-A Tree Grows in Brooklyn on Francie
I want to write. I really want to write. I love to write. I wish I could write a million times better than I do. I wish I could fill novels with my stories and my ideas. I wish I could do it all and that people would want to read what I write, have a good opinion of what I write, and want to read more.
Today I cried. I didn't cry because I laughed too hard or I was watching something sad on TV or because something sad happened to me. I cried because I read a book and it was so powerful that I cried. The past couple days I've been reading "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." My mom suggested it and I'm really glad she did. I really really like it and am now on page 319 out of just under 500. It's really really good. It's about this little girl growing up in Brooklyn during the 1910's in a family so poor that they struggle for the quarter a day it takes to feed them. It's just about their life and it's so good.
There's this one scene where a teenage girl named Joanna is walking down the street. She has a baby and no husband, but smiles as she walks the carriage down the sidewalk with her head held high, smiling at those she passes trying to ignore their cruel looks and whispers. She is proud of her beautiful baby but the other women don't think she shouldn't be because she has husband and therefore no right to be proud. Some of the women pick up rocks and throw them at Joanna and she stops smiling. One of the rocks hits the baby and blood starts to trickle from his head. The baby doesn't even cry out loudly, as if he knows about his shameful existence. The rocks and the blood force Joanna off the street and the stones out of the womens' hands and back to the ground. This scene was just so powerful to read. Especially with Francie, the little girl, takes the baby carriage back to Joanna's door step and puts something very dear to her underneath the baby's blanket. I bet this was supposed to show how cruel people can be, but it showed me how powerful writing can be.
I love reading and have been doing a lot more of it over the past couple months. It had been a while and now I'm very content curling up in my bed and spending hours reading that I normally probably would have just been watching Full House reruns. This book is really really good and just makes me want to read more when I finish. It also makes me want to write. So I've opened my Word documents that contain scores of pages of my own stories and I know what I want to write next, I know how I want my tale to end, but I don't do it. I don't know if it's because I don't want it to end or is it that I know how dumb it is and how embarrassed I'd be if anyone ever did read it. I've wanted to be a lot of things. An olympic ice skater, a vet, a teacher, president of the United States, a singer, a broadway star, a professional shopper. Now I want to be a writer. Really, really bad.