In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
I'd like that to be cleared up for me as well. I currently use "it's" as a shortened way of writing "it is," or when making a noun belong (eg. It picked up it's apple), however I'm not so certain that I'm using it properly.
Whenever you use it's, read it as "it is", and you'll be able to figure it out. When making something belong to "it", just use "its", as otherwise you'll be confusing it with "it is". "It" is that one exception where you don't use an apostrophe to designate possession.
I do my best writing when I haven't slept for a couple of days (Yay, insomnia), a few hours before it's due or when I'm angry/depressed about something. Up to a few years ago I was an awful writer, I could barely scrape 60's on my writing assignments for school. But then I found and interest in poetry.
I was given a small collection of Edgar Allen Poe's work by my mother and I loved every poem in it (Particularly 'Annabelle Lee') so I began reading the work of other writer's like Robert Frost. After I while I decided to write my own poetry, it started off rather basic and it wasn't too great in my opinion. But over time I got better at it, and my ability to write essays and prose got better as well, though I'm still not too experienced with prose.
Now I think I'm a pretty good writer, as I usually manage A's in any sort of writing class, and at the moment I'm majoring in English, though that could change at some point.
Yes, there's nothing that make the dedicated concentration of writing look like fun better than something that's even more unpleasant and undesirable. One of the primary reasons I hate being unemployed is that I get enormous amounts of work done on my novel when I'm on lunch or I've completed my tasks and don't really want to go find something else to do.
The more seriously I write, though, the more important I find it is to have an outline and have thought through your ideas before you sit down to write. You can toss off something that gets the job done at 3 am, but you can also put that bumper back on your car with duct tape.
It doesn't have to be a hardcore outline--in fact, the more time you spend organizing your thoughts, the simpler the outline can be.
I really recommend reading The Art of Fiction and The Art of Non-Fiction by Ayn Rand if you're serious about your writing--not just about doing it, but about understanding it so you know how to keep improving.
Creative writing is my passion. However, essays are not my forte. I usually save my old essays just to prove to myself that I am becoming better. My first "book" was a horrid fantasy novel that was so cliche and trite that I only keep it to laugh at myself. Nowadays, I write horror, (gore with a hidden purpose, basically), and life experiences that I have yet to experience. Poetry's okay, I guess...
I've been writing since junior high, and I thoroughly enjoy it. Yes, my junior high stories sucked majorly, but that's because, like all of us, I was a kid and didn't know any better at the time.
Now, I write a lot in my spare time. Most of it's fan fiction and short stories that I keep for my own amusement, yes, but I've had a few ideas spark into my head every once in a while. Most notably are the two I'm working on currently. One's a Star Fox fanfic that's getting its third rewrite this year, and the other is an original story that's not quite short enough to be a short story and not quite long enough to be a novel (Isn't that called a novella?). I'm not at my writing computer at the moment, but I'll post a sample from the either here in a while, most likely a bit from the middle.
EDIT:
xitel said:
I have found that I do all my best writing a) without any pre-planning, and b) at 2:00 AM the day it's due.
Good god, I'm not the only one. Back in High School, I wrote my Junior Thesis at exactly 3AM on the day it was due. It got a 99, and that was only because I forgot to add something to to bibliography.
In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
Thank you, that one really irritates me to no perceivable end.
Here's one a lot of people have trouble with (oh I just used it!): a lot versus allot versus alot (which is not an actual word so please don't use it)
when do you use its and when do you use it's (or should I say "when does one"?)
Grammer vs. Grammar (that's one I've seen messed up repeatedly on these forums over the past three days)
Small things that only bother me because they are sooooo easy to remedy and such simple things to learn that are so frequently messed up usually multiple times in a single sentence. And, yes, it is the 16 and under crowd who is guilty of it most of the time.
It's good to revisit old writing material to see how you've improved and see how silly it looks to not grasp and use basic linguistic concepts, it is usually the point when people dawn on why things like grammar and spelling do matter.
Well I was always taught to write it "a lot." So that's how I do it. I would use it to say that there are...well a lot of something.
Sixteen and under doesn't really excuse the people in my college english class.
In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
And here is something that I wrote in like, 45 minutes or something, I've been consistently writing creatively (if you can call this creative) for about a year and a half now, and I have definitely gotten better. Here's something I've decided to post, and I know it's hellacious, but keep in mind, I'm 14.
As I'm writing this, my fingers are burning, as if they were on fire instead of getting frost-bite. They've turned a sickly blackish-purple, and I have no doubt that they will require removal upon my unlikely return to Birchwood. Something that makes me uneasy about attempting to go back, as I can't make my living without my hands, not as a surgeon. Not in this lifetime.
Unfortunately for me, the conditions are getting worse, which is why I must make my decision quickly. My lungs are literally freezing. The moisture in the air and on my lungs themselves is nothing more than frost and ice now I'm afraid. Soon, my hands won't matter. Breathing becomes harder and more painful still. It doesn't matter though, I have made my decision, at least unofficially.
Today I woke up and officially decided to stay in the frozen Hell ( and if that isn't a bit ironic, I dunno what is) for the remainder of my time on Earth, which, mercifully, will not be long. My lungs are little more than icy pink, useless masses in my heaving chest. American Dream my ass...Jesus Christ.....how the Hell did I get here?..
The sun. She gives me no solace. She does not help the freezing, even when her rays burn, they do not warm. I pray that this frigid ***** of a mountain let me go, to where, you may ask? it doesn't matter. I just want to leave. Dead or alive. Preferably dead.
For almost a week, I've been a prisoner of this fucking mountain. I should have been found by now. I am a surgeon, surely the hospital needs its plastic surgeon. Surely? As I've written, and said to myself so many times now, it doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon, I welcome the sweet release it promises.
Goddamn it! Damn it all to Hell! I've lost track of time, and I have no idea how long I've been here, at least a week now it must have been, and I've stopped writing as ofter, My hands hurt too much, How is it, that so much money can be bled into the military, and yet, there are not sufficient funds to finance a competent search party. If there is one at all.
When I am finished writing this, I will walk to the edge of the cliff, slit my wrists, and throw myself over. Just in case I don't die fast enough, if that makes any sense. This truly is Hell. There is no fire, no brimstone, no lake of flame. There is nothing. I can see nothing for the driving snow. This journal is the last contact I could possibly have with the peaceful world below this mountain, I have no regrets. I have made peace with my God, and now, I walk to my death.......
I've recently fallen deeply and foolishly in love with limited omniscient narrative perspective writing, after reading Call of Cthulhu again, and so, a lot of what I've been writing recently is in the form of journal entries and such. So once more, I apologize for the emotional turmoil I'm sure to have caused by posting this sample of filth here, on the internet, where everyone can see/laugh/jeer/burn the witch and her wicked writing.
In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
I'd like that to be cleared up for me as well. I currently use "it's" as a shortened way of writing "it is," or when making a noun belong (eg. It picked up it's apple), however I'm not so certain that I'm using it properly.
Whenever you use it's, read it as "it is", and you'll be able to figure it out. When making something belong to "it", just use "its", as otherwise you'll be confusing it with "it is". "It" is that one exception where you don't use an apostrophe to designate possession.
In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
And here is something that I wrote in like, 45 minutes or something, I've been consistently writing creatively (if you can call this creative) for about a year and a half now, and I have definitely gotten better. Here's something I've decided to post, and I know it's hellacious, but keep in mind, I'm 14.
As I'm writing this, my fingers are burning, as if they were on fire instead of getting frost-bite. They've turned a sickly blackish-purple, and I have no doubt that they will require removal upon my unlikely return to Birchwood. Something that makes me uneasy about attempting to go back, as I can't make my living without my hands, not as a surgeon. Not in this lifetime.
Unfortunately for me, the conditions are getting worse, which is why I must make my decision quickly. My lungs are literally freezing. The moisture in the air and on my lungs themselves is nothing more than frost and ice now I'm afraid. Soon, my hands won't matter. Breathing becomes harder and more painful still. It doesn't matter though, I have made my decision, at least unofficially.
Today I woke up and officially decided to stay in the frozen Hell ( and if that isn't a bit ironic, I dunno what is) for the remainder of my time on Earth, which, mercifully, will not be long. My lungs are little more than icy pink, useless masses in my heaving chest. American Dream my ass...Jesus Christ.....how the Hell did I get here?..
The sun. She gives me no solace. She does not help the freezing, even when her rays burn, they do not warm. I pray that this frigid ***** of a mountain let me go, to where, you may ask? it doesn't matter. I just want to leave. Dead or alive. Preferably dead.
