Will Grayson, Will Grayson: When a Book Means the World to You
A deeper dive into my unreasonable obsession over an average book
You cannot understand the love between a teenage girl and an average YA novel unless you have been in those shoes. There’s an intense, angsty feeling stored in those frantically annotated pages — there’s soft love hidden too.
This Diwali, I went through an eye-opening event regarding my dearest book at fourteen.
The festival of Diwali is the annual cleaning spree for me. On usual days, my room is chaotic. Clothes, books, pens, cards, and more books strewn all over. I like to call it a writer’s den when actually, it is a lazy girl’s place.
Considering my bookrack overflowing like the Ganges, I decided to donate some books.
The decision took a strong resolve, considering the hoarder of books I am. I gave up Percy Jackson — a series introduced to me by one of my dearest people. I gave up Hercule Poirot — the detective who gave me cosy company in harsh winters.
However, there was one book I could not throw away.
It belongs to the YA genre, which I don’t read with as much fervour anymore. It’s filled with as many cliches as a John Green book can be. Its average rating on Goodreads is below four. Yet, a mysterious force made me put the book back on the shelf.
Will Grayson, Will Grayson will continue to stare and haunt me for the next few years.
Looking at it after years, I went into a spiral of thoughts.
The lockdown: My worst nightmare
In the year before the virus, loneliness had hit hard. My parents would nudge me to go out, play, and socialise; I would hate it inside. My life was mine. And I was just fine, thank you. Why couldn’t they leave me alone in my room with the most harrowing book in my hand?
I was fourteen.
If you are an extroverted person, you know how suffocating the lockdown felt. All my contacts dried up. We did talk at times, but it wasn’t sufficient. Meanwhile, I hit a rocky patch with my family. With neither my friends nor my family at my side, life didn’t feel worth living.
And a fourteen-year-old can only deal with so much.
People who haven’t had depression (and may you never) think it occurs due to the stress of work or some event similar on the line. But for those who have experienced it — the why feels inexplainable. You just know that every core of you is made up of the D thing, and you are sinking.
And sinking. And sinking.
With a 100-ton weight on your shoulders.
Meeting Will Grayson, Will Grayson
As an avid reader, it was during this period I picked up Will Grayson, Will Grayson.
I read parts of this book almost every day and cried every time. It hit so close home. The struggles of both the protagonists were entwined with mine. I related to the mental illness, to the breaking of age-old friendships, to the loss of love.
The book is about two Will Graysons who cross paths and impact each other’s lives.
Reading about their meeting impacted my life to the core.
The first Will Grayson’s friendships seemed to dissolve. His best friend, whom he had supported utterly, was finding new people to bond with. Just before the lockdown, my friendship with my best friend had broken up too. I knew the pain.
The other “will grayson” wrote his story in lower caps; that’s how he saw his life.
From his parents’ divorce to his poverty to his depression to getting betrayed by his closest friend, he was on the rack. His mental health seemed as fragile as mine; I related to his odd habits, like praying at particular places to make things right.
This was the first book I annotated, albeit barely.
In the darkest of times, there’s a ray of hope which keeps us afloat. For me, it was this book. Now, snapped back to reality, I realised I couldn’t give it away. Not yet, perhaps not ever. And I wondered why.
Weird attachments is my definition of Humanity. How do you define it?
I cling to everything — CDs that skip, rings that turn my fingers green, the dead ends of my hair, old love notes that turn my stomach over and over. And I’m not proud but there are still boxes under my bed. … And nostalgia is a … waste of time but my heart is full with it. Tell me I won’t hold this forever. Tell me there will be a day where I let gloriously go. — Fortesa Latifi
I define Humanity with various words.
Hope. Irrationality. Attachment.
There are a thousand inanimate objects around us. One thing might mean nothing to you and the world to your sibling. Why do we attach importance to some objects, even if they’re more than apt to discard?
I stared at my yellow highlights on the book, thinking.
Why can’t I let go of this novel as easily as others, especially because it relates to an unpleasant memory? Now that the phase is past and I have healed, shouldn’t I be more than eager to never be reminded of it again?
Yet, we are also defined by irrationality.
- There are songs you break down on hearing.
- Decade-old soft toys you still hug.
- Places you can’t not visit.
Maybe I love the book because it was my sole companion then. No matter how full of cliche or cringe it is, it stands as a testimony to all that I went through and that I made it out. The Will Graysons were there as my witness when others were not.
One day or the other, I will have to let go of it.
Till then, I bask in its presence.
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