Itll start with that lovely reason to why we all die in the end. No, that’s what I want, the truth, but that’s not what I get. Why is Simon the one who dies first? He is the only character I like in this book called Lord of the Flies that is incredibly sick and terrible. It shouldn’t be called a classic when everyone dies in the end: why would anyone want to write about that, since death is always the end of something? Spiritual, soft, kind people who know what’s right; why should they end up dying?

You should write about life instead, and how it feels to go farther than you’ve ever gone before, advancing on an invisible pair of wings. Write a book on beauty and caring; of lying on the couch with a warm cup of tea and feeling truly happy. Write of how life can change in a second, and how our memories of growing up should be included in our memoirs, cause they hold some of our most beautiful memories. Write about living as a rich person in a poor country, or a poor person living in a rich country. Write a book about circumstances when wars feel familiar and fear is comforting. Write about your ancestors, heritage, and people with brains, thoughts, and actions who have lived a life and are now forgotten. Write about whispering trees, lapping waves, rocky mountain peaks where you can see a golden veil fall over a lush valley. Write about open, shocking, enormous blue skies that swallow you up and green grass that feels soft with dew under your bare feet, and snow that crunches under your shoes but sprinkles like powder from your cold white fingers. Write about irony, silent laughter, clumps in your throat and knots in your stomach, and total happiness in one moment, and then total desolation in another. Life is about living without waiting, loving surprises, being spontaneous, going skydiving or bungee jumping. Write about throbbing music, pounding hearts, screaming feelings but a silent mouth. Write about smiling on the inside, hugging a good friend really hard, or having cool raindrops running down your spine. Write about the head ache you have after crying, or how familiar faces can look so unexpectedly beautiful sometimes, and how sunlight falls through dappled tree leaves, leaving lacework on old cobblestones or sleek green grass. Nothing is more precious than touching old stone still warm from years of sunshine, seeing waves break beneath you like blue monsters rising out of an endless sea onto the craggy rock, the last thoughts you think before you fall asleep that you never remember but are sometimes the most profound.

Someday I will write those books and on a teenage girls bookshelf will be my name, and she’ll think of what book to read to cheer her up, a book she loves, with characters that she could imagine being friends with, and she chooses the one by Marielle W., a novel about the small things that make the whole thing beautiful. A book about the world.

These are my hopes for my future, and the reason I want to be a writer. I want to bring the right stories to the world, and use my power over history to immortalize people who thought something amazing, and used their life to live it and just be what we all truly are: human.