For almost a week, I've been a prisoner of this fucking mountain. I should have been found by now. I am a surgeon, surely the hospital needs its plastic surgeon. Surely? As I've written, and said to myself so many times now, it doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon, I welcome the sweet release it promises.
Goddamn it! Damn it all to Hell! I've lost track of time, and I have no idea how long I've been here, at least a week now it must have been, and I've stopped writing as ofter, My hands hurt too much, How is it, that so much money can be bled into the military, and yet, there are not sufficient funds to finance a competent search party. If there is one at all.
When I am finished writing this, I will walk to the edge of the cliff, slit my wrists, and throw myself over. Just in case I don't die fast enough, if that makes any sense. This truly is Hell. There is no fire, no brimstone, no lake of flame. There is nothing. I can see nothing for the driving snow. This journal is the last contact I could possibly have with the peaceful world below this mountain, I have no regrets. I have made peace with my God, and now, I walk to my death.......
I've recently fallen deeply and foolishly in love with limited omniscient narrative perspective writing, after reading Call of Cthulhu again, and so, a lot of what I've been writing recently is in the form of journal entries and such. So once more, I apologize for the emotional turmoil I'm sure to have caused by posting this sample of filth here, on the internet, where everyone can see/laugh/jeer/burn the witch and her wicked writing.
I go to school in Washington in a place called Wenatchee. Some people are really smart, a lot of people are really stupid.
I kind of thought that you were repeating "lung" to much. But then I remembered that this was a journal entry and I cut you some slack.
I've never read an H.P. Lovecraft book, but his ideas of monsters have influenced what I put in my own writings.
I've been writing a "novel" for a while. In the first chapter, the main character, Allen, fights an enormous tentacled creature that can make you go insane just by looking at it. Allen defeats it of course but it is difficult. I don't think anyone ever won in Lovecraft's stories...
What's odd is that if I look at my papers before 4th grade, my handwriting was near perfect, then after 4th grade, it became nearly illegible-chicken-scratch. odd...
In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
And here is something that I wrote in like, 45 minutes or something, I've been consistently writing creatively (if you can call this creative) for about a year and a half now, and I have definitely gotten better. Here's something I've decided to post, and I know it's hellacious, but keep in mind, I'm 14.
As I'm writing this, my fingers are burning, as if they were on fire instead of getting frost-bite. They've turned a sickly blackish-purple, and I have no doubt that they will require removal upon my unlikely return to Birchwood. Something that makes me uneasy about attempting to go back, as I can't make my living without my hands, not as a surgeon. Not in this lifetime.
Unfortunately for me, the conditions are getting worse, which is why I must make my decision quickly. My lungs are literally freezing. The moisture in the air and on my lungs themselves is nothing more than frost and ice now I'm afraid. Soon, my hands won't matter. Breathing becomes harder and more painful still. It doesn't matter though, I have made my decision, at least unofficially.
Today I woke up and officially decided to stay in the frozen Hell ( and if that isn't a bit ironic, I dunno what is) for the remainder of my time on Earth, which, mercifully, will not be long. My lungs are little more than icy pink, useless masses in my heaving chest. American Dream my ass...Jesus Christ.....how the Hell did I get here?..
The sun. She gives me no solace. She does not help the freezing, even when her rays burn, they do not warm. I pray that this frigid ***** of a mountain let me go, to where, you may ask? it doesn't matter. I just want to leave. Dead or alive. Preferably dead.
For almost a week, I've been a prisoner of this fucking mountain. I should have been found by now. I am a surgeon, surely the hospital needs its plastic surgeon. Surely? As I've written, and said to myself so many times now, it doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon, I welcome the sweet release it promises.
Goddamn it! Damn it all to Hell! I've lost track of time, and I have no idea how long I've been here, at least a week now it must have been, and I've stopped writing as ofter, My hands hurt too much, How is it, that so much money can be bled into the military, and yet, there are not sufficient funds to finance a competent search party. If there is one at all.
When I am finished writing this, I will walk to the edge of the cliff, slit my wrists, and throw myself over. Just in case I don't die fast enough, if that makes any sense. This truly is Hell. There is no fire, no brimstone, no lake of flame. There is nothing. I can see nothing for the driving snow. This journal is the last contact I could possibly have with the peaceful world below this mountain, I have no regrets. I have made peace with my God, and now, I walk to my death.......
