~ Author's Note ~

This story was written by my friend Junelian Ai.

It received a lot a constructive criticism. Junelian didn't really seem to care, actually. Which isn't a lot like her, because she would normally hate constructive criticism. She just didn't understand FictionPress, and didn't really care about it. She refused to edit it.

My friend, Victoria Willow Jay, and I, are kind of worried about Junelian.

So we decided to edit her stories ourselves. I took Why Must Death Conquer Life and Vicki took The Story. Vicki's author's note is coming next. Enjoy!

~ Emmeline Alicia Mary ~


Wow, first author's note isn't even on my own story! But anyways...

Hopefully Emmy explained everything about a new chapter on a completed story!

So these are my edits...and I kind of got carried away with them so now Junelian's (what kind of name is that?) story is double the length. Oh, joy.

I normally wouldn't beg for reviews but now I am on my knees BEGGING for reviews... We (Emmy and I) want to prove to Junelian that her story needs editing. So tell us what you think in a PM! Even if you tell is it is snotty and filled with trash, I won't care. I'll just edit it again. And then if it is even more snottier and more filled with trash, tell me again. That's how my life works.

BUT ANYWAYS, we want to prove to Junelian that when we edit for her, good things happen. :) So if you think it's good, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review! If you review, we will review you back. That's like, Emmy's policy but I am stealing it! Muahahahahaha! But anyways, when you review, we will both review you, so you will have two reviews in exchange of one!

Oh, geez. Look how long that is. Do you see why I don't write author's notes?

~-VWJ-~


The Story
Original Story by Juneline Ai
Edits by Victoria Willow Jay


"This is not happening. No, it's not."

She wasn't exactly what you would call the best writer, but she didn't care. It wasn't that she was worried about.

Her mind had nothing. It usually had lots of ideas for stories, lots and lots of thing to write about . . .but now? She was stuck. Stuck, by the name of the Devil, stuck. She couldn't think of anything to write, mind you, not a single thing! Think, think, think! Nothing came at her. No "Aha!" moment. No words. Nothing. It couldn't be happening.

Try a historical story, she told herself, A historical event. The Great Depression? The Titanic? A girl…a small girl, boarding the Titanic with her m . . . and she started typing. She typed until she came to a stopping point, and read it over. But the story didn't satisfy her. So she deleted it. She deleted the story.

A story . . . a story of an adult coming . . . to . . . a – a mirror. The mirror . . . traps the adult and . . . kids have to get the adult . . . out of . . . no. The idea was too close to a real published book. That would basically be stealing the author's idea.

She could not think of any satisfying tale, and slammed her palm on the sandy black desk below the waiting computer, opened to Microsoft Word, page empty. How about something else, she told herself. But it never worked out.

"Wasting your time! If you can't think of something worth writing, don't write at all! Do your homework! Study! Stop wasting your time!" screeched her mother.

But she didn't want to. She loved writing. More than homework, more than studying. To her, it was the most important. To her, nothing could ever compare.

It made her desire to fill the page grow even more.

"No imagination! What kind of idiot writes stories like yours?" shouted her father.

But she failed to recognize those words, and was even less hurt by them. All the writer could think of was the blank, white, page she somehow would have to fill. All she could think about was the beautiful words that would someday, somehow fill the page . . . all that was left was to find those words. The writer thought more. She sat there, thinking for hours, distracted only by the thought that she had to write something, that she must type words on the blank page she had. She typed, deleted, typed, and deleted, her recycling bin overflowing with the countless words and stories that had not met her expectations.

Sometimes she thought she should just quit for the day. Wait for that inspiration- the amazing inspiration- that would one day hit her. No, she thought, winners never quit. And quiters never win. So she kept writing.

The young writer wrote, and deleted, wrote, and deleted, her endless cycle continuing and continuing.

But before she could delete her latest story, she heard something behind her. Her ears awoke from their deep slumber and listened for the first time since she started typing at the computer.

"Don't delete that, I beg of you. If you're not satisfied with it, save it for later years. If you throw it away, and one day, realize it wasn't so bad after all, it'll be too late. This little story will be gone, melted into the piles of trash. I like it. It satisfies my soul. It's a nice story. So save it." That voice she heard was her father's. Her father had been watching for sometime now. "One day, it may even be the book you dream to write. It's an impressive narrative for a ten-year-old anyway."

So she listened to her father's words and didn't delete, but saved the unfinished story for later years. However, she continued writing and writing until one story she wrote stuck to her mind when she read it. This is what I've been looking for. It struck her so hard and unexpectedly she tripped over her own feet to rush to her mother and father to tell them about this story. Even so, she did not notice the time. Her parents were asleep. It was about 1 a.m., and she had missed many hours of sleep. She yawned and saved her started work; but not wanting to lose her ideas, she continued typing the story. When she didn't feel anything and was having yet another hard time thinking, she fell asleep.


Six Years Later


"You can't publish this work of . . . I can't describe this, honey. It's not . . . I just can't say it. I refuse to publish this. It's not going to bring in profit - it's not going to bring in anything but a bunch of angry people screaming your name! I can't publish this, honey. I'm so sorry."

The writer looked at the publisher once before running out of the building, tears flowing from her eyes like a waterfall. How could they reject my story? The story?

She slammed her head on her pillow and cried.

This can't be happening. Not here. Not now. Not to me.

She pulled out her oldest document, and looked at it again. I wrote it six years ago. Did that much time pass since I wrote this?

She remembered her father's words. "One day, it may even be the book you dream to write."

Her father was right. She was going to write this story, and this time, they would HAVE to accept it.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," her editor told her, "I know you wanted to become the first Newbery author under the age of sixteen. I'm sorry . . . you didn't even get your book published . . . And you'll turn seventeen tomorrow . . . I'm sorry, but there are a few things we can do to improve your story . . . I could-"

"No," she smiled, "That story isn't fit for a Newberry medal. I have this new one I wrote a long time back. I want you to look at it."

"You expect me to work with this?" her editor looked at her questioningly. "This looks like it was written by a . . . oh I don't know, a ten-year-old?"

A hint of a smile shone through the writer's eyes. But I did write it when I was ten. And I almost threw it away. But the writer wasn't offended. "No, of course not. I'll rewrite it. I'll revise it. And soon, you will like it. Just give it time."


Many Years Later


She looked at the gentleman with disbelief. Was he laughing his head off in silence? Were the publishers, editors, and all the other people in the room sharing a private joke?

"Are you serious?" she asked.

"Yes. I am. I expect you to arrive at two-thirty sharp. The ceremony will start then. From then on, your book will be published with the Newbery Medal on it."

Her face cracked into a grin. "Thanks!"

Then, she stopped a taxi and rushed it home. Her father was already there, waiting on the doorstep. She ran into his arms.

"Thanks, Dad. I won the Newbery Medal with your help."

Her father stared at her with disbelief, his jaw dropping. "No, Jackie. Thank you."


She didn't get her Newberry medal at sixteen, not even at twenty. But she did get that medal. Because of her father. Because of the story.

And to think I almost threw the story away, she thought.


This book is dedicated to my father. Without him, this story wouldn't be here in the first place.

When I was younger in years, I almost threw this story away. My dad stopped me.

Thank you, Dad. For everything. Especially the story.

- Jackie


~ Authors' Note ~

Please review - remember that we'll (one of us) return it! Thank you!
[EAM- Yay Vicki! Thanks for editing! ^_^]

~- VWJ-~
~ Emmeline Alicia Mary ~