Alexander/Hephastion ISSOSOCANON.
Okay. Now that I have that out of the way...I'm trying to write more. Believe me, lack of ideas isn't the problem. It's more like...the ideas make no sense to anyone but me. Which just sucks. It really really does.
Like this She stared in frustration at the essay she was supposed to write. The directions were basic, but puzzling. “Write an essay that analyzes how A Secret Sorrow and books like it appeal to male fantasies, and explore some of the similarities and differences between male and female tastes in literature.”
It made no sense. Romance novels didn’t appeal to men. They appealed to women, to women who wanted romance that was more fantasy and less reality, women who wanted men who had flaws that could be understood, instead of the frustrating creatures they were forced to deal with every day.
Sighing, she turned in her chair and found Shawne standing there, with the look in his eyes that always gave her comfort.
“What’s wrong?”
She explained briefly, and he nodded in understanding.
“What outside sources are you going to use?”
She looked at her notes.
“The Da Vinci Code, I think. It’s a perfect example of the differences between men and women, although both genders read the book.”
“Why The Da Vinci Code?” he asked.
“Because…women read it for a different reason then men do. When I started reading it, it was only because of all the hullabaloo the critics were causing. I didn’t know the plot or the characters. But when it mentioned Christ and the Magdalene…I sat up and paid attention. Just like thousands of women across the world.”
Restless, she stood up and started to pace in front of the fireplace.
“It was the Goddess. It was what women everywhere search for, even if they can’t name it, it’s in their heart of hearts. It’s the missing link women need in the patriarchal world. The Code spoke of a time before men, when women were equal, sometimes superior, when they passed along the secrets of womanhood and the Goddess to their daughters, when they were priestesses and wives and warriors and healers. When they were children of the Mother. When they took their daughter’s faces in their hands and made them swear to remember.”
She spun around, agitated.
“But it still happens. The Goddess survives in little ways. Even Christianity can’t completely eradicate Her. I’m not scorning Christians or their faith, I just…”
She took a deep breath.
“It’s a patriarchal religion, and one of the strongest, but even it must have the softness of a woman to balance it. The Goddess has existed since the beginning of time. The earliest form of religion found was in the form of misshapen women called the Venus Figurines. They indicated fertility. The Goddess was first. She was known to all.”
She stared at Shawne, who said nothing.
“Even today, women keep the Goddess alive. Oh, most of them don’t know it, of course, but they do. When a Christian woman tells her child about the birth of Christ through the Virgin, or when a Muslim woman whispers how Sarah birthed Ishmael, the father of their race, they keep the Goddess from fading from mankind. When a Catholic counts his beads and says Hail Mary’s, or when a hunter thanks a deer for giving its life, the Goddess is alive. She is forever remembered. Men do an equal amount of killing and reviving Her, but women….women are the ones who will keep her sacred.”
“Did you know that the line of heritage used to be passed down through the mother? It made so much more sense that way, for a mother can always claim her child. Nine months of proof is hard to deny. Women tell their daughters stories, of Bouddicca, of Joan of Arc, of Cleopatra and Unaat. Women keep the Goddess, splintered and fragmented, no longer the pure being of light She was, but She is kept just the same.”
“As long as women are alive, Shawne, the Goddess will live. We carry Her, in our souls, in our hearts, in our beings. In every breath we draw, She is with us. She walks with us, and guides us when we stumble. And in return, we are Her keepers. It is our sole responsibility, as women, to keep her from fading forever, into the mist.”
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. She had not even realized she had closed them, but she had, and now Shawne was staring at her with rapture, a light in his eyes that spoke of understanding and love and awe.
“That is what you need to write in your essay,” he whispered. “Women are the gatekeepers of the soul. That is what sets them apart from men. Write that.”
Smiling a little, nodding carefully, she took his hands, thanking him. The door clicked shut after her, and he turned his head to watch the sunlight fill the room with warmth.
I was lost on my English assignment, and this little thing popped into my head. I am the biggest feminist, I swear. And I STILL don't approve of women on the front lines in combat. Alexander will hate me for this, I know.
He will call me up and probably start swearing (in French, nonetheless) and demand to know why I'm not urging women into combat.
*rolls eyes* I love my gay men. I do. But when did they stop being boys and become men? *sighs*
Anyway, I want to write a story about a coffee shop and a college student, and her experiences. Any advice on kickass starting lines?
