#she even understood us when we explained that the situation was completely different for achilles!! but still she was like nope. im done.

[bookishjules]

so today we got to the part in tlo when percy bathes in the river styx, and my 9yo got so upset with percy that she decided she's not finishing the book. she's done with percy jackson because he's making a mistake and becoming mean and arrogant, and why didn't he just listen to achilles??

her sister and I had to spend the next half hour trying to convince her to stick it out, and eventually she and I struck a deal, which.. thank the gods fr because I was about to break down sobbing at her feet if that's what it took

[john-laurens-the-turtle]

Novel Draft...So Far

Introduction Dear reader, unfortunately we humans, have a tendency to forget. I know, we think we’re good at recalling the stories of those who lived before us. The cold hard truth is that we are not. Many honest heroes have become nothing but dust in the expanse of our memories. My job is to commemorate the fable of one specific unacknowledged  martyr. A man, who truly understood the meaning of freedom in a time when the meaning was so easily misunderstood. An unlikely hero of an unlikely cause with an unlikely backstory. A truly under appreciated man who we have lost at the hands of the enemy. He once stood proudly as the son of a successful merchant and the trusted aide of our nation’s first leader. Now he has been confined  to nothing more than pieces of paper in our  forever neglectful  collective knowledge. But from those little bits of knowledge over his very existence. We can tell various aspects of who he was. For example we can tell that he was a passionate abolitionist, and a former aide-de-camp to none other than, General George Washington himself. However perhaps the most important and crucial pice of information we still contain about him, something we consider essential to ones character. We have his name, John Laurens, born and raised on a plantation just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. A slave trader’s eldest son. I did not write this book merely to tell you what this man accomplished. I have written this book to paint the portrait of his life. John Laurens was far more than just a name on a letter. John Laurens was far more than just Henry Laurens’ eldest. John Laurens was an abolitionist, a patriot and above all else a hero. He somehow managed to befriend a man who had little liking towards others. He managed to take a stand for what he believed in against his father. But most importantly he gave his life for a cause he so strongly believed in. It was his duty to die for it and  it  is my duty to honor it. I am done with the useless hatred flung at his death. Historians minimize it to nothing more than a meaningless skirmish in the Carolina low country. What they are forgetting is why he was in the skirmish in the first place. Who he was leading. The army he led them in, and the state he died in. John Laurens did not die for nothing, John Laurens did not die to be forgotten. He died for the hope of the death of slavery and the birth of true freedom. It has become rather clear to me that since most refuse to I must be the one tasked with this meaningful responsibility. I will not allow anyone to forget his name. By the end of this book his name will be etched in your brain never to be forgotten again. John Laurens will become more than just a meaningless name. John Laurens will become your hero as he is mine. His name will no longer only be seen when accompanying another’s. This man has left me with more questions than answers. Why was he so obsessed with dying in battle? What got him into the abolishment of slavery in the first place? What drew him to Hamilton?  Why did he attract Hamilton so fervently? Who was he? This man has managed to stir up aspiration deep inside of e that I never knew I had. Never have I felt more determined to write something than now. Never have I felt more disgraced, than now. How could I have let him slip under my nose? When did I become so clueless? I must fight for the honor of his legacy, as he did for the brith of our nation. The very fact that I live happy and free from the reign of a king is because of him and so many others like him. John Laurens’ story has made me so aware of how much I take for granted. John Laurens taught me the story of not just a soldier but of a man truly fighting for his ambitions. John Laurens was more than just a patriot. He was more than just an abolitionist. John Laurens is my hero. Chapter I       Mepkin Plantation, South Carolina, 1764 A slight breeze tickled my skin as it swept across the land. It rustled the leaves in ancient oaks and blew the grass surrounding me in all sorts of directions. The overwhelming sound of cicadas flooded my mind. I giggled as a new sound joined the chorus of nature, t’was a bird . By the sound of the tune I could make out that it was a  beautiful bluebird, with feathers as blue as the Ashlee River, that ran by our home. I had taught myself the different sounds of the birds on my free time, when I was not studying. I often loved to imagine what it would be like to be a bird to be able to fly away whenever trouble arose. To have such a beautiful voice that no one ignores. The birds at Mepkin, our plantation, were the most beautiful of all. They had gorgeous feathers and songs, oh how I loved them. Alas I loved all of it, the beauty of nature, the peace and simplicity of it all. I longed greatly