Author Archives: caseykins

House Search

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Brian and I are looking for a house. I’ve tried to be nonchalant about it, but it’s becoming increasingly harder to do so. We think we are moving to Redlands, a history and music-obsessed, friendly town in San Bernardino County where eucalyptus line the streets and orange groves still take up city blocks. How very California of them. They are known for their small, private university and the Redlands Bowl, where people picnic and listen to music all summer under the stars. We have thought that we’ve found The House a couple of times now.

Looking for a house is a little bit terrible. It is nothing like looking at model homes or touring open houses as a looky-loo. Those I enjoy like I enjoy the Huntington Library. I can imagine living in the house (that is now an art gallery) with the grand staircase, pulling up to the pillared front door in my carriage and tucking the folds of my silk dress behind me as I step out. I can see the parties we would have on that vast lawn, white tablecloths fluttering in the breeze, the warm glow of candles, the statues of Greek Gods looking on. I can look at the tract home with the long dining room table and picture us there, lights dimmed, as I set a glowing birthday cake in front of a curly-haired child. I also know that it’s not real. It is nice to consider, but it’s okay if that never happens. Brian is infinitely better than the “boyfriend” I dreamed up when I was in high school, with his nondescript car, the fake ring he gave me, and his propensity for bringing me non-existent flowers. I assume that home ownership will be the same.

Looking for a house to own feels like a breath of hope that is strangled in possibility and what-ifs and anxiety that they won’t accept what you’re offering. The seller, whom you have never met but assume must be a penny pinching, coupon-clipping curmudgeon, holds your dream future in his hands. There are always other houses, but there is never That Exact House. You give one gasp of breath before submerging yourself into a version of your dream life and drowning there. We have only been at this for three weeks and I already want to give up as much as I want to go forward. Well, that’s not entirely true. I want to go forward just a little more than I don’t. It is the evil siren’s call of that dream future I’m drowning in, I know it.

Finding the house is the easy part, I’m told. It’s within all the paperwork and the inspections where mysterious and catastrophic things go wrong. I have a feeling I won’t be getting much sleep for a while.

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Book Review: Middle Grade Goodness

Greene Popular

I’ll admit it.  I struck gold last weekend.  Have you been following the #weneeddiversebooks hashtag on Twitter?  It blew up probably three weeks ago now, and it’s been pretty great.  I found an amazing resource for people wanting to write diverse characters that are outside their experience, here:  http://diversitycrosscheck.tumblr.com/, which was only one among many things I learned.  I also learned about The Great Greene Heist, and Popular.  Basically, these books were a fest of stuff outside my experience, and I loved them.  After all, experiencing new things is the best reason to read ever.

The Great Greene Heist, by Varian Johnson:

There’s a movement behind this book founded on a single principle: in America capitalism rules – we all have to put our money where our mouths are in order to ensure that diverse books keep being published.  If we could get one on the Bestseller list, that would be even better.  That’s how I came across The Great Greene Heist, by Varian Johnson.  In a bid to show people that diverse books can make money, publishers, booksellers, and authors are banding together behind this book to make it a best seller.  Kate Messner’s website has more on this, here: http://www.katemessner.com/more-than-words-a-challenge-for-everyone-whos-been-asking-for-more-diversity-in-kids-books/.  It’s a story with a Black protagonist, a Hispanic love interest, and a very diverse cast of characters pulling a heist for the good of the school.  Most importantly it features the protagonist, Jackson Greene, prominently on the cover.  It does a great job of including all the things people say they want when they want diverse books.

If I read middle grade, I usually read fantasy.  I will admit that I wouldn’t have purchased the book without urging.  Still, I figured that it was worth the ten bucks just to support a movement that only good can come from.  I was rewarded tenfold.  Ten bucks was more than worth it for the entertainment I gained.  I loved, loved, loved the book.  Can I say loved one more time?

The basic plot is this: Keith is trying to buy his way into becoming class president, and along the way he has plans to slash the budgets of every club that isn’t his beloved Gamer Club.  Gaby, the gal who should be president, isn’t sure what to do.  Especially because she has an honest and smart platform that Keith keeps stealing.  It’s all up to Jackson to stand up to middle school authority and  run a heist guaranteeing Gaby a win – despite her protestations that he shouldn’t and his certain expulsion if he fails.

