pagesoffantasy replied to your post: I love YA books

I love YA and I love to write YA. On a somewhat similar note, if you don’t have a goodreads account, you should make one! It’s fun. Mine is on my profile. You can rate, recommend, review books, etc.

I have a goodreads account =] That’s how I new what YA books I’ve read this year. I also have a book journal, but ran out of room this year. Oh! I should ask for a new one for Christmas (note to self).

You can find/add me if you want, I’m asheroo =]

It is 11:14am and I have not slept. 76,458 words. I wrote 2,000-3,000 words tonight…or morning, and therefor I cannot really care how ridiculous this is, or how badly I need to fix my schedule this week. I’m not at the end, but I’m getting so close. It’s sad. I don’t want to be done with these people, with this story and this world. Of course, the end of the first draft isn’t the end, and I’m excited to read it through and perfect it, etc, but there is nothing like experiencing all of this insanity as it happens. I am there with them. I am living with them, and I don’t want to part with them.

At the same time, I’m excited to write this, and I will not stop because I don’t want it to end yet. I am so happy to end it. Writing is such a strange thing. I love it; I really do.

Okay, I need to sleep for a few hours. It’s too bad I can’t regret that much progress—especially since I’ve not written a ton the last few days. If I could regret writing, my sleep schedule might not be so insane. I am going to keep talking if I don’t get the hell of the computer. Okay. I am done.

Pages & Pages

Because Word pages are completely different than the pages of a printed book, I’ve never been able to tell people how many pages my books are. I can tell them word count and that sounds nice and all, but it doesn’t give you any reality. So, last night I came across a site that happened to have word counts of published books. After looking at several and averaging it out, I have come to the conclusion that my 66,000 word, 116 Word page book (the one I’ve been working on) is actually 200-250 pages in its true form. I am very pleased with this. ^.^

That also means that I have written three other 200+ page books. They will be longer in the end, of course, but it’s nice to know they are far longer than 100 or so measly Word pages.

Word Counts =D

While the book I am currently focusing on writing surpassed 60,000 words for only the second time about a week ago, I stopped just 300 words from surpassing my longest (and still incomplete) novel. I had some things to work out before I could continue, which was very unfortunate timing. After several thousand words worth of notes written, I started to write the book again tonight (or morning). I am pleased to say that the current book I am writing is OFFICIALLY, at 62,081 words, the longest book (or anything) I have ever written. =D Fortunately or unfortunately, I’ve still got a ways to go before I reach the end.
For all I know, this post makes no sense. I am very tired. At any rate, HELL YES! 

Not a Choice Nor a Chance (a 2011 short story by me)

I didn’t care that I was dying, not for me, I cared for her because I knew that she loved me and I could not begin to imagine what my death would do to her. But I had not a choice nor a chance, and as I felt the life leaving my eyes as I stared at her, trying to convey in them just how sorry I was, I knew that I could not let this be the end.

There was a light at the end of the tunnel just like they say, and what lay on the other end I wasn’t ready to know, for I knew one thing and that was: if she were waiting for me there, there would lay many a year between my death and hers.

So I did the only thing I could think; I went back, but time had passed and as I went to the place my body had been, I arrived to fallen leaves that once were green, and myself a scattered mess yet perfectly whole, the world distorted yet perfectly clear. I could feel myself slide with the air, myself a greater force than it could ever be, but I let the rhythm guide me for I had little anchor to the earth beneath what I perceived to be my feet.

I was not certain if I could feel, but I could feel memories, scars even, like the living feel a needle’s prick. I could feel her crying in the wind in the trees, I could feel the coldness of death and a rapid desperation, hoping and hoping and hoping I’d have a second chance in the green of the grass. It was as if this place I had consumed, tainted, tarnished. It was mine for I had had a greater impact than that of the largest fallen leaf. And her. Her.

And I was there with her, suddenly and smoothly, in her room adorned with photographs I could feel her eyes afraid to look at, afraid to erase the memory of my eyes the last she’d seen. It was all wrong: her lying in that bed, crying tears that would no longer come to make her feel the pain, while I, forever dead, watched unable to help, the cause of every pain she felt.

Cause. It echoed in my head, or perhaps all of me was my head, or perhaps I didn’t have one at all. Cause. I felt guilt, unearthly guilt, strong and consuming and everything. Why? Mistakes. I’d made them, I knew. What were they? I didn’t know. Wouldn’t.

Her. There in that bed alone. Beside her I lay the best that I could, wanting to feel her skin and hold her and love her like I wished that I had. Too scared in my days to say a word, afraid to break her, but in not doing so had perhaps broken her even more. Cowardice. Utter cowardice. The human: so afraid as if they have time to be.

