Hold Still
By Nina LaCour
I'm not sure I've ever read a review by someone else who read this book, and I'm not sure I'd ever want to. I love this book so, so much. I found it in sixth grade by complete mistake. I remember the day exactly. I had gotten into a fight with my best friend, my suicidal best friend. I remember the anger I felt towards her. I remember wanting to run away. I remember the rain, and the thunder that was sure to come and I remember plucking this book off a shelf in a bookstore waiting for my mother and curling in a chair to read. It was by complete mistake, I'd just wanted to look at something to kill time and then I fell in love. I remember Seether pumping out of my ipod as I read. I finished half of the book by the time my mother had finished shopping, I bought the book. That night as I read it, I connected. I loved how Caitlin blame the suicide on herself one moment, I loved how she was pissed at Ingrid the next. I knew the feeling. My best friend hadn't killed herself, but she cut and it made me so mad. I felt so useless, I didn't know what to do. I felt like I should be able to fix her. I finished the book that night. I loved it. I loved Ingrid. I reread the book. I loved Caitlin. I loved Ingrid. I loved her beauty. I love her imperfections, and I loved how fucking mad she made me. I loved how I was pissed off at Caitlin too. How I just knew that she couldn't have saved Ingrid, but I felt like she should have tried harder. I read it a third time, less than twenty-four hours after buying it. I have paragraphs of that book memorized. I love it so much, I make a point to re-read it whenever I feel like it. I make a point to read my favorite parts when I feel sad. I loved all of Ingrid's entries. I can't say how many book projects I did over Hold Still. I loved how realistic it all seemed to me. The details LaCour brought up were perfect. The simplest ones made me fall hard for this book. I've never told my best friend how much this book means to me. I slipped a copy in her locker one day. I know she loved it. My own copy has whole paragraphs underlined. Pages dog eared for my favorite parts. I can't explain how much I love the raw emotion in her work. That's really what this book was. Some books are words, some are stories, some are characters. Lacour's novel was emotion. That's it. It was so beautiful to me, still is. My own copy is completely personalized. The hardback book slip was long ago discarded. I didn't feel that the cover captured the novel, or the art hidden inside and I still don't. I loved the little bird imprinted into the book. I shaded it in with pencil. Covered my own cover with drawings. Filled up my margins with words, notes and doodles. This is the one book I've ever defaced like this. It's the one book I've ever felt was better with such defects. I loved the hand drawn images, the creations of my own along with the printed ones. This is perfect. The perfect novel about suicide, the perfect novel about acceptance. The perfect novel about moving on, holding on. Everything. I loved everything about this book. Especially the message, which is different to everyone. Go read it. You won't regret this. I promise.
