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Maggie Mills

United States

A steadfast defender of the Oxford comma.

In Too Deep

July 9, 2015

Dead!  No.  This can’t be.  It’s like Harry Potter all over again.  Are you kidding me?  Dead!  Three books.  For three books I have been attached to her.  I wanted to be her!  No.  Don’t cry.  DO NOT CRY.  Whoops.  Too late.  Tris Prior.  Gone.  Dead.  No amount of tearful fan-fiction can ever fix this.  

The “Divergent” series captivated me.  It was exciting, fresh, uplifting.  The classic story of how a person like me managed to rise up and fight for what she believed.  Then, my beloved heroine, Tris, got shot: three times.                                 

Sitting in tech class, hiding the book behind my computer, I frantically finished the last pages.  Gunshots rang in my head as I flipped through the book, looking for more.  Some excuse or explanation to convince myself that she wasn’t really gone.  As I desperately searched, my best friend tapped my shoulder,

“You O.K.?”  She asked.  I nodded feebly, unable to take my eyes from the page.  She’s really gone.  The shock of it shallowed my breath. I raised my hand, and in a cracked voice, asked to use the bathroom.  Shuffling away from the classroom, I barely managed to seal myself in a stall before I burst into tears.  It was as if I had lost a friend.  I guess I had.   

This is the thing about books.  When I score a C on my algebra test,  or lose yet another tennis match, books take me away. Stories have the power to release you from English essays and science exams.  When I read, I am the character.  I exist in that other world.  That other time.  Suddenly, I am no longer Maggie, barely surviving middle school.  I’m Aerin of Damar battling a dragon, or Odysseus beating down the raging sea.  And, I was Tris Prior.  Before she died, of course.  At that moment in the book, I sobbed.  It didn’t matter anymore that I was missing class, or that my face would be swollen for the next hour.  I felt like my inspiration had died, not some girl, formed in words.  Standing in the bathroom, wiping mascara from under my eyes, I had this thought of, “Oh, God, Maggie.  You are in too deep.”  I scared myself.  Out of all of the world’s hopelessly unfixable problems, I choose to cry over a book.  And that, right there, was the moment I knew I wanted to be an author.  I want to have that power.  The power to make a person feel.  Feel what I want them to feel.  The power to create my own fantasies, not just wish myself into one of them.   


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