I've recently fallen deeply and foolishly in love with limited omniscient narrative perspective writing, after reading Call of Cthulhu again, and so, a lot of what I've been writing recently is in the form of journal entries and such. So once more, I apologize for the emotional turmoil I'm sure to have caused by posting this sample of filth here, on the internet, where everyone can see/laugh/jeer/burn the witch and her wicked writing.
I go to school in Washington in a place called Wenatchee. Some people are really smart, a lot of people are really stupid.
I kind of thought that you were repeating "lung" to much. But then I remembered that this was a journal entry and I cut you some slack.
I've never read an H.P. Lovecraft book, but his ideas of monsters have influenced what I put in my own writings.
I've been writing a "novel" for a while. In the first chapter, the main character, Allen, fights an enormous tentacled creature that can make you go insane just by looking at it. Allen defeats it of course but it is difficult. I don't think anyone ever won in Lovecraft's stories...
I figured the same thing when I was writing it, but I sort of thought it fit (at the time, God knows that happens far too often) as an example of how everything was getting worse, and how the time to make a decision was drawing nearer. I'm glad you read the thing, I know I would not have resolve enough to read this filth again. If it's not a problem, I'd be interested in that novel, and as a response to your statement about H.P. Lovecraft, few people do win in his stories. Just curious, but what did you think of my writing?
P.S. Thank you for all that slack cutting you did, it was well appreciated.
In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
And here is something that I wrote in like, 45 minutes or something, I've been consistently writing creatively (if you can call this creative) for about a year and a half now, and I have definitely gotten better. Here's something I've decided to post, and I know it's hellacious, but keep in mind, I'm 14.
As I'm writing this, my fingers are burning, as if they were on fire instead of getting frost-bite. They've turned a sickly blackish-purple, and I have no doubt that they will require removal upon my unlikely return to Birchwood. Something that makes me uneasy about attempting to go back, as I can't make my living without my hands, not as a surgeon. Not in this lifetime.
Unfortunately for me, the conditions are getting worse, which is why I must make my decision quickly. My lungs are literally freezing. The moisture in the air and on my lungs themselves is nothing more than frost and ice now I'm afraid. Soon, my hands won't matter. Breathing becomes harder and more painful still. It doesn't matter though, I have made my decision, at least unofficially.
Today I woke up and officially decided to stay in the frozen Hell ( and if that isn't a bit ironic, I dunno what is) for the remainder of my time on Earth, which, mercifully, will not be long. My lungs are little more than icy pink, useless masses in my heaving chest. American Dream my ass...Jesus Christ.....how the Hell did I get here?..
The sun. She gives me no solace. She does not help the freezing, even when her rays burn, they do not warm. I pray that this frigid ***** of a mountain let me go, to where, you may ask? it doesn't matter. I just want to leave. Dead or alive. Preferably dead.
For almost a week, I've been a prisoner of this fucking mountain. I should have been found by now. I am a surgeon, surely the hospital needs its plastic surgeon. Surely? As I've written, and said to myself so many times now, it doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon, I welcome the sweet release it promises.
Goddamn it! Damn it all to Hell! I've lost track of time, and I have no idea how long I've been here, at least a week now it must have been, and I've stopped writing as ofter, My hands hurt too much, How is it, that so much money can be bled into the military, and yet, there are not sufficient funds to finance a competent search party. If there is one at all.
When I am finished writing this, I will walk to the edge of the cliff, slit my wrists, and throw myself over. Just in case I don't die fast enough, if that makes any sense. This truly is Hell. There is no fire, no brimstone, no lake of flame. There is nothing. I can see nothing for the driving snow. This journal is the last contact I could possibly have with the peaceful world below this mountain, I have no regrets. I have made peace with my God, and now, I walk to my death.......
I've recently fallen deeply and foolishly in love with limited omniscient narrative perspective writing, after reading Call of Cthulhu again, and so, a lot of what I've been writing recently is in the form of journal entries and such. So once more, I apologize for the emotional turmoil I'm sure to have caused by posting this sample of filth here, on the internet, where everyone can see/laugh/jeer/burn the witch and her wicked writing.
I go to school in Washington in a place called Wenatchee. Some people are really smart, a lot of people are really stupid.
I kind of thought that you were repeating "lung" to much. But then I remembered that this was a journal entry and I cut you some slack.
I've never read an H.P. Lovecraft book, but his ideas of monsters have influenced what I put in my own writings.
I've been writing a "novel" for a while. In the first chapter, the main character, Allen, fights an enormous tentacled creature that can make you go insane just by looking at it. Allen defeats it of course but it is difficult. I don't think anyone ever won in Lovecraft's stories...
I figured the same thing when I was writing it, but I sort of thought it fit (at the time, God knows that happens far too often) as an example of how everything was getting worse, and how the time to make a decision was drawing nearer. I'm glad you read the thing, I know I would not have resolve enough to read this filth again. If it's not a problem, I'd be interested in that novel, and as a response to your statement about H.P. Lovecraft, few people do win in his stories. Just curious, but what did you think of my writing?
P.S. Thank you for all that slack cutting you did, it was well appreciated.
Everything I've learned about Lovecraft was from hearing other people talk about it or from research on Wikipedia.
Well, I thought it was kind of depressing. And this is coming from a guy who laughed all the way through Schindler's List(not really). I like the stuff about the hands though and through that learn that he's a surgeon. I kind of found his total lack of will to live unappealing. Maybe I would grow to like him in time though. This is written from first person, so how would he know what color his lungs are? That's what I think. I took a class recently and we did stuff like this. It still hasn't worn off. We were really supposed to nitpick.
No matter how bad you think your early stuff is, it's still stepping stones toward greatness. No one sits down and decides to write the great american novel. It just happens.
In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
And here is something that I wrote in like, 45 minutes or something, I've been consistently writing creatively (if you can call this creative) for about a year and a half now, and I have definitely gotten better. Here's something I've decided to post, and I know it's hellacious, but keep in mind, I'm 14.
As I'm writing this, my fingers are burning, as if they were on fire instead of getting frost-bite. They've turned a sickly blackish-purple, and I have no doubt that they will require removal upon my unlikely return to Birchwood. Something that makes me uneasy about attempting to go back, as I can't make my living without my hands, not as a surgeon. Not in this lifetime.
Unfortunately for me, the conditions are getting worse, which is why I must make my decision quickly. My lungs are literally freezing. The moisture in the air and on my lungs themselves is nothing more than frost and ice now I'm afraid. Soon, my hands won't matter. Breathing becomes harder and more painful still. It doesn't matter though, I have made my decision, at least unofficially.
Today I woke up and officially decided to stay in the frozen Hell ( and if that isn't a bit ironic, I dunno what is) for the remainder of my time on Earth, which, mercifully, will not be long. My lungs are little more than icy pink, useless masses in my heaving chest. American Dream my ass...Jesus Christ.....how the Hell did I get here?..
The sun. She gives me no solace. She does not help the freezing, even when her rays burn, they do not warm. I pray that this frigid ***** of a mountain let me go, to where, you may ask? it doesn't matter. I just want to leave. Dead or alive. Preferably dead.
For almost a week, I've been a prisoner of this fucking mountain. I should have been found by now. I am a surgeon, surely the hospital needs its plastic surgeon. Surely? As I've written, and said to myself so many times now, it doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon, I welcome the sweet release it promises.
Goddamn it! Damn it all to Hell! I've lost track of time, and I have no idea how long I've been here, at least a week now it must have been, and I've stopped writing as ofter, My hands hurt too much, How is it, that so much money can be bled into the military, and yet, there are not sufficient funds to finance a competent search party. If there is one at all.
When I am finished writing this, I will walk to the edge of the cliff, slit my wrists, and throw myself over. Just in case I don't die fast enough, if that makes any sense. This truly is Hell. There is no fire, no brimstone, no lake of flame. There is nothing. I can see nothing for the driving snow. This journal is the last contact I could possibly have with the peaceful world below this mountain, I have no regrets. I have made peace with my God, and now, I walk to my death.......
I've recently fallen deeply and foolishly in love with limited omniscient narrative perspective writing, after reading Call of Cthulhu again, and so, a lot of what I've been writing recently is in the form of journal entries and such. So once more, I apologize for the emotional turmoil I'm sure to have caused by posting this sample of filth here, on the internet, where everyone can see/laugh/jeer/burn the witch and her wicked writing.