From the Blitz at the Fitz to the Mid-Day PDA, to all of Jackson’s gutsy ideas, I was hooked so fast.  If the Thomas Crown Affair and Ocean’s 11 happened in a junior high, this book would be it.  There is even a set of con rules.  If I could have been half as confident or as fun as these kids are at that age, I bet Junior High wouldn’t have been as terrible.  Johnson’s characterizations were spot on as well, avoiding cliche and treating racial issues with maturity and respect.  This is a book about people in a school that feels so real, with just a smidgen of utopia thrown in to make it irresistible.

The bonus part of this equation is Varian Johnson.  I didn’t know about his writing before picking up this book.  Most of his older stuff is the kind of thing I read: books for adults.  I can’t even tell you how happy that makes me, because probably 75% of the new stuff I read is just not worth talking about.  This is good new stuff, guys!

So the long and short of it is that I would have told you to go buy the book anyway to support diversity, but the quality of the work makes me say it WAY more emphatically: this one is worth your time.

Popular, by Maya Van Wagenen:

At the urging of her mother, Maya Van Wagenen decides to follow the advice of a self-help book her father unearthed from the attic.  The book was written in the 1950s by a woman named Betty and she’ll follow it all to the letter, keeping a diary in between.  While the concept is a cute one, it’s really Maya’s situation that makes the book unusual.  She’s living in a town on the Texas/Mexico border where there are constant drug dogs and alarms where they have to shelter in the multipurpose room and keep silent because of police activity. That’s a lot of pressure for middle school.  Maya is chipper throughout it all.

This book is just great.  I was attracted by the paper dolls on the cover (I’m a sucker for paper dolls), but I cracked the spine and couldn’t put it down because of Maya’s strong (and often funny) voice.  The book started with the sweetest forward by Betty about Maya which swept me off my feet.  Despite the huge differences in circumstance, Betty’s words ring true and are still helpful to Maya.  That’s what was most mind-blowing to me.

The pictures in the book were my favorite parts, as were the times when Maya had to follow anything that clearly wasn’t applicable advice anymore.  Like her cotton gloves, huge straw hat with a bow, and pearls that she has to wear to church all the time.  Or the gigantic girdle.  The diagram she draws of how the girdle rides up and gives her four butts is especially amazing.

So, in short, this book is another one I highly recommend.  I burned through it in only a day because I couldn’t put it down.  It’s rare these days that I read two books in a single weekend but I just did.  I wish I had this kind of luck with all the new books I pick up!

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Old Vermont Musings

Sometimes I forget that I do this, but I often write little snippets of essays that aren’t really for anything.  Then I save them on my computer and forget they exist.  I went through a pile of them yesterday (if computer files can be a pile) and I found a bunch of things I really like, such as this one.   My cousin Courtney got married last year and Brian and I spent several days in Vermont.  This is what I wrote the morning of our first day there:

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We are in Vermont now, and it is so beautiful.  It is like everything I remembered from my childhood in Maine, only more so.   If it were feasible for me to move in immediately, I would do it.  The plane ride from New York was especially gorgeous.  I looked out the window, half hoping to see the green tarnish of the statue of liberty out the little plastic oval.  I didn’t.  Instead, I saw a long beach stretching as far as the eye could see, tan and slim.  Breakers beat at its shore, even from so high up as we were.  The tan length of it disappeared in a haze at the curve of the earth, peopled by fluffy clouds over our silver wings.  The clouds took over the view, collecting one by one until they obscured everything, and then separating apart to reveal the deep green underneath.  We soared over farmhouses like tiny train models in the middle of lush forests and hundreds of pools of water.  A wide blue river wound to the north.

