The Literary Star

Because dang, I love my family and at the same time, I also consider them the most annoying and irritating bunch ever.

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Omg, I just got free enough to open my Tumblr again.

I swear, college and way too many extracurriculars are going to be the end of me someday. C'est la vie.

I hope to fall in love with learning again.

I hope I let myself grow this time around.

I hope to become less afraid of taking up space.

After months of going through such a terrible reading slump during summer break, I finally got to finish a book—and I couldn't be any happier.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery. My only regret is that I hadn't picked it up sooner, and it's such a shame I'm just getting back into reading when my summer vacation's almost over.

But honestly, this book came in at the right time.

The story was fairly simple. Valancy Stirling is 29, unmarried, and living in constant stress due to her overbearing family. Her only consolations to such a mundane existence are John Foster's novels and her daydreams of the titular Blue Castle. However, a shocking diagnosis from the doctor leads her to throw caution to the wind, rebel against her family, and discover a whole world on the other side of fear.

We've all been like Valancy at some point in our lives or another—uncertain and deeply afraid.

It almost felt like wish fulfillment watching this mouse of a heroine start to find her own footing and step into the shoes of a more independent version of herself. I could only wish to follow her example because it's so exhausting, this whole being afraid business.

Valancy was such an icon. I loved how sassy and witty she turned out to be once she started saying what was on her mind. It was utterly entertaining reading how she responded to her baffled relatives. And there were moments where she described her past that simply broke my heart. Ugh, give my girl her own dust pile already.

And let me take a second to admire Barney Snaith in all his glory, please? Loved him too. His whole relationship with Valancy was divine. Their companionship, their friendship, and their bond were the highlights of this read-through. They had me literally rolling on the floor and kicking my feet at certain points. I'll have what they're having, thank you very much.

I can't really talk about him anymore for fear of spoiling the plot twists. But, I'd like to say, I totally clocked in those reveals way before. Didn't stop me from being surprised to have them confirmed, though.

The chapters were also really short, which was much appreciated.

It truly sucks that this book doesn't have an adaptation, as far as I know, because I need one! Please, what I'd give just to get more people to stumble upon this treasure of a story.

North and South (2004) dir. Brian Percival

"Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!"

"Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness."

I am not a writer. I'm a graveyard keeper for stories that never made it out alive. Deep in the night, I can still hear voices And feel the eerie taps on the back of my head Ink stains my hands, Corroding my soul in scorches I roam around the recesses of empty fields Running a hand on the tombstones of titles I've carved out too early.

I am not a writer. I am a mother of ideas, but a midwife to none Cradling concepts close to my heart Whispering first lines like a lullaby And naming characters before they got the chance to breathe They slip through my fingers like sunlight I never got to hold Children with lost voices that I never got to hear Each of them, bathed in could-have-beens But potential was all they ever got to be, Long buried in errands And lost amid a life that reaches out its hands to turn my attention back to its grim face. But I still feel their small hands tug at my sleeve lightly I long to look back and dig up their bodies Instead, I simply visit them from time to time, Whispering half-meant promises of someday But it never comes.

I am not a writer. I am a gardener with a green thumb painted black One who plants metaphors in the dirt of spare thoughts, Watering them with unrealized prompts As I desperately prune the wild imaginings That have bloomed faster than I can tend, Climbing out of cracks in daily coincidences, I can not bring myself to brush off. Vines of plot lines wreak havoc on my sheds, Overrun with what-ifs and maybes I can no longer keep track of Now I'm stuck fruitlessly filling plot holes, And burying titles like seeds, Hoping at least one will flower Once the world gives it at least an hour to breathe But it never comes For the gardener is sent away They're already buried in the hustle of everyday life. As the garden is left all alone Too fertile for its own good A haunted life of cursed beauty.

I am not a writer. I am a recordkeeper in a library of ghosts Filled with books I never got to write Outlines of plots only I get to mourn As each shelf collects dust and regrets I stand in solitary silence Haunted by scenes of glittering glory, Of starlight kisses, and slow dances Triggered by songs that escape my earbuds On long commutes to and from The days stretch out in a mundane rhythm As my mind escapes to incomplete fantasies That have never seen the light of paper I see them everywhere Even in places and people they shouldn't be Running rampant Chasing fruition, but always coming short.