She looks to me and I believe, if only for a glorious second, that she can see me. I touch my hand to her cheek and she closes her eyes and I believe that some small part of her knows that I am there, a part unwilling to be heard for the pain that it would cause if it were wrong. Hope can be a terrible thing sometimes.

Then she speaks to me and I remember she’s a dreamer. Is she talking like one does to the stars or does she speak to me? I can never know and only hope. Hope.

“Why did you do it?” she pleads, eyes still closed, “Why did you do it when you knew that it would kill you?”

And in those words I know that she knows, and I realize with a shattering heart that I can hear her, but she cannot hear me. I cannot apologize. I cannot… when you knew it would kill you. I did. I knew that I did. Insanity, oh could I call it that? Stupidity. Utter. A blind jump into the night, if only it were, for I had a guide of my insanity. My. I convinced myself another bottle wouldn’t hurt. Fuck. That it wouldn’t be too far. Fuck. That I would land like feathers. Soft. Absurdity. But they chased me, didn’t they? I didn’t have a choice? I did. I did. I did.

I move away. It was my fault, each and every second. I might as well have broken her with my own two hands, shattering her like glass. God I hoped she was angry. I hoped she hated me. How could she not? I never even gave her the chance to let me love her back, to let her heart land in another’s.

And she lies there and tears fall and I know that she can’t hate me. Why is it so easy to be careless with your own life? Why is it so easy to forget that you matter to others as they do to you? That should have been all it took. That they matter. Not me, not me to them, but them to me. Leaving a shattered world of everyone I loved. How could I? The words are suffocating yet I need no air. The world is not enough space to contain my regret. I try to leave, but there she lies. Tears. I have to say it. Eyes aren’t enough.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. So sorry. So god damned sorry, so god damned stupid,” and I don’t deserve it, but I see that she nods, that somehow she knows.

I regret every second that I didn’t tell her I loved her, every bottle I drank in vain. A waste. An utter waste. I was nothing but destruction. Disgusting. Not ever worthy. I feel not an ounce of sorrow for myself, only for what I’ve caused on others. Careless. So careless. I never mattered, not even for a second, not on my own, but in their eyes I did, and that’s enough to make the tiniest man grand, and I took it so for granted.

So broken she is, falling apart at the seams. This is what I mean now. I mean heartache. I mean not my name nor what I’ve done; I mean my mistakes. Those things I cannot change. They are what matter in the end. What I didn’t do, what I did, but should not have. They are all that I see. Crying eyes at my hands.

And how I’d laughed, careless and crass. Now to be remembered for the good times because it may be easier to hate, but if you cease to love, the dead can never win you back. Couldn’t they just forget? Never. Not ever. In death I’ll live with that. Carving out the good memories because I don’t deserve them. Regret. You shall regret. Regret until the soul can no longer bare the weight of what you’ve done. What I’ve done. Fuck.

I’m taken away. Gone. Done. I regret. I never move on. I regret. It eats me alive, or what little life is left, and I accept every second of it, because my god, I deserve it.


Jellicoe Road by Melina Marchetta
5/5 stars.

I just finished this book about an hour ago and god damn, man, god damn. I highly recommend it. This is the review I wrote on Goodreads right after:

Jellicoe Road was like a dagger through the heart at times, but I loved it. It’s happy and devastating and exciting. I all but lived in this book for the few days it took me to read it. Taylor’s thoughts (and those in Hannah’s manuscript) are so real and it makes me think in new ways, which is the best I could possibly ask for as a writer myself. It’s hard for me to quite put to words my feelings on this book. It’s a book I think I could read several times over. One that, perhaps, will stick with me for a long time.

I’d love to discuss it with someone. Have any of you read it?

Watch on

For Tumblr, but mainly for Fae & Seyhan! ^.^ Guess what I got in the mail today (the 20th)?

After trying about six times to get this onto tumblr, I gave up and uploaded it to Photobucket, of all places. WHATEVER! The quality is shittier than it should be, but what can you do? At least it’s finally online a day later. Hopefully it works… >.>

Thoughts watching this video back:

It sounds like I’m saying Tissa instead of Tessa. Apparently I can’t say my own name right.~Why does my upper lip look so thin? LIES!~Well, I enunciated most of my words.~The Christmas tree keeps jiggling.~When I talk out of the side of my mouth, my jaw/teeth look so crooked…~I sound like I hate Kwanzaa. I don’t hate Kwanzaa. I don’t really know anything about Kwanzaa.~Man, what a dick move it was to just drop that beautiful card. It was not harmed! I did it out of love!~They do call her Sey, right? Or did I just make that up?~I am a very odd person.

And that’s pretty much it. Haha.

This just in: According to my brother, I look the color of Snookie. -___- The actual video has much better color, but when it was compressed in Windows Media Player, it turned it really red. I am actually extremely pale. Just look at my icon. Haha. I’d switch the videos, but it’s about 170MB and would take about a year to upload.