I go to school in Washington in a place called Wenatchee. Some people are really smart, a lot of people are really stupid.
I kind of thought that you were repeating "lung" to much. But then I remembered that this was a journal entry and I cut you some slack.
I've never read an H.P. Lovecraft book, but his ideas of monsters have influenced what I put in my own writings.
I've been writing a "novel" for a while. In the first chapter, the main character, Allen, fights an enormous tentacled creature that can make you go insane just by looking at it. Allen defeats it of course but it is difficult. I don't think anyone ever won in Lovecraft's stories...
I figured the same thing when I was writing it, but I sort of thought it fit (at the time, God knows that happens far too often) as an example of how everything was getting worse, and how the time to make a decision was drawing nearer. I'm glad you read the thing, I know I would not have resolve enough to read this filth again. If it's not a problem, I'd be interested in that novel, and as a response to your statement about H.P. Lovecraft, few people do win in his stories. Just curious, but what did you think of my writing?
P.S. Thank you for all that slack cutting you did, it was well appreciated.
Everything I've learned about Lovecraft was from hearing other people talk about it or from research on Wikipedia.
Well, I thought it was kind of depressing. And this is coming from a guy who laughed all the way through Schindler's List(not really). I like the stuff about the hands though and through that learn that he's a surgeon. I kind of found his total lack of will to live unappealing. Maybe I would grow to like him in time though. This is written from first person, so how would he know what color his lungs are? That's what I think. I took a class recently and we did stuff like this. It still hasn't worn off. We were really supposed to nitpick.
No matter how bad you think your early stuff is, it's still stepping stones toward greatness. No one sits down and decides to write the great american novel. It just happens.
You've made quite a few good points here, and I must thank you for not sodomizing my writing as you could have. Ok, you caught me, the only possible way for the surgeon to know what his lungs are like would be X-Ray vision, and I highly doubt that that is a skill he possesses. However, in my defense, this wasn't so much the emergence of the world's next superhero as it was poor wording. I was trying to describe what his lungs felt like. Often I catch myself writing only about half an intended sentence, and I end up leaving myself with a sort of obscure kind of poem. God knows that I've done absolutely zero re-writes on this particular piece of writing. And as for the surgeon's lack of the will to live, this was supposed to be revealed with a written prescription for anti-depressants, placed after the initial writing, as it is supposed to be revealed that the surgeon (left nameless intentionally) is suffering from clinical depression, due to the fact that his 23 year old daughter had recently been diagnosed with leukemia. It was just an idea though, and I never really got around to writing it out, though I need to, as without it, the story sort of seems incomplete. I thank you once again for your time, as well as for humoring me.
In the schools I've gone to, I think I'm the only person that knows the difference between there, their and they're.
I'm like...a novelist or something. So, I try to improve my writing skill. Any lack thereof I blame on the public school system.
And here is something that I wrote in like, 45 minutes or something, I've been consistently writing creatively (if you can call this creative) for about a year and a half now, and I have definitely gotten better. Here's something I've decided to post, and I know it's hellacious, but keep in mind, I'm 14.
As I'm writing this, my fingers are burning, as if they were on fire instead of getting frost-bite. They've turned a sickly blackish-purple, and I have no doubt that they will require removal upon my unlikely return to Birchwood. Something that makes me uneasy about attempting to go back, as I can't make my living without my hands, not as a surgeon. Not in this lifetime.
Unfortunately for me, the conditions are getting worse, which is why I must make my decision quickly. My lungs are literally freezing. The moisture in the air and on my lungs themselves is nothing more than frost and ice now I'm afraid. Soon, my hands won't matter. Breathing becomes harder and more painful still. It doesn't matter though, I have made my decision, at least unofficially.
Today I woke up and officially decided to stay in the frozen Hell ( and if that isn't a bit ironic, I dunno what is) for the remainder of my time on Earth, which, mercifully, will not be long. My lungs are little more than icy pink, useless masses in my heaving chest. American Dream my ass...Jesus Christ.....how the Hell did I get here?..
The sun. She gives me no solace. She does not help the freezing, even when her rays burn, they do not warm. I pray that this frigid ***** of a mountain let me go, to where, you may ask? it doesn't matter. I just want to leave. Dead or alive. Preferably dead.