Maybe I was never meant to be a writer Just a person haunted by words But in the quiet moments between deadlines and dishes, I dream. I'm sure there is a space in this vast lifetime For me to reach out to these lost children Waiting patiently in the wings, And stop treating them like ghosts

Because one of these days Sorrow will no longer consume me At the thought of their potential As I pick up a pen No longer weeping over the unwritten But to resurrect the ones that linger At the back of my mind, Clawing through the silence just to be heard.

"I think... if it is true that there are as many minds as there are heads, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts."

—Leo Tolstoy

Where I'm at, it's already the 14th so happy Valentine's Day to everyone!

I've always been a sucker for love and just romance in general. There's something about it, in all its forms, that makes a person all giddy inside. It's easy to brush it all off as nothing with the usual bouts of cynicism a lot of people use, but to each their own. It's not about them and I don't want to debate about it.

I just want to express how much I love love. Whether it's romantic, platonic, filial, self or something else entirely, today is a day meant to celebrate it. Sure, love is going to be around us at every other day of the year, but the point of February 14 is to give us a time to just really acknowledge and commemorate it.

Say what you want about how love is dead or forever doesn't exist, I won't hear any of it!

In whatever way love manifests for you in all the languages and ways of expressing it, you do you. Write that letter, watch that movie, send that text, buy those flowers, go on that date, say those three little words, or just sit at home and indulge in all your favorites! Life's too short to hold back. Time only ever moves forward and we never know what we've got until it's gone so make the most of what you can—to your friends, your family, that special someone, and to yourself.

I know all this is cliche, but I'd like to point out that cliches are cliche for a reason. There's something about them that just works sometimes. The whole reason why I love romcoms and fiction in general is because they give you that sense of warmth and safety. The course of true love—no matter what kind—never did run smooth. You'll go through challenges, and doubts, and make all kinds of mistakes. However, if there's anything that fiction's taught me, it's that there will always be, if not a happily ever after, some sort of hope in the end.

Everything is going to be okay and things will work out one way or another. Life has an uncanny way of getting us through even the roughest of times.

So, to all my hopeless romantics out there or really anybody reading this, I hope you all enjoy today. Whether you celebrate it or not, I hope that love follows you where you go—in whatever way you need it. And I hope that you show it to those you know because love is more than just a feeling, it is an active choice we make in our day-to-day lives. It's not just out there, it's in all of us in so many kinds.

Jane Austen Heroines

Like, seriously, my indecisive self can't make up its mind. I need something light and fluffy to get out of this reading slump while I'm on a short break from college.

Back then, I could read a whole book in a day and then quickly move on to the next. These days, I feel so overwhelmed. I want to start something, but I often can't bring myself to do anything. I'm stuck in a perpetual cycle of picking up a story, getting stuck at the beginning, and putting it off altogether.

I know this is probably just a bad slump, but it sucks regardless. I miss the version of me who was able to learn quicker and more naturally—the one who could focus better.

Honestly, I'm just hoping all this will pass eventually. I want to feel the rush of excitement at the prospect of cracking open a new story instead of being overwhelmed. It'd be nice to have that sense of wonder and adventure back.

However, one of my gripes with the writing is that the main character is supposed to be a Jane Austen fan, or a Janeite, if you will. Even though her character is described as such and also works for a bookshop that sells romantic fiction, the only effing Jane Austen novel she ever friggin' mentions is Pride and Prejudice. It's all about Lizzy and Darcy. 

Look, I get having a favorite novel, but to imagine that's the only JA book you're ever going to bring up in the span of the whole story? Girl, there are like five other main novels, a bunch of juvenilia, and other pieces of writing. 

I mean, I still enjoyed the book; don't get me wrong. The writing was alright; it's just that I got slightly annoyed with how the character was written. No hate; I really like the story; it's just that I wish we could have had mentions of her other masterpieces.