Alas
Once again, I find my way over here, to my neglected LJ, and then clutter it with utter nonsense. Then I receive nothing in return. Ah, well. Expect nothing and you will never be disappointed.
The main thing I've been worried and fretting over is a story idea I had recently and started writing. And I mean writing, on paper, with a pen, in a notebook with a ribbon to mark where i left off. That kind of writing. And I love it! It's odd, but so am I.
I'm half considering posting some of it, but I don't know as of yet. I had San-Chama read the introductory sentence, which is what I'm currently calling it, and ... Yeah. I have about 10 pages written by hand down, sitting next to me as I type this entry. But I also want to just tell the whole plot because I'm so excited about it. This is the first time in almost 2 years that I've actually enjoyed something that I've written.
San-Chama, this won't be anything new to you here:
This could've been a joyous story with a happy ending had it not been based on the woeful, worrisome life of one dreadful, dreary girl who liked to play with knives.
Then the first part is a bit long, but it's more of an introductory to the main character, Emily. *Talks self into posting first part*
My sincerest apologies for it being so long. Minor editing, such as changing a work here and there, was done. Other than that, it's the same as what I have written in my journal.
Emily DeLacroux was born to two beautiful and wealthy parents. Unfortunately for Emily, they ignored her as a child, except for when the social occasions called for her presence. She was a bright child, and that was plain to see. Her mind shone brighter than any other child's in the room.
By being ignored, Emily was left to brood in silence, swallowing her emotions and hiding her fears. She was often condemned by her parents, who had Emily to remain in the spotlight, to uphold their reputation. She never had a childhood, being constantly told to stop crying, to stop doing things the wrong way. To stop being a child. She grew much too old much too fast.
She dealt with multiple nannies and caretakers, all of whom had their names and faces stolen by time with it's own greedy needs.
Her father, Remi, was Cherokee. Much of his more-recent fame was attributed to the fact he was not forced to migrate with the rest of the Cherokees in 1838, seven years after the birth of Emily.
His skin naturally glittered in the sun, the darkness creating a contrast with the pale, creamy skin of Emily's mother, Vivica. They were opposites from head to toe. Remi towered over the slight Vivica, his prize. His jet black hair was the opposite of her curled blond, his dark eyes reflecting the cold blue of his wife.
The one thing they had in common? Their lust for fame.
Emily was, indeed, a beautiful girl. Her jet black hair was taken from her father, the curls a contribution from her mother. All in all, she was her mother's child. She had the cold, piercing blue eyes with the slender face, and skin that looked as though it never saw the light of day. The bright red lips were just another feature stolen from her mother.
There was one thing that Emily loved, the only thing she had that she felt she could relate to; her collection of dolls. Their smooth and porcelain skin only competed with Emily's own. Their purpose and her purpose were one and the same, to entertain.
That's why Emily loved them so. Their cold and lifeless eyes had understanding in them. There was something else Emily loved about them; they never got mad at her for playing with knives.
But that was why many caretakers left. If she didn't like them she would make herself bleed, then run to Remi and say that the nanny had hurt her. After that happened a few times, the DeLacrox's stopped hiring nannies.
Yet Emily's self harming ways ended soon after the death of her father.
Should I edit it at all? Just give up on it? Continue? Post any more? Was it too long?
Feedback, please?
The main thing I've been worried and fretting over is a story idea I had recently and started writing. And I mean writing, on paper, with a pen, in a notebook with a ribbon to mark where i left off. That kind of writing. And I love it! It's odd, but so am I.
I'm half considering posting some of it, but I don't know as of yet. I had San-Chama read the introductory sentence, which is what I'm currently calling it, and ... Yeah. I have about 10 pages written by hand down, sitting next to me as I type this entry. But I also want to just tell the whole plot because I'm so excited about it. This is the first time in almost 2 years that I've actually enjoyed something that I've written.
San-Chama, this won't be anything new to you here:
This could've been a joyous story with a happy ending had it not been based on the woeful, worrisome life of one dreadful, dreary girl who liked to play with knives.
Then the first part is a bit long, but it's more of an introductory to the main character, Emily. *Talks self into posting first part*
My sincerest apologies for it being so long. Minor editing, such as changing a work here and there, was done. Other than that, it's the same as what I have written in my journal.
Emily DeLacroux was born to two beautiful and wealthy parents. Unfortunately for Emily, they ignored her as a child, except for when the social occasions called for her presence. She was a bright child, and that was plain to see. Her mind shone brighter than any other child's in the room.
By being ignored, Emily was left to brood in silence, swallowing her emotions and hiding her fears. She was often condemned by her parents, who had Emily to remain in the spotlight, to uphold their reputation. She never had a childhood, being constantly told to stop crying, to stop doing things the wrong way. To stop being a child. She grew much too old much too fast.
She dealt with multiple nannies and caretakers, all of whom had their names and faces stolen by time with it's own greedy needs.
Her father, Remi, was Cherokee. Much of his more-recent fame was attributed to the fact he was not forced to migrate with the rest of the Cherokees in 1838, seven years after the birth of Emily.
His skin naturally glittered in the sun, the darkness creating a contrast with the pale, creamy skin of Emily's mother, Vivica. They were opposites from head to toe. Remi towered over the slight Vivica, his prize. His jet black hair was the opposite of her curled blond, his dark eyes reflecting the cold blue of his wife.
The one thing they had in common? Their lust for fame.
Emily was, indeed, a beautiful girl. Her jet black hair was taken from her father, the curls a contribution from her mother. All in all, she was her mother's child. She had the cold, piercing blue eyes with the slender face, and skin that looked as though it never saw the light of day. The bright red lips were just another feature stolen from her mother.
There was one thing that Emily loved, the only thing she had that she felt she could relate to; her collection of dolls. Their smooth and porcelain skin only competed with Emily's own. Their purpose and her purpose were one and the same, to entertain.
That's why Emily loved them so. Their cold and lifeless eyes had understanding in them. There was something else Emily loved about them; they never got mad at her for playing with knives.
But that was why many caretakers left. If she didn't like them she would make herself bleed, then run to Remi and say that the nanny had hurt her. After that happened a few times, the DeLacrox's stopped hiring nannies.
Yet Emily's self harming ways ended soon after the death of her father.
Should I edit it at all? Just give up on it? Continue? Post any more? Was it too long?
Feedback, please?