I love you all!
(And just for the record, I am NOT high on drugs, as a certain boy suggested).
Like this She stared in frustration at the essay she was supposed to write. The directions were basic, but puzzling. “Write an essay that analyzes how A Secret Sorrow and books like it appeal to male fantasies, and explore some of the similarities and differences between male and female tastes in literature.”
It made no sense. Romance novels didn’t appeal to men. They appealed to women, to women who wanted romance that was more fantasy and less reality, women who wanted men who had flaws that could be understood, instead of the frustrating creatures they were forced to deal with every day.
Sighing, she turned in her chair and found Shawne standing there, with the look in his eyes that always gave her comfort.
“What’s wrong?”
She explained briefly, and he nodded in understanding.
“What outside sources are you going to use?”
She looked at her notes.
“The Da Vinci Code, I think. It’s a perfect example of the differences between men and women, although both genders read the book.”
“Why The Da Vinci Code?” he asked.
“Because…women read it for a different reason then men do. When I started reading it, it was only because of all the hullabaloo the critics were causing. I didn’t know the plot or the characters. But when it mentioned Christ and the Magdalene…I sat up and paid attention. Just like thousands of women across the world.”
Restless, she stood up and started to pace in front of the fireplace.
“It was the Goddess. It was what women everywhere search for, even if they can’t name it, it’s in their heart of hearts. It’s the missing link women need in the patriarchal world. The Code spoke of a time before men, when women were equal, sometimes superior, when they passed along the secrets of womanhood and the Goddess to their daughters, when they were priestesses and wives and warriors and healers. When they were children of the Mother. When they took their daughter’s faces in their hands and made them swear to remember.”
She spun around, agitated.
“But it still happens. The Goddess survives in little ways. Even Christianity can’t completely eradicate Her. I’m not scorning Christians or their faith, I just…”
She took a deep breath.
“It’s a patriarchal religion, and one of the strongest, but even it must have the softness of a woman to balance it. The Goddess has existed since the beginning of time. The earliest form of religion found was in the form of misshapen women called the Venus Figurines. They indicated fertility. The Goddess was first. She was known to all.”
She stared at Shawne, who said nothing.
“Even today, women keep the Goddess alive. Oh, most of them don’t know it, of course, but they do. When a Christian woman tells her child about the birth of Christ through the Virgin, or when a Muslim woman whispers how Sarah birthed Ishmael, the father of their race, they keep the Goddess from fading from mankind. When a Catholic counts his beads and says Hail Mary’s, or when a hunter thanks a deer for giving its life, the Goddess is alive. She is forever remembered. Men do an equal amount of killing and reviving Her, but women….women are the ones who will keep her sacred.”
“Did you know that the line of heritage used to be passed down through the mother? It made so much more sense that way, for a mother can always claim her child. Nine months of proof is hard to deny. Women tell their daughters stories, of Bouddicca, of Joan of Arc, of Cleopatra and Unaat. Women keep the Goddess, splintered and fragmented, no longer the pure being of light She was, but She is kept just the same.”
“As long as women are alive, Shawne, the Goddess will live. We carry Her, in our souls, in our hearts, in our beings. In every breath we draw, She is with us. She walks with us, and guides us when we stumble. And in return, we are Her keepers. It is our sole responsibility, as women, to keep her from fading forever, into the mist.”
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. She had not even realized she had closed them, but she had, and now Shawne was staring at her with rapture, a light in his eyes that spoke of understanding and love and awe.
“That is what you need to write in your essay,” he whispered. “Women are the gatekeepers of the soul. That is what sets them apart from men. Write that.”
Smiling a little, nodding carefully, she took his hands, thanking him. The door clicked shut after her, and he turned his head to watch the sunlight fill the room with warmth.
I was lost on my English assignment, and this little thing popped into my head. I am the biggest feminist, I swear. And I STILL don't approve of women on the front lines in combat. Alexander will hate me for this, I know.
He will call me up and probably start swearing (in French, nonetheless) and demand to know why I'm not urging women into combat.
*rolls eyes* I love my gay men. I do. But when did they stop being boys and become men? *sighs*
Anyway, I want to write a story about a coffee shop and a college student, and her experiences. Any advice on kickass starting lines?
I love you all!
(And just for the record, I am NOT high on drugs, as a certain boy suggested).