It was better once we landed.  As soon as we left the airport, I smelled it.  Green; the kind of thing that is grass clippings and clover and the hidden sweetness of running across the lawn barefoot in the summer time.  Beside the airport were the kind of houses I remember in my childhood, their muddy white clapboards rising from thick bushes as if they grew and solidified in the scrubby lawn.  This is the kind of house Uncle Earl had, when we ate blackberries from the thicket in front of his house.  He fed us blackberry pie for dinner and taught us about chickadees, the state bird of Maine.  This is the kind of house Grampy had, with the bed in the guest room not quite a double and more than a twin.  They forgot one night when we came to stay that it wasn’t a regular double, and my husband and I spent a night under the white tufted coverlet trying not to elbow each other onto the floor, too polite to remind them.

We arrived at cousin Courtney’s to enthusiastic hugs and watched the humid day slip away on her back porch.  I listened to Uncle Dave tell jokes, throwing his head back to laugh, and thought how much he reminded me of my mother, raking his fingers through his hair.   And then the patter of warm rain fell around us on the screen porch.  And then we went to bed.

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The Novel, and BEA

IMG_20140303_131755I’m more connected to the publishing industry than I ever have been before.  Not that I’m very connected, but I have recently started following some industry blogs.  I feel like I have an inkling of what’s happening, although I don’t participate and I know I’m probably woefully uninformed compared to some.  Still, being more connected has some interesting consequences.

Before I delve into the consequences, you should probably know that the novel isn’t going well right now.  It seems to go in fits and starts.  This is a full-on fit where I can barely get myself motivated to write the three new chapters that draft three really needs.  Almost nothing is left of the Nanowrimo manuscript, and yet it’s still far from good with no end in sight.  I think that part of the problem is this: if it’s only for me, I don’t have to worry about whether it’s good or not.  As soon as I show it to someone, it matters.  Once this draft is finished, I will show it to people.  It will break my heart if I’ve been working for years on something that can only be tossed out.

I’m too close to it to know how it really is.  All I can see is the masses of work it still needs, not whether the words that exist now are any good.  That’s high incentive not to finish editing it.  If I never get to draft five, then I can still harbor dreams of six figure advances and glossy covers.  I can interview myself as I drive home, about the genius symbolism I wove through the novel and what my next project will be.  I can craft my answer to “Where do you get your ideas?” I can plan what I will wear to book panels and signings.

You don’t have to tell me this is an insane pipe dream.  I already know it.  Just as I know exactly which house I’m going to buy in Maine when I win the lottery (says the girl who never buys a ticket).

And that’s where the consequences lie.  Mostly, I’m sad because I wish I could join in.  All the tweets from BEA are making me super jealous.  Especially Shannon Hale’s hilarious reports of things Daniel Handler said.  I would love to hang out with the two of them as peers and not just as a fan (maybe with Libba Bray thrown in for extra sass).  The photos that Little Brown and Penguin are posting of the convention floor also make me cringe.  Is everyone in the world managing to write a novel except me?

I’m beginning to see why writers recommend not even starting if you can help it at all…

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Book Review – Diana Wynne Jones

I get on kicks where I read a whole bunch of one author at a time, and it appears that this is one of those times.  Diana Wynne Jones is someone I wished I had discovered earlier, because I would have worshiped her books had I read them as a girl.  As it is, I find myself loving them and wishing I was clever enough to have written something half so amazing.  Howl’s Moving Castle and Chrestomanci are what she is known for, but she has tens of obscure books that are also wonderful.  Here are my thoughts on two of them:

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The Dark Lord of Derkholm:

The Dark Lord of Dirkholm wasn’t what I thought it would be. I expected magical, funny, and chaotic. After all, it’s a Diana Wynne Jones novel, and those are the things she does best. This was funnier than that, and more awful than that as well.

The basic premise is that a bumbling family man, farmer, and wizard named Dirk is elected to play Dark Lord to a host of pilgrim parties that come through their world via portals every Fall. The pilgrim parties are destroying their landscape, and an oracle says that if they elect Dirk as Dark Lord, the pilgrim parties will end. Dirk is famous for his genetic experimentation on animals, breeding intelligent and, frankly, really cool things. There are the Friendly Cows, the Carnivorous Sheep, the Flying Pigs, the Sentient Dogs. And then there are his “children:” Griffins bred from he and his wife’s DNA, and reared with his natural-born children. They all work together to make the pilgrim parties go well (for a while).

It’s a funny commentary on the Dungeons and Dragons genre, and Jones really knows her stuff. It’s hilarious to see regular human beings conform to the tropes of the genre for heaps of overzealous tourists. Among the hilarity, though, Jones makes a more serious point: the fact that this isn’t actually a game. Killing isn’t a game, and neither is war, or sacking villages, or being kidnapped, or being forced to fight in an arena. It’s mostly well done, although it left me reeling a few times as she transitioned between funny and not. Sometimes it was seamless, sometimes it wasn’t. I definitely lost the sense of profluence during some of the many battle scenes with the Dark Lord’s army.

I’m a HUGE fan of Jones’s work and I’ve read tons of it. I liked this book more for the world and the characters than for the story itself. Still, I enjoyed reading it and would recommend it to other fans. If you haven’t read a lot of Diana Wynne Jones, things like Aunt Maria, Howl’s Moving Castle, Fire and Hemlock, Dogsbody, and the Chrestomanci series were much better.

Homeward Bounders:

Speaking of books by Diana Wynne Jones: The Homeward Bounders is another that is waiting for a full review. This one is about a boy who finds that his world is actually a game board in use by a bunch of demons. He’s cast out of his world for the discovery, forced to wander the boundaries (the bounds) of hundreds of worlds until he can get home again. Along the way, he picks up a motley collection of other Homeward Bounders who are intent on destroying the demons and reclaiming their worlds together.

This book was more of the Diana Wynne Jones type. A whole collection of random occurrences pull together at the end to all make brilliant sense. Along the way, her collection of worlds is fascinating and funny. While the myths in her stories are nebulous and are hard to pinpoint, these felt like Greek. There is an ultimate Homeward Bounder who is so similar to Prometheus, but the Flying Dutchman and his crew also make an appearance, among others.

The worlds are in flux, so the story seemed less anchored than some of her other stories. The rules are always changing. While I think this was probably not purposeful, it serves the story well enough. Because of the multitude of worlds, this book also has a strange factor that is deeper than her other books. For the queen of strange, that’s really saying something… I would certainly recommend the read, though. Not her absolute best, but “not her best” by Diana Wynne Jones is often high and far above the best of others.

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Summer Hours and Doll Houses

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Summer hours start at Scripps this week.  I’m still in Afghan-land (about ¼ finished with the third), so the extra hours to crochet will be very nice.  I’ll post pictures of all three once they are all delivered and the packages opened.  Social media and surprises are a dangerous combination, so I refuse to mix them until they are no longer surprises.

I’m not sure what to do after I get out of Afghan-land – I can see the light at the end of the tunnel!  It isn’t the train! – but I think I might have an idea.  I have a Greenleaf Beacon Hill dollhouse sitting partially finished in my mother’s garage.  It might be nice to set it up on the kitchen table and see how much more of it I can get done this summer.  At last glance, however, Hunca Munca and Tom Thumb were having babies in the dining room.  This is a problem, but nothing a little scrubbing won’t fix (okay, a lot of scrubbing).

With the dollhouse, of course, comes bad Victorian romances.  I’m not reading, I’m writing, and loving every minute of not worrying about cliché or even quality.  Dovie and Royal Whitlock live in the house with maids Betsy and Dinah.  There may or may not be a baby on the way eventually.  She was the governess to his super-wealthy family, but he’s the second son so he won’t inherit and it’s plausible for them to marry.  I know, it’s such trash but it’s such fun!  Why is this stuff so easy and the novel so hard?  My guess is expectation…  Probably this is the closest Dovie and Royal will get to having their story in print.  It doesn’t matter if it’s stupid.

I read back through this post and realized that I’m really a sixty year old woman, or twelve.  These are the hobbies I usually refuse to talk about, because if there is anything more ridiculed than a girl playing Savage Worlds games it is a thirty two year old who (ahem) “collects” dolls.

I swear… my home features no chintz, and no quilting, and the embroidery is all shockingly modern in nature. There.  I feel much better now.

