Wack.

Dear Waco,

            

When we first met, I hated you. You were dripping wet, soggy, disgusting, a pathetic little excuse of a town. You were littered with strip clubs, tattoo parlors, and taco stands. I didn’t know what to make of you. I hated your flat, dusty landscape and your humid August skies. I hated your hailstones, your bicycle lanes, and your greasy fast food joints. I still don’t understand how most of you is still in business, what with the endless stretch of parking lots and high-rise garages that blanket the downtown area.

            

But I have to admit that when we met, I was in love with someone else. I had been in love with her for years, you understand, and it was nearly impossible for me to let go. And based on first impressions alone, she was winning. Los Angeles wore her midnight blue, sparkling evening gown and welcomed my red-eye flight home. She was dangerous and dirty, but she challenged me and helped me grow. She was everything I needed until I met you.

            

You proved to be worth far more than I could have possibly imagined. Slowly, so slowly that I almost didn’t notice, you seeped under my skin and rode the pipelines in my veins. For the past three years, you have been more than just my home. Waco, you were my first apartment and the first piece of furniture I ever bought. I wrote the check for my paint chipped, dusty, 1940’s bed with shaky hands, and moved into the first home that I could call all my own. You were the twenty-foot wall-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom and the rusty old pipes that hung above my head.

           

You were my lover when mine abandoned me. I was falling out of love and you were there in the moonlight, calling me back to bed. I never slept as well as I did when I moved back home to you. You were the bathtub fort that I built to watch Fight Club in when I thought I’d never fall in love again. I was wrong. I was falling in love with you. You were the kiss outside of the bar, the first story I ever published, the first friends I ever made. You were the late night rounds of Shiner with people I know I’ll never see again. You were my first job. My first unpaid, over-worked, un-organized job, the one that I never want to quit. Waco, you’re the place I come home to when Austin kicks me out and Dallas doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter if I drive north or south on I-35, I always have to come back to you.

            

You’re countless nights spent looking at the stars. Walking along the dam, sitting on the rooftop of my favorite coffeehouse, scaling the sides of buildings and waiting for the sun to come up. You’re a concert at Beatnix in the summer time, and a Cowboy coffee from Common Grounds when it gets cold. Waco, you’re Baylor, but you’re also downtown. You're David Koresh, but you're also Cafe Homestead. You’re the lights on top of the Alico building, better than the North Star when I get lost. You’re the derelict, the vagrant, the homeless, but you’re the downtown Farmer’s Market, too. You’re proof that life can grow and sustain even when the people here seem dead.

            

When I first began the process of moving, I felt alone, because I thought that I was leaving behind a set of friends in LA. I thought that I would have to make a new set of friends here that would ultimately just forget about me too, as soon as I was gone. I realized that none of this is true. I’m not leaving behind any people, I’m leaving behind a city that I have fallen in love with. Waco, you are my favorite roommates, and the crazy ones too. You’re my gay best friend who loves science fiction and Cupp’s cheeseburgers. You’re my big sister, with wild hair and funny stories. You’re the barista at the coffee shop, the cashier at my favorite place to get a grilled cheese. You’re my managing editor and every photographer and writer I’ve ever worked with. You’re the girl who makes me laugh when we’re putting away hundreds of boxes of non-profit shoes at my crappy day job. You’re even the punk who stole my bike and my digital camera.

Waco, you are the outside of a bar and the inside of a swimming pool in August. You’re the concerts that I went to last year instead of studying for finals. You’re the red hair dye washing down the sink from my roommate’s hair. You’re the nose ring I couldn’t keep, the tattoo I was too scared to get. You’re the yoga class I couldn’t find and had to teach myself. You’re the empty zoo on Dia del Oso, you’re the movie theatre on a Wednesday afternoon.

Dear Waco, I am terrified of leaving you. Dear Waco, I miss you already. Who will comfort me with sweet potato fries and sweet tea when I’m lonely? Los Angeles is beautiful, but she isn’t you. She knows me and she loves me, but she hasn’t seen me in years. Waco, I don’t know how to love her anymore. Right now, I only want to be with you. I want to stay in this dinky little town forever, wrapped up in the stars and the rivers and the sunrises and the parking lots.

