All the Bright Places

New Nameless Web Magazine
. “So talk to
me about this.”
“I might create another magazine. Or I might not. I think my brain just
naturally went there because of EleanorandViolet.”
“You liked working on it.”
“I did, but if I started another one, I’d want it to be different. Not just the
silly stuff, but also real thoughts, real writing, real life.”
She taps 
Lit, Love, Life
. “And these?”
“I don’t know. They might be categories.”
She brings a chair over and sits next to me. And then she starts asking
questions: Would this be for girls my age, or high school and beyond? Would
I want to write all the content or work with contributors? What would be the
purpose—why do I want to start another magazine to begin with? 
Because
people my age need somewhere they can go for advice or help or fun or just
to
be 
without anyone worrying about them. Somewhere they can be unlimited
and fearless and safe, like in their own rooms
.
I haven’t thought most of this out, and so I answer, “I don’t know.” And
maybe the whole thing is stupid. “If I do anything, I have to start over, but all
I have is fragments of ideas. Just pieces.” I wave at the computer, then at the
wall. “Like a germ of an idea for this, and a germ of an idea for that. Nothing
whole or concrete.”
“ ‘Growth itself contains the germ of happiness.’ Pearl S. Buck. Maybe a
germ is enough. Maybe it’s all you need.” She props her chin in her hand and
nods at the computer screen. “We can start small. Open up a new document or
pull out a blank piece of paper. We’ll make it our canvas. Remember what
Michelangelo said about the sculpture being in the stone—it was there from
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the beginning, and his job was to bring it out. Your words are in there too.”
For the next two hours we brainstorm and make notes, and at the end of it
all, I have a very rough outline of a webzine and a very rough sketch of
regular columns falling under the categories of Lit, Love, and Life.
It’s nearly ten when she tells me good night. Mom lingers in the doorway
and says, “Can you trust this boy, V?”
I turn in my chair. “Finch?”
“Yes.”
“I think so. Right now, he’s pretty much the only friend I have.” I’m not
sure if this is a good or a bad thing.
After she goes, I curl up on my bed, computer on my lap. There’s no way
I’ll be able to create all the content. I write down a couple of names, including
Brenda Shank-Kravitz, Jordan Gripenwaldt, and Kate Finch with a question
mark beside it.
Germ
. I do a search, and it’s available—www.germmagazine.com. Five
minutes later, it’s purchased and registered. My stone.
I switch to Facebook and send Finch a message: