The first cut is the deepest
I'm not a blogger.
But I demand everything I wrote to be read.
Not by the people I know.
But those who don't know me and surely won't judge.
I always needed answers. But nobody can understand my questions. I'm somehow hoping that this might be a good idea to be heard. Which would be kind of funny. I don't know why, don't ask me. :\
Cassie and I took turns into criticizing my friend Dora's novel a while ago. We were talking on the phone while chatting on Yahoo! Messenger. We did that cause it's cool, talking and typing at the same time, that is. The three of us are writers and we're in university at the moment taking up Creative Writing. I want to be a novelist. I don't know about them.
It's Christmas and it's snowing here in Iowa. I hate the cold, I can't go outside and it sucks to be alone.
I have been on vacation since last week, have been drunk thrice in three different parties. The good thing about that is that I didn't find myself wasted on some sidewalk drowning in the pool of my own puke. Sshhh I'm 19. ;>
Back to Dora's novel. IT IS BAD.
She's my friend, a very close one. So I believe that I should be honest to her or I'm not going to be a good friend. It was full of grammatical errors. The words are very deep, she has a wide range of vocabulary but she's not using it in the right way. I was just reading the first page out of the hundreds when I gave up with my hands raised, my head shaking. I got dizzy and for that moment I wished that I couldn't understand English, so I can probably appreciate it somehow. I'm not perfect and I too have thousands of flaws, whether it be in my writings, my attitude and everything else involving myself. But the thing is, she doesn't want to get help, she doesn't want us to touch or read anything she writes. She begs to be one of the best but she's one goddamn perfectionist who can't stand to be corrected.
I wanted to help her so I stole her manuscript, so I can see what she had been hiding under our nose. I don't want her to pass that manuscript to some publisher in the future because I could already see the veins in the publishers neck throbbing in anger. I want her to know from us directly, her close friends, that she should definitely EDIT that fucking manuscript and she should accept help from us because I'm certain, more certain than the boiling point of water (whatever it is), that she CANNOT do it on her own.
Cassie and I are on the page two of her manuscript and we're already laughing our ass off. Because a line from her novel says, "Stanley got his jacket behind the door and banged it hard."
He banged his own jacket. Great. I hope the holes in his jacket are tight enough to make him gather enough gun powders for an explosion.
I know what she means, but it shouldn't be always like that. What does she want? Always make her readers just assume things for her? If by stupid perchance that her book gets published and it was given to me as a present this Christmas, the only purpose it would serve is to warm me. Because I'm sure I haven't even finished reading page one when it would suddenly turn into black soot along with the logs in my fireplace.
But I demand everything I wrote to be read.
Not by the people I know.
But those who don't know me and surely won't judge.
I always needed answers. But nobody can understand my questions. I'm somehow hoping that this might be a good idea to be heard. Which would be kind of funny. I don't know why, don't ask me. :\
Cassie and I took turns into criticizing my friend Dora's novel a while ago. We were talking on the phone while chatting on Yahoo! Messenger. We did that cause it's cool, talking and typing at the same time, that is. The three of us are writers and we're in university at the moment taking up Creative Writing. I want to be a novelist. I don't know about them.
It's Christmas and it's snowing here in Iowa. I hate the cold, I can't go outside and it sucks to be alone.
I have been on vacation since last week, have been drunk thrice in three different parties. The good thing about that is that I didn't find myself wasted on some sidewalk drowning in the pool of my own puke. Sshhh I'm 19. ;>
Back to Dora's novel. IT IS BAD.
She's my friend, a very close one. So I believe that I should be honest to her or I'm not going to be a good friend. It was full of grammatical errors. The words are very deep, she has a wide range of vocabulary but she's not using it in the right way. I was just reading the first page out of the hundreds when I gave up with my hands raised, my head shaking. I got dizzy and for that moment I wished that I couldn't understand English, so I can probably appreciate it somehow. I'm not perfect and I too have thousands of flaws, whether it be in my writings, my attitude and everything else involving myself. But the thing is, she doesn't want to get help, she doesn't want us to touch or read anything she writes. She begs to be one of the best but she's one goddamn perfectionist who can't stand to be corrected.
I wanted to help her so I stole her manuscript, so I can see what she had been hiding under our nose. I don't want her to pass that manuscript to some publisher in the future because I could already see the veins in the publishers neck throbbing in anger. I want her to know from us directly, her close friends, that she should definitely EDIT that fucking manuscript and she should accept help from us because I'm certain, more certain than the boiling point of water (whatever it is), that she CANNOT do it on her own.
Cassie and I are on the page two of her manuscript and we're already laughing our ass off. Because a line from her novel says, "Stanley got his jacket behind the door and banged it hard."
He banged his own jacket. Great. I hope the holes in his jacket are tight enough to make him gather enough gun powders for an explosion.
I know what she means, but it shouldn't be always like that. What does she want? Always make her readers just assume things for her? If by stupid perchance that her book gets published and it was given to me as a present this Christmas, the only purpose it would serve is to warm me. Because I'm sure I haven't even finished reading page one when it would suddenly turn into black soot along with the logs in my fireplace.