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Rainy Day Bicycle

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I didn’t ride my bike to work at all last week. I looked at the 100-ish temperatures that were predicted and decided that my car looked luxurious with its AC.   I had been feeling so guilty about being a lump that I decided to ride first thing last Tuesday. It was supposed to be in the ‘70s and gorgeous out. In the morning, it was. I thought about wearing a jacket, but realized that I would get warm pumping the petals, and I zipped down the streets with the crisp air rushing across my shoulders and the sun peaking just above the treetops in the blue light of morning.

By afternoon, the patches of fluffy clouds had turned into a gray blanket across the sky. By 5:00, it was raining and gusts of wind whipped the treetops back and forth. I had at least a fifteen minute ride home, unprotected, without a jacket. Sometimes I’m too smart for my own good.

Cheryl and I left work together. “We can see if your bike fits in the back of my car,” she said. So I walked in the rain to unchain it from the bike rack. It was a warm rain, and it soaked me through as I clipped the chain back to my bike.   The smell of wet concrete rose sweet from the ground as the rain pattered on the leaves, and I realized that I didn’t really want a ride home. But I wheeled the bike over to her car anyway. Sane adults do not desire the discomfort that is riding in the rain. The bike is long and lean, and the crate I’ve zip tied to the back is enormous. I was glad when we took one look at her backseat and another at my bike and realized that it was useless even to try.

“I’m pretty wet already,” I told her. “It will be fine, it’s just water.” I mopped off the leather seat with the towel I keep in the basket, and I was ready to ride.

I was not the only one caught out on my bicycle. There was a soggy fraternity of us streaming water as we rolled down the streets. I nodded at them as we passed, and felt the warm contentment that comes with belonging to something larger than only me. I felt the cold drops sink through the fabric of my pants and drench my cardigan until the shirt underneath it was wet too. I breathed in the smell that only comes with spring rain. The drops rolled down my face beneath my glasses.

It started to rain harder when I was half way home, and I could hardly see the road for the rain dripping down my face and pelting me. I told myself that my helmet would probably protect me from the worst of it, but it didn’t. Still, I was happy. There is something glorious about getting soaked to the skin from water in the sky. I forgot that I used to do it when I was younger; put on a coat and galoshes and splash in the puddles until I was wet through. When it rained back then, my sister, my cousins, and I all became our own little musical. I enjoyed all fifteen minutes of it.

Tuesday night is date night, these days. I was on the hook to make dinner and there was nothing in the house. It was only fifteen minutes later, after I had changed into dry clothes and my grandmother’s rain coat, that I left the house again with car keys clutched in my hands. The storm had cleared to blue sky and golden sun again, and there was the crescent of a rainbow peaking from between the green leaves of the trees.  I smiled to myself as another warm feeling filled me. Like maybe I was living in a book, where rainbows Mean Something and a ride in the rain is some sort of plot device.

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Of Birds and Steele

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My new office is a strange place to work. It isn’t the people I work with, (they are all very nice, and so far pretty normal) but the building itself that is odd. Scripps College is known for its gorgeous architecture. White stucco buildings are decorated by columns and vast windows and topped by red clay roof tiles. The campus is mostly rolling green broken by leafy trees and flowers. Orange trees and Elms are everywhere, and the main campus smells like the sweet and tangy odor of citrus.

My building is not on that side of campus. My building is on the new side of campus, in a building that is the pinnacle of the Brutalism movement. They have tried to disguise the tall walls of thick concrete with a collection of eucalyptus trees and ivy, but it hasn’t worked. It’s named after the Steele family, but Steele is so apt a name for the place that I often forget it was named for anyone at all.

Inside, it is far from brutal. The office was remodeled last summer. It’s filled with natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass doors. Those who are lucky enough to have an office with a window can pretend they’re working in a tree house. Outside the office is a small balcony with a wrought-iron patio table, partially windowed and partially not. This scene is the view from my reception desk. Our glass doors must remain unlocked during business hours, which with the mechanism on the door, also means unlatched. This creates some interesting phenomenon.

It sounds like a horror movie at my desk.

