So, for the entire span of my seventeen years and (almost) four months of existence, I have always scoffed or turned away from people who cherish making lists or detailed time schedules.  As I have gotten older, I have just come to the conclusion that that works for some people, but that's not my thing.  Now that I have gotten even a little more older (great grammar, I know), it's time I suck it up and get to listing.

My reasoning for the sudden change of heart is not because I'm way behind on homework due to the stupid flu I've had all this week.  It's not due to the last two Doctor Who episodes awaiting my sight.  It is the same reason that it has always been: my books.  I am currently borrowing three books (On the Road, Game of Thrones, and Spencer W. Kimball) and I haven't even finished the one I was reading before they were all loned to me (I Capture the Castle).  The only reading time I've allowed myself is what little time I have at school to read school assigned books, which is fine and dandy, but reading is a little more difficult for me when it has been assigned and it's not a book that's been on my To Read list.  (Yes, that is the only sort of list exception I have ever made.)

This complaint has been on my blog too many times to remain stagnant.  I am making myself and schedule, and no one (not even myself) is going to stop me, reader!

Aspire

So, I'm sitting here, finally opening the AP Language and Composition book that I got at the beginning of the year (it's the day before the exam, people), and one of the first examples I stumble upon read:

People who knew American novelist Thomas Wolfe recall that he habitually roamed down the long aisles of the library stacks, grabbing one book after the other from the shelves and devouring its contents as if he were a starving man suddenly let loose in an immense storehouse of food.  He wrote with abandon, turning out incredible quantities of manuscript, filling whole packing cases with the product of his frenzied pen.

This may just be my thoughts being used to procrastinating, but I thought I'd write a blog post about this little diddy of an example.

I hope some day -- decades, even centuries from now -- when people stumble upon my name in a book store, they are enthralled to the point that they want to know what kind of person could have written such a thing.  I hope my imagination and my heart don't die with me, but live and thrive through my passion -- writing.

I hope I am remembered as the girl who reprimanded when someone said they had not read a certain book she loved.  I hope I am remembered as the girl who had a sparkle in her eyes when she spoke of those books and the many others that held a place on her shelf, her dresser, scattered all along her desk.  I hope I am remembered for the days I spent -- not wasted -- just reading or writing.  I hope I am remembered for my ability to go beyond this world, into one my mind created.  I hope I am remembered for my ability to make others see that same world and be affected by it in the same way I was.  I hope that once my last breath is taken from this world, those worlds in my heart and soul will not be taken with it.

I hope people remember me as the girl who was not only devoted to her faith, but devoted to imagining.

This is what I aspire to be remembered for, reader.

This Just In

-Grandma walks into room-
Grandma: That was really sweet.
Me: -confusion-
Grandma:  It was a really sweet invitation.
Me:  Oh, thanks.
Grandma:  You're so good.  Good use of words.  ALL THAT READING'S PAID OFF!
Me:  -hysterical laughter- thanks.

So, there you have it, folks.  All of my reading has boiled down to that one invitation card.  I can stop reading now.  Haha.  I love you, grandma.