For almost a week, I've been a prisoner of this fucking mountain. I should have been found by now. I am a surgeon, surely the hospital needs its plastic surgeon. Surely? As I've written, and said to myself so many times now, it doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon, I welcome the sweet release it promises.
Goddamn it! Damn it all to Hell! I've lost track of time, and I have no idea how long I've been here, at least a week now it must have been, and I've stopped writing as ofter, My hands hurt too much, How is it, that so much money can be bled into the military, and yet, there are not sufficient funds to finance a competent search party. If there is one at all.
When I am finished writing this, I will walk to the edge of the cliff, slit my wrists, and throw myself over. Just in case I don't die fast enough, if that makes any sense. This truly is Hell. There is no fire, no brimstone, no lake of flame. There is nothing. I can see nothing for the driving snow. This journal is the last contact I could possibly have with the peaceful world below this mountain, I have no regrets. I have made peace with my God, and now, I walk to my death.......
I've recently fallen deeply and foolishly in love with limited omniscient narrative perspective writing, after reading Call of Cthulhu again, and so, a lot of what I've been writing recently is in the form of journal entries and such. So once more, I apologize for the emotional turmoil I'm sure to have caused by posting this sample of filth here, on the internet, where everyone can see/laugh/jeer/burn the witch and her wicked writing.
I go to school in Washington in a place called Wenatchee. Some people are really smart, a lot of people are really stupid.
I kind of thought that you were repeating "lung" to much. But then I remembered that this was a journal entry and I cut you some slack.
I've never read an H.P. Lovecraft book, but his ideas of monsters have influenced what I put in my own writings.
I've been writing a "novel" for a while. In the first chapter, the main character, Allen, fights an enormous tentacled creature that can make you go insane just by looking at it. Allen defeats it of course but it is difficult. I don't think anyone ever won in Lovecraft's stories...
I figured the same thing when I was writing it, but I sort of thought it fit (at the time, God knows that happens far too often) as an example of how everything was getting worse, and how the time to make a decision was drawing nearer. I'm glad you read the thing, I know I would not have resolve enough to read this filth again. If it's not a problem, I'd be interested in that novel, and as a response to your statement about H.P. Lovecraft, few people do win in his stories. Just curious, but what did you think of my writing?
P.S. Thank you for all that slack cutting you did, it was well appreciated.
Everything I've learned about Lovecraft was from hearing other people talk about it or from research on Wikipedia.
Well, I thought it was kind of depressing. And this is coming from a guy who laughed all the way through Schindler's List(not really). I like the stuff about the hands though and through that learn that he's a surgeon. I kind of found his total lack of will to live unappealing. Maybe I would grow to like him in time though. This is written from first person, so how would he know what color his lungs are? That's what I think. I took a class recently and we did stuff like this. It still hasn't worn off. We were really supposed to nitpick.
No matter how bad you think your early stuff is, it's still stepping stones toward greatness. No one sits down and decides to write the great american novel. It just happens.
You've made quite a few good points here, and I must thank you for not sodomizing my writing as you could have. Ok, you caught me, the only possible way for the surgeon to know what his lungs are like would be X-Ray vision, and I highly doubt that that is a skill he possesses. However, in my defense, this wasn't so much the emergence of the world's next superhero as it was poor wording. I was trying to describe what his lungs felt like. Often I catch myself writing only about half an intended sentence, and I end up leaving myself with a sort of obscure kind of poem. God knows that I've done absolutely zero re-writes on this particular piece of writing. And as for the surgeon's lack of the will to live, this was supposed to be revealed with a written prescription for anti-depressants, placed after the initial writing, as it is supposed to be revealed that the surgeon (left nameless intentionally) is suffering from clinical depression, due to the fact that his 23 year old daughter had recently been diagnosed with leukemia. It was just an idea though, and I never really got around to writing it out, though I need to, as without it, the story sort of seems incomplete. I thank you once again for your time, as well as for humoring me.
I try to be more constructive rather than mean.
Stories are kind of like fossils. You can find them buried if you look hard enough, but then you have to carefully excavate them.
That anit-depressants thing was interesting. You seem to have it all figured out. Time to do some rewrites I say.
This site uses cookies to help personalise content, tailor your experience and to keep you logged in if you register.
By continuing to use this site, you are consenting to our use of cookies.