            

Waco, I’ll never forget you. I’ll never let go of the people you brought me or the things that you’ve shown me. With any luck, you’ll grow and change and forget about me, but I won’t ever be able to do that. Not yet. Not while the taste of purple margaritas is still on my tongue, not when I still know the map of Valley Mills like the back of my hand.

           

Hey there, Los Angeles. I’m coming home. 

Paperback

I hate Kindles. I hate Nooks. And I really, really hate iPads. Don’t get me wrong. I truly admire our continuous advancement in innovative technology. But there’s something truly magical about opening a book, flipping through its pages, and being transported into a world that you never knew existed.

And that’s why, at 8:55 this morning, I stood outside of Barnes & Noble in the humid Texas heat, waiting for Gus to unlock the front door. When you walk into a bookstore, there is an unspoken expectation that your day, your week, and ultimately the rest of your life is going to change. Being the first person of the day in a bookstore is like opening the Wardrobe for the first time and stepping into Narnia, or solemnly swearing that you are up to no good before entering the Room of Requirements at Hogwarts. Anything and everything is possible, and each possibility is lined up in neat, little rows on sturdy, brown shelves, waiting for you to open them.

Here are the facts: When I was a kid, I was very unattractive, and completely uncoordinated. I had purple, wire-framed glasses, baggy overalls from the Gap, and more orthadonture in my mouth than I care to think about. I was picked last in P.E. every day—and not just second to last, or third to last, but very last. I was the least desirable choice for kickball, soccer, volleyball, and every other torturous sport that nerdy kids are forced to endure throughout grade school. Needless to say, having a swift kick or a strong arm was absolutely crucial throughout my elementary education. So what if I won first place in the Spelling Bee, or knew all 50 states and capitals? In order to be popular, you had to good at sports. I envied all the other girls with their 20/20 vision and neatly organized softball trophies. I was jealous of the boys, too, because even they got invited to our first co-ed birthday parties in the third grade. I was an outcast, and every single one of my imaginary friends was sick of hearing about it.

The problem was that I saw myself differently than all the other kids did. In my world, I was solving mysteries with the Boxcar Children, and fighting dragons alongside Harry Potter. I was strong and brave like Jessie Watson, and I was cunning and witty like Hermione Granger. My best friends were the Bailey School Kids, and I knew every single student at Wayside School. I understood Stanley Yelnats, Mia Thermopolis, and Wilma Sturtz. They were invisible, but they were powerful and smart. With every turn of a page, I drifted farther and farther away from my life as a third grade nobody. I could do something, be somebody, change the world. I wasn’t scraggly and scrawny with messy hair and crooked glasses, I was a wizard or a princess or a detective waiting to happen.

I had a ritual when reading these books. I would hide under my sheets with a flashlight, or prop up my copy of Just As Long As We’re Together inside my math book (because really, who needs fractions anyway?). As I would read, I would ruffle through the back pages over and over, watching them grow thinner and thinner as the hours went on. When I was finished, I would flip frantically through the whole book, searching for my favorite parts so that I could re-read them over again. I never wanted the story to end, until I found a new hero or heroine at the library the next day. I fell in love with the characters, the plot twists, and the dialogue in a way that made me believe that I could be just as amazing as the people I read stories about.

Which is why my heart sank into my stomach this morning when Gus shook his head and told me, “I don’t think we have that book released in paperback yet. Maybe you should try downloading it for you electronic reader.”

I can’t make the switch to e-books. I’m not sure if I ever will. Mostly because I’ll never grow out of being a scared, nine-year-old girl, seeking the comfort of the rustling pages and musty, old smells that come from years of re-reading your favorite chapters over again.

So thank you, J.K Rowling. Thank you, Gertrude Chandler Warner, Marcia Thornton Jones, and Debbie Dadey. Thank you Louis Sachar, Meg Cabot, and Gail Carson Levine. Thank you Judy Blume and Stephen Chbosky and Laurie Halse Anderson. I can never thank any of you enough for giving me super powers when I was invisible.