Yes, this is my desk at YWP — appropriately messy and homey. This is where I read most of Some Kind of Courage. Perched on my special seat cushion, my feet thrown up on my stool, and the Young Writers Project plastered on my screen, I took one work afternoon to tear through this novel. You know the world is a great place when part of your job is reading a YA novel at your desk.
 

There is a tree that stands as tall as my ambitions and there it provides shade. Perhaps it's a maple, maybe an oak, but I've never paid much attention. It simply towers over me and gives off a shadow that is meant to intimidate, but it never does. It only encourages. There in the summertime of childhood past, I would stretch out under the shade of the tree and write, or maybe read. I would lay back in the dewy grass underneath me and watch the ants parade over my knees. Many years past, I would haul out a musty, yellow, and no doubt disgusting, but truly loved blanket. I would throw it out onto the lawn cover up the worn out holes with chairs. A picnic would take place, and most of the time, I only had myself for company. But I think that's how a great writer is formed, in the simplistic state of being alone. Under that tree I would talk to myself, and laugh at my own jokes. As I grew older I stopped talking outloud, but instead, wrote in a pink covered notebook. And I must say, I still fancy myself a quite comical girl. But nevertheless, the tree that tried to cast darkness over my life inspired me to find comfort in the darkness. Now of course, summer doesn't last forever. Fall would eventually come, and that tree would keep trying to make my life difficult. It would shed it's leaves, and being the noble warrior princess I was, I would volunteer to rake up the massive piles of auburn leaves by myself, and with Godspeed at that.

This is a photo I took back in 2012 — which now, in 2017, feels like forever ago. Despite the fact that my photo taking abilities have grown since then, I have always liked this photo. You can't see the face of the horse, but you can still see the expressiveness of the horse. You can tell the horse's attention has been caught by something; it's head is turned, the muscles in its neck taught, and it's ears are perked. Yet, you can also tell that this horse has a relaxed personality from the way the hay is dangling out of its mouth, and from the casual way the horse has spread its legs. You know what the horse is expressing, and it's personality, even though you can't see it's face. 

This horse reminds me of Sarah. We know she is kind from the way she nuzzles Joseph, and we know she is a strong-headed horse from the way she has been fighting her captors. We know this animal, even though we can't actually see the animal. The author has given us a complete picture of this horse as a character, even though — just like my horse — you can't see her face. 

I just really enjoyed the little connect I saw between the way people are exposed to this real and fictional horse. Maybe, to be a teacher for a second, this a great example of how even the small details can work to paint a complete picture. 
 

This is being posted later than I wanted, mostly because I'm a procrastinator who was digging through a block at the end of Chapter 14 in my book. Block now gone, I can get back on track with these tour prompts before the memories disappear from my head completely. That's good, because this one's about- oops, preamble first.

So the 'fidgety spinner' in the title is really one of the other students from the college tour I was on two weeks ago, whom I will call 'Foos' for reasons that will become apparent in the not-too-distant future. Anyway, Foos was one of the boys on the tour, and he and I shared some interests. He wants to go into computer science, I might want to go into game coding, they're practically the same thing! That aside, the interest he and I shared much more actively was one in a little game called foosball (It would be better if you Googled it, my explanation would be tiresome to read and rather impotent.). There was a foosball table in the common room of the dorm building at VTC we were staying in, and it was regularly used by the two of us in constant competition. Some games were a blast, others made me want to leave the table, and here's why.

The golden days raced ahead of my heavy heart, their glow distant on the horizon as I walk through fog. Their hand is outretched, their arms open and welcoming, but when I reach out to touch, they are always dancing just to too far from my fingers. So I watch the light slip away. My chest is tight with tears but my eyes are as dry as paper flowers. My tongue is slick with cries for help but my lips are sewed shut. I used to search for a helping hand to hold, but in fear of squeezing the fingers so hard that they broke, I pulled away into my own self. I had lost hope, my dear. But you fought through my haze without me noticing. You tapped my shoulder until I turned around. Your smile, your simplicity, your sweet broken sentences made me breathe a little easier. You stayed with me until I smiled. You lead me to the light and brought me back to the golden days. But short days make short weeks and all good friends must say goodbye. But through mountains and seas and lands, I hold your hand without the fear of squeezing too hard, because I know that you will always squeeze back harder.

Despite everything he has been through, I really don't think Joseph acts like a twelve-year-old.

I know that experiences such as death and personal loss can age a person quickly. My cousin lost his mother at the age of eleven, and almost lost his father a year later. When I spoke to him this Easter — right as he was Joseph's age — he had an older way about him. He seemed to put more consideration into what people said to him, and he mulled over his answers longer than he used to. He kept his eyes lower than he used to. When he was just a few years younger, he would brashly look into your eyes as he spoke. Now, he watched your mouth, or he watched the floor. 

Yet, despite everything, he was still very much a kid. He wanted to play games; he was bored by our adult conversations and small talk. He still looked for entertainment, and he still wanted the company of an adult constantly. He was an odd mix, a hybrid of sorts between the occasional thoughtfulness of a teen, and the playfulness of someone who still hadn't lost the baby fat in his cheeks.