Sanditon

[Monday]

Before I get any accusatory remarks from those who do actually judge a book by it's cover, I'd just like to justify myself. This is under no circumstances an attempt to recreate what Austen never had the chance to finish. I would never be so presumptuous as to think I could write something up to par with her.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, 'If she didn't want to stir the bunnies, why did she name her book something that any die-hard Austen fan would immediately recognize?' That's a good question actually.
But I'm afraid you're just going to have to be patent. I know. It's hard. And probably a bit annoying. But we both know that using cliff's notes is cheating, and what's the satisfaction in that, right? Like most questions, you'll have to wait to get a proper answer.
Maybe, just maybe, you'll be satisfied enough with my excuse to not bash me on your blog that no one reads...

((catchy intro right? lol. i'm not talking about any of ya'll, so don't freak out! that little speech is supposed to be as if it was published and it ruffled a few feathers with the title.
anyways, don't expect much here for a while... i haven't worked out all the kinks in my plot yet.))

[Monday]

((just so everyone knows, this is subject to change/ deletion, so don't get to attached. i'm still in the planning stages of this story, and there are still so many wholes in it. I still don't have all of the names yet, or some of the characters worked out. really it's a big mess... but i'm doing my best))

[Monday]

Have you ever woken up in the morning, starring up at the ceiling, and asked yourself 'What in the hell am I doing here'? It's not really a 'here' as in a place. You know that your in your room on a bed somewhere in the world, and that's all that really matters. But a here as in 'Out of all the places I could have ended up after all this time alive, why am I still here? Why do I still not know why I breath in the same air, live on the same Earth, and do the same things as so many others and still feel so different? What could possibly make me, a seventeen-year-old in Grand Rapids Michigan, so special?'.
I used to spend alot of time just starring at the ceiling, before I met him.
"Hey....uhhhh..... Janet", the boy beside me whispired, "what's the answer to number two?"
When I said him, I did not mean Tom Martin, who sits beside me in 3rd Period Calculus. Here I was, contemplating myself and my relation to the entire universe, and Tom was trying to cheat off of me. Sometimes it felt like the whole freaking world was just made up of Tom Martins.
I was always good at math, and Tom knew it. Just like every other person in the class room, including myself. So I guess in that way I couldn't blame him. If you asked me to write a rhetorical essay over 'A Modest Proposal' I would be way in over my head. But tell me to write down all of the trigonomic cofunctions, and I was in the zone.
Tom, however, was far from in the zone. He often had a glazed expression on his face in class (if he was awake at all). My Physics teacher blaimed the football, but I was not so niave. There had simply been no brain to damage in the first place. Not that the boy wasn't attractive in that oversized, drools on himself when he's not paying attention, linebacker way. But I was way not into that. To be honest, I wasn't really sure what I was into. But it certianly wasn't Tom.
I'd been sitting in the same classes with Tom since the second grade and he never really did catch on to the whole learning thing. And I was pretty sure he didn't remember my name, either. Which, you know, was way worse.
"Jane," I said, ignoring his first question and answering the one that he should have known all along. "My name is Jane."
He looked at me in a very confused fasion before starring back down at his paper. Trying to figure out how 'My name is Jane' worked as an answer to number two, I supposed.
Poor Tom. I think I gave him to much credit when I said he was out of his zone. He wasn't even on the same planet.

[Monday]

Eventually Tom clued in on the fact that I wasn't going to help him and he returned to staring blankly at his paper. I was already on number sixteen and still had an hour left of class to go. I finished the test, turned it in (I was pretty sure that I didn't miss a problem), and sat back down to see that every head but one was still down, struggling to finish the test on time. Tom, though, was staring directly at the wall across from him, as if by some miracle the answers would just appear to him on the black board.
Despite my classmates' current strife, I didn't find calculus nearly as difficult as all my previous teachers had made it out to be. Then again, math was always something that came naturally to me, like breathing.
A fact which my mother, the 19th century Literature Professor, found almost disgusting. Let's just say that math was not her forte. She preferred reading books, talking about reading books, and, on occasion, trying her hand at writing poetry. I wasn't completely opposed to reading but I didn't inhale books the way my mother did. Sometimes she would eat, drink and breath them. But that was only to be expected, considering her career path.
My dad, on the other hand, was totally opposite. He was some great heart surgeon and the only time you would catch him reading was from some newly published encyclopedia on the aortic valves. He often traveled across the states for extended periods of time, giving lectures and whatever else those doctor types do. I was never excessively close with my father so these long recurrent absences never really bothered me that much, besides the obvious fact that it made my mom sad.