for just a little more. But what does that make the beginning of the story? An appetizer? The salad course? Chocolate-covered Brussels sprouts—scrumptious enough on the outside that you decide to take a bite, to take a risk, even though the rest of it might not live up to your expectations?

I never liked Brussels sprouts. And covering them with chocolate is just a tragic waste of a good thing.

So I have decided that this beginning, my beginning, will just bypass all the salads and sprout-y expectations. There will be no rambling prelude to the action, no eye-roll-inducing “These characters are just having a natural conversation, no really, this totally isn’t just a thinly transparent attempt to provide a whole bunch of background information” exchanges, no Shakespearean pronouncements as to the tragedy, romance, and literary profundity that currently await you.

With me so far? Great. Let’s get started.

Dear poetry

you know you're my first love, music is second but was prioritized above

I'm sorry poetry that I've been away for a while, thinking of the good times we had and how we made other people smile

You always brought out the best in me I won't lie

I hope they idolise you in my eulergy the day I die

Bitter sweet poetry I grew fond of you, remember when I used to recite you to all the girls back in high school?

You gave me my first kiss I swear it was one of the nicest

You improved my dull mind and I was seen as one of the brightest

I dunno where I'd be without you oh poetry,

Even though people don't see you as a career that would make me rich with a lot of money,

I close my eyes and you flow through my mind, you inspire me with superpowers and my love for you is blind

Poetry, oh sweet poetry, my love for you is endless like falling from a spaceship into the galaxy where time and space don't matter, all that matters is that last gasp for air which is you......

You're what matters.

PS

AFROPOET

@whoislanray 

Loneliness was by my side every day. I knew even as a small child in daycare that the others regarded me as strange. I wouldn't play with them in the sand. I hated the feeling of it rubbing against my skin. I was also aware that I had to be careful of my clothes. I took great care in not getting it dirty. Perhaps it was me already trying not to be a bother to anyone.

My thinking was different. The other children were such children, only interested in the physical. I was living in my head, my mind conjuring stories far more interesting than the real world around me. It could take me away to a place where I was admired and appreciated. I was a princess, with my subjects looking at me with love.

Maybe I loved nap time the most. One day, it was bright and sunny outside. Our caretakers placed our barred beds by the house of the daycare. The roof only partially blocked out the sky. I couldn't stop looking at the fluffy clouds passing overhead on a sea of blue. It felt endless. Like my life at the time. I had the illusion that everything in my head could one day come true. I could be admired. I could be famous.

However, that person died a long time ago. All her cells had died and been replaced by new ones. Her wondering mind had been dragged into the harsh cold facts of reality. Only I mourn her, because only I really knew her. At the same time, I am her killer. All that remains of her, is my love of an endless blue sky.