Dear Wendy Wunder,
I hate you.
Way to open a polite letter to a complete stranger, you may be saying to yourself. And, believe me, I’m kind of second guessing whether or not I will get a phone call home and an automatic F for such a boldly rude statement. But please, do me a favor and hear me out, okay?
Hello. My name is Arianna, and I’m a fourteen year old bookworm who absolutely despises feelings. Growing up, I was never one to cry and throw a tantrum over literal spilled milk. While other girls lost it over a Barbie they couldn't have or a kindergarten boyfriend who refused to give them a hug until after nap time, I was the kid who sat in the corner with a chicken leg in one hand and Go Dogs, Go! in the other, rolling her eyes at all the pointless drama. And over the past few years, it's safe to say that I haven’t changed much. I still read religiously, roll my eyes even more religiously, and chuckle when my friends go on and on and on about pointless boy trouble. I still don't cry at The Notebook or dive in a pool full of tears when girls decide to be jerks to me. Instead, I do the thing I do best and do not care.
I guess having my feelings be so null and void can have it's downsides. People thinking you’re insensitive or self absorbed or full of yourself is so common that you learn to even disconnect yourself from that. For some reason, I’d much rather be stone hearted and not bat an eyelash at tear jerkingly horrid things than to be overly emotional, because showing sadness or talking something out with someone else is something to be avoided. I totally disengage from the girl talks and heart to hearts and sad novels about death and last loves. That is, until I came across your book, The Probability of Miracles. And if we're being completely honest, I half expected it to be one of those I-hate-boys-because-im-dying-of-an-incurable-disease-and-love-is-pointless-but-also-hey-you're-really-cute type of sob story. But, much to my surprise, it wasn’t.
Not. At. All.
Picking up the book, I thought it was going to be one of those that would barely be able to hold my attention longer than past the first chapter. I so desperately yearned for something that would give me a new feel, a new taste. I had no idea that this I-hate-boys-because-im-dying-of-an-incurable-disease-and-love-is-pointless-but-also-hey-you're-really-cute type book was going to give me what I needed.
Boy, was I wrong.
Campbell, a wonderfully sarcastic teenager who has already accepted her doomed fate, was so far beyond such a well-written character that I truly cannot even begin to describe how much my head was churning post novel. Let’s just sum up how “Stone Heart Arianna” was feeling up in her heart regions:
Crushed
Confused
ANGRY
Confused again, because WHAT IN THE HECK are these feelings?
Borderline depressed
Hungry (I’m sorry. You can make me emotional, but don’t even attempt removing my love for my dang drumsticks. That’s just plain cruel.)
I especially loved it when you progressed the love story between Asher and her so that it seemed impossible that you would actually kill her off. But yes. You did. It's safe to say that I was not exactly happy with that. Campbell was such a pessimist and wasn’t about that “love lasts forever” life. When she was lying on her deathbed and you wrote, “Cam felt her entire soul become imbued with love. How about that Cam thought. Death did not mean being without love,” part, I seriously had to put the book down and recuperate. Cam, one of my newly added ultimate favorite characters was being killed off? That was to expected. But not soon after, I was just grateful I could go on such a journey with her.
Finishing the book, needless to say, I felt as though you came and ripped my heart out. I felt like I wouldn’t ever feel happy and my normal self again. I was so very confused and astonished that I was even capable of feeling so heartbroken. I mean, I barely get upset about anything. The last thing that I would guess could chew me up and spit me out was a silly old fiction story.I loved the last moments she had with Asher, to them night swimming with dolphins to telling each other sweet nothings on the beach and down to even their last fight. It hurts my soul having to reflect on the sweet smiles painted across my face when I read through them. But, if a book doesn’t make you feel emotion, it's not truly a good enough book. The hundreds of novels I’ve read over the past 14 years were all great stories, but they lacked what yours doesn’t: the capability to make people like me feel as though the end was near.
So now do you see, Ms. Wunder? Do you understand why I chose to open this letter up by stating something very out of the ordinary? And, just in case you haven’t noticed, I don't actually hate you. If anything, I’m extremely grateful that you could single handedly provide me with not only one of the first times I’ve shed tears over something my head knows isn't real, but made me realize it isn't all that terrible to have a few pesky bouts of sadness now and then.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Arianna P.(unofficially named “Stone Cold Heart or something like that”)
Retribution Rails by Erin Bowman
