I met up with a beta reader, the first teenager to read my YA novel ‘Everything That Counts’. She gave me great feedback, but this section was one of her favorites. I look forward to perfecting it, sending it off to publishers, and having millions of other readers enjoy it as much as she did.
Zoe giggled. “I can’t believe I make sense to someone as smart as you, Blake.”
“You’re smart too. I mean we have English together, so you’re just as intelligent as me.”
“Maybe you’re just bad in English. I mean I bet you get that poem we were supposed to read. You know the one about the heart inside the heart, which totally grossed me out. I mean who carries around a heart, of like, someone they love?”
She was right. I didn’t understand language and the way it would evoke emotion when one might read or say a word. Much less why writing so incorrectly would ever be appropriate. Phrases held no power; it was only how they might be interpreted by others that gave them any meaning. And who’s to say that what someone wrote would ever be read? And who did e.e. cummings think he was to write so oddly thus making it impossible to understand his work and therefore get me a ‘B-’ on a test?