The wind wuthers around the concrete corners, through the cracks in the door, and down the hallway. Some days it’s only a soft whistle. But when the wind picks up it can become this sustained and wavering sound like something from the soundtrack of Amityville Horror; in the middle of a cheerful blue hallway of brightly lit fluorescents and generic paintings. If the wind gets very gusty, the door will open by itself. I feel like I ought to keep garlic at my desk or something.

The other problem with the building design is the birds. I am going on my third week here, and we have already had one die over the weekend on the patio. They fly in through the slim railings where there isn’t any glass and then get caught by the windows on the other side. There is a blue net by my counterpart’s desk that we use to coax them out again. The dead bird, crumpled in a heap in the corner, was a hummingbird. We called facilities to take it out. We had a wren today, and sometimes we get these little black birds with crested heads.

Between the wind and the dead birds, I’m not really sure what kind of a building I’m working in. At least I have nice people to man the fort with me if the avian zombie apocalypse starts in Claremont. Cross your fingers for me, okay?

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Book Review: I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn’t) by Brene Brown

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I had heard Brown’s TED talk several times, and her follow up TED talk as well.  She’s a strange bundle of confidence, scientific method, insecurity, and hilarity.  At the end of it all you just have to love and trust her.  And she has powerful things to say in her scant few minutes of time in front of the camera.  I’ve been thinking for a while that I should pick up a book of hers because she had such moving things to say, but I’m a horrible procrastinator and I kinda hate driving.  All things that conspire to keep me out of the book shop.

Brian and I were picking an audio book at Barnes and Noble for our road trip when I saw the book (who have the worst selection of audio books I have ever seen, by the way.  We ended up with Audible instead).  I scoffed at the title.  I have an abhorrence of self-help book; mostly because they rarely help me, but also because of the cheese factor.  But when I saw her name at the end of it, I decided it would probably be better than the regular sort.

I read it in fits and starts in our breezy hotel room in Monterey.  It was a revelation.  I learned that I have pretty good Shame Resiliency (thanks Kathy and John!), but that I still have shame about some very weird things.   Like writing.  Like religion, and vaccinations and health care.  Like being a woman.  So many of the superficial fights Brian and I repeat seemed contained in that slim book, and I was the problem.  Knowing that has allowed me to discuss things like an adult.  Her stories of other women trying to just get through it all helped me know I wasn’t alone, either.

In short, I have a feeling this book will be life changing for me.  I think everyone I’ve ever met should read it, male or female.  Seriously.  Go get it and read it NOW.  While you’re waiting for it to arrive, take a look at her TED talk: https://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability

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Cliche

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Andy had turned his talent on the football field into a degree in electronic engineering, so he knew better.  He really did.  And yet, it didn’t seem to matter.  The minute a camera man shoved a microphone in his face he could feel it start.  It was like trying to run through water.  His mind slowed, and struggling against it did nothing but tire him.

He stood under the bright lights; cleats laced tight, pads shoving his shoulders up near his chin, his helmet gripped beneath his arm, sweat dripping down his face.  The green field stenciled with pristine white numbers stretched behind him. He wiped his brow with the bottom of his jersey.

“And what, in your opinion, made your win possible this afternoon?” the man in a navy suit asked.  He shoved the black foam microphone underneath Andy’s chin.  Andy’s mind submerged.

“Uh, well, you know.  The guys are all really great players, and we all have each other’s back.  It’s all about cohesion and resiliency, and pushing through despite the odds.”

“The other team really had you up against a wall near the end of the second quarter, how did you rally to come back from that?”

“Uh, um… They’re a good team.  They, uh, really gave us a run for our money, but at the end of the day we just wanted it more.”

Andy lay awake in bed that night, replaying the words over in his head as he stared at the white ceiling.  We Just Wanted It More.  What does that even mean?  He yearned to be the smart kid, the electronic engineer.  Still, it was times like these that he feared, no matter how hard he tried, the words Despite The Odds would come out of his mouth as soon as it had a microphone in front of it, that it was inevitable.  And that this fact meant he was incapable of being anything more than a jock at all.  Resiliency, he told himself, just push through.

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