for time to freeze  and capture this moment of serenity. “Ah, Jack That’s where you wandered off to!” My attention was drawn away as my mother was overcome with laughter. She seemed a bit bewildered at the sight of me, laying in the grass. Although she didn’t seem too surprised by the sight. Of course I, John her eldest child, would be found laying here in the grass with no particular purpose other than to enjoy myself. “Sorry mama, tis just so gorgeous out today! Don't you think?” I carefully chose my words to explain the situation to my dear mother. In truth, I had run off from my studies and escaped to the outdoors. If I didn’t elaborate then I wouldn’t be lying. “Indeed…” She looked me up and down with a raised eyebrow. “But so are those books, Jack. Make haste indoors, my dear boy. Then after Mr.Brown leaves you may play out here.” 
 “Yes, mother.” I bowed my head with a smile as I stood up, to dash into the big wooden house that I called home.  My tutor William Brown, was sitting in the library just where I’d left him patiently waiting with the books  for me to continue. At this point, Mr.Brown was used to my little adventures. When I had run outside the fifth time he began to realize a bit of time outside helped me focus later on. “You know John, you’re getting too old for these escapes, pretty soon you will have to stay in here with me for the entire day. And not long after that you’ll find yourself in a fine college.” Mr.Brown had a habit of maintaining a neutral expression, so you could never truly tell whether he was or not. His lips remained a straight line and his dark brown eyes tore through me. This was my life, constantly being forced into a future I did not wish to pursue. My father Henry  Laurens, was one of the most wealthy men in all the colonies.  Although he owned many plantations the one we lived at was called Mepkin, just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. Mepkin was beautiful in the Spring when everything was blooming. Particularly now in April, the fresh magnolia blossoms brought with them an amazing scent that gave me a sense of hope. If  it were up to me I would stay outside all day inhaling nature, exhaling stress. When my father realized I was inseparable from nature, he decided that he would gift me with a fine sketch book at  my next birthday assuming I completed my studies. When life got dull and my studies bored me, I would imagine the many possibilities of things I would sketch. I would sketch nature. The various birds I heard daily, the trees that surrounding me, perhaps even some of the fish in the nearby Ashlee. But most importantly, I would sketch the magnolia trees. Their beautiful flowers would be the focus of my art, white petals like silk upon a fine gown. The scent filled the stuffy Carolina air like sweet perfume. Sweet Carolinian perfume that only the finest ladies of Charleston would wear. My mother says when my mind gets stuck on something it never lets go. Like when I would “accidentally” get molasses on my fingers and couldn’t wash it off. That was always the way my mind was when it came to nature. When I was outdoors I never could seem to leave. My mind  could be one  place but my body, another. Whenever  it would be that I did leave Mepkin , I would always be able to take this part of it with me. The beauty on our plantations grounds brought reality to its brink. If only the world could stay this perfect. “I understand sir.” I nodded and sat down at the table, resisting the temptation to stare at the window. “Good. I believe we had just been going over ancient Greece. Specifically the tale of Achilles. Tell me, who was Achilles?” Mr.Brown raised an eyebrow, somewhat challenging me to real our previous studies. I could accept the challenge. 
 “Achilles was a Greek mythological hero, featured in  Homer’s Iliad.  He is described as the hero of the Trojan war and a man of good morals. He was part man, part god, a demigod. He had a friend…Patroclus-“ “And  he matters not! What I mean, child, is that his story is unimportant to that of Achilles. You must understand that not everyone’s story matters. But yours, young Laurens, will matter. It must for your father’s sake. Am I clear?” “Yes teacher,” I nodded, I understood it al perfectly well. It was all clear as glass to me. The purpose is for me to form a legacy, a story that matters. For I surely cannot be forgotten. My father is one of the most wealthy men of the colonies. Not only that, but he is also a veteran of the French and Indian War. How am I to live up to the name he has left me to fulfill? Although I love my father much, he has made my ability to be who I wish unfathomable.   Three long hours later, my mother stood at the door to the study. Young HenryJr., her arms at her hip. Henry had been born last year and what a that marvel to my parents t’was he. Now, not only did they have one son, but two. I had been the fourth child of my dear parents, but I was the first to live. Until the age of five when it was clear that I indeed would live on without constant concern, of course there was always smallpox, but that matters not, I was informed that I must live. I am the surviver and I must succeed at all aspects life. For I am my father’s son, I am John Laurens.

“Mother, must I have to stay home on the ‘morrow, can’t I join father when he goes into Charles Town?” “Dear boy, your father needs you to stay here to ensure that we stay safe and  so that your father can give the proper attention to the building of our new home.