Online school has made me an absolute zombie. The amount of blue light I absorb daily is enormous, and my eyes are melting out of their sockets. That picture is interesting — imagine water pouring from empty eye sockets, waterfalls. Let the cheeks become rocks and stone, hair become brush. You have twin falls. It’s a beautiful scene, nothing like how I feel about my eyes right now.
I feel hot and stuffy. Overworked. I know it’s the best option, I know that. We only have bad options right now, but this is the best.
I know it could be worse. I could be sick. Or dead. Someone I know could be sick or dead. I have people to keep me company. I have decent WiFi. I can walk around my neighborhood. I have a great school schedule. I’m lucky.
I am mostly frustrated because I’m addicted. I can’t seem to survive without staring at a screen. I can’t put my phone, computer, and TV down. Books are precious, but I can’t go to the library anymore. Yet, I just want to eat cookies and play Among Us. I would rather murder my friends than read. What has become of me?
Just the other day, maybe a week ago, I was walking home from Centre Street. It was late afternoon, and the buildings cast shadows in a way that they only can in autumn. The leaves were in fiery hues and the wind whipped around me, slicing me with chilly tongues.
I did not have enough layers on, and my hands were chapped and red. Not for the first time, I wished I could hurry this journey along so I could get to my warm home a ten minute walk away. I wanted to sprout wings and fly.
To be clear, I’ve always wanted to fly. Broomstick, pixie dust, wings, magic, science, superpower, shapeshifting, whatever, as long as I’m flying.
At that moment I realized it would probably be colder if I flew, but I didn’t care. I imagined brushing the buildings, laying on rooftops, and what I would do if someone called the police.
My imaginings carried me home with similar efficiency to wings and saved me a wasted trek. I love escaping into a different world, whether it’s another person’s or my own. One of my goals in life is to follow my passion; writing. I want to create worlds that enchant, I want to stir up imagination and let others’ brains make free with my ideas. I want to inspire the next generation, and all the ones after.
One of the silliest events that I’m missing during COVID is conventions. One of the things that I have recently been inspired by is “Writing Excuses,” a wonderful podcast that addresses just about every aspect of being a fiction author. This inspired me to write, sign up for webinars, consider my future, and, you guessed it, conventions.
Aspiring authors like me go to conventions so that they can network. They can meet authors, editors and agents, and if they do it right, can make a professional and positive impression. This makes it easier to get your work published. You can also just go to get advice, meet like-minded people, and have fun.
I thought that the sooner I start networking, the better. It also doesn’t hurt that I could meet my literary heroes. I did a lot of research on the subject and found three barriers: money, location and COVID.
First of all, good conventions cost a lot of money. Maybe I’m overreacting, but a thirteen-year-old’s income isn’t exactly bountiful. The second is location. Some conventions are still meeting this year, but they are nowhere near Boston. I do not have the money or time to go all the way to Washington DC. The last obstacle is the most obvious — COVID. Most conventions cannot take place in person, so networking goes out the window.
In all, my writing career will have to wait a while.