Character Analysis
In English, we had to read a short story, which was a character analysis. Our assignment? Write a short one about anybody we wanted. At first, mine was about a guy in my class. The first two paragraphs still are. However, as I wrote it, it evolved into an actor, who, I had no particular one in mind, different ones kept flashing through my mind. So, here's my characters analysis:
He walks in, though that's not the right word. It's more of a swagger. He's cool, and he knows it. But, is he sure of it?
He makes the jokes, has the laughs, the people hang around him. But, is he secure in it all?
Every day's a fight to stay on top, be the best loved out there. One wrong move, he's out of the game. He plays his cards, and rolls the dice, hoping no one's made a better play. Maybe he doesn't know how else to live than this backstabbing business.
He can open the newspaper and see his name in black and white, his picture in colour beside it, but does it still give him that giddy feeling like it used to? Or is he now immue to it?
Regular weekend: go out, get drunk. Remember nothing. I wonder if he thinks his life is no longer worth remembering, worth making every moment count.
Big screen name, his chioce of any girl great clothes, and life isn't worth remembering or living?
Though, he goes back, again and again. Name in black and white, picture in colour, signing autographs till his fingers cramp, premiers, light bulbs flashing, and questions coming at him from every direction.
Everyone wants a piece of him, and he's willing to go back and give it to them.
I think that if you asked him, he'd flash that million dollar smile, the one he gives to the paparazzi, or at least he'd try.
It's falter, though only for a moment, a pen poised over a crap of paper, uncertainty flashing through his eyes, though he quickly masks it., like his job has taught him to.
He'd bend his head, large hand starting to stain from his cigarettes flying over the paper, like he's learned over the years.
He'd look up, that much loved smile a hundred times brighter, excitement radtiating from his body as he says, 'Because I wake up each morning a different person, a new life," and you'd know that it's true, until the weekend comes along, and then he eraeses the memories of the past week, his brain waiting to be filled with new palces, times and identities that he'll get to take on.
Tell me what you think. I'd really appreciate it. i don't have to hand it in until Wednesday, so that gives me some time to spiff it up. This is actually a better copy than the one i have in front of me. I added some stuff, and deleted others.
He walks in, though that's not the right word. It's more of a swagger. He's cool, and he knows it. But, is he sure of it?
He makes the jokes, has the laughs, the people hang around him. But, is he secure in it all?
Every day's a fight to stay on top, be the best loved out there. One wrong move, he's out of the game. He plays his cards, and rolls the dice, hoping no one's made a better play. Maybe he doesn't know how else to live than this backstabbing business.
He can open the newspaper and see his name in black and white, his picture in colour beside it, but does it still give him that giddy feeling like it used to? Or is he now immue to it?
Regular weekend: go out, get drunk. Remember nothing. I wonder if he thinks his life is no longer worth remembering, worth making every moment count.
Big screen name, his chioce of any girl great clothes, and life isn't worth remembering or living?
Though, he goes back, again and again. Name in black and white, picture in colour, signing autographs till his fingers cramp, premiers, light bulbs flashing, and questions coming at him from every direction.
Everyone wants a piece of him, and he's willing to go back and give it to them.
I think that if you asked him, he'd flash that million dollar smile, the one he gives to the paparazzi, or at least he'd try.
It's falter, though only for a moment, a pen poised over a crap of paper, uncertainty flashing through his eyes, though he quickly masks it., like his job has taught him to.
He'd bend his head, large hand starting to stain from his cigarettes flying over the paper, like he's learned over the years.
He'd look up, that much loved smile a hundred times brighter, excitement radtiating from his body as he says, 'Because I wake up each morning a different person, a new life," and you'd know that it's true, until the weekend comes along, and then he eraeses the memories of the past week, his brain waiting to be filled with new palces, times and identities that he'll get to take on.
Tell me what you think. I'd really appreciate it. i don't have to hand it in until Wednesday, so that gives me some time to spiff it up. This is actually a better copy than the one i have in front of me. I added some stuff, and deleted others.