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Author Topic: The Writer's Thread  (Read 19065 times)

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Alyss

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #120 on: January 26, 2009, 12:34:22 PM »

Okay...
Well, this isn't actually as bad as you made out it'd be. It needs work, but there's plenty of good material to work with here.

In general, it needs tidying. You mix up your tenses a lot, miss commas, and jumble the sentences. Go through it and do a general spring clean.

The second thing is the end paragraph: far too sudden. You can't kill Zoe off like that. I don't think you should kill her off at all in fact, you just don't need to and there's no indication earlier that it'll happen. I do like that Anita doesn't change the sheets in the spare room though; try to keep that in without killing Zoe, because it's a really lovely moment.

The dialogue needs some fiddling too. Sometimes it feels like they're talking for too long, or saying too much. Zoe's big speech in particular does this. I appreciate she does need to say what she says, but she shouldn't say it in that way. Make it shorter, and more serious. Moving from her hyperactivity and playfulness to her crying doesn't work either; tone her down, make it more a process of breaking down and not of talking in a stream.

So yeah, you've got some work ahead of you, but I really like the bones of what you've got. Keep at it!
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Ms

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #121 on: January 26, 2009, 12:41:19 PM »

I reeeeeeeeeeeeally have trouble with tenses. I don't know why, I just do. I have gone over this thing four times and I still can't get it right.

The reason Zoe dies was because this was the beginning of a murder mystery and it was going to be muuuuuch longer and I really don't want to change that. I agree that it moves too fast though. I haven't had any inspiration for this so it got abandoned a long time ago.

Zoe's speech was deliberate in the way that it was said because that's how I imagine she speaks and I know people who, even in the middle of a break down, will speak like that. But I'm not overly fond of it and I think bits do need to be changed around and fixed but I can't really be bothered working on it anymore. Thank you for the feedback, it was really good.
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Alyss

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #122 on: January 26, 2009, 12:44:32 PM »

Honey, you can't let this thing die, it's got real promise! Even if you don't want to work on it, can I adapt it into a script? I won't even flog it or anything, I'll just write it and give it back to you.
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Ms

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #123 on: January 26, 2009, 12:46:54 PM »

Sure! I you want to. I wrote it ages ago in a non serious manner and I don't think I ever really intended to work on it. I have at least four other ideas in my head that I want to write but am too scared to or whatever. I'm not very good when it comes to writing. But yeah, go ahead.
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Alyss

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #124 on: January 26, 2009, 12:48:02 PM »

Sweet! I'll get right onto it, this is going to be awesome!
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Bubblegum Britt

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #125 on: January 26, 2009, 03:27:21 PM »

This is something I wrote over the summer:

Jack and Liz rested in bed together in their New York apartment.  It had been one of those quiet days, where everything was perfect between them.  Liz ran her fingers through Jack's sandy brown hair, and she wondered how she could ever find a man so perfect as he.  His eyes, his nose, his scar from a bike accident, and every other slight imperfection seemed like an enhancement to her.  It gave notice that she was not dreaming, and that he actually wanted her.  Liz was 20 years old, and Jack was her first kiss, lover, boyfriend; her first everything.  Liz Arden was slightly awkward and frumpy; one might say she had a plain appearance, and the only thing that stood out about her was her weight. She blamed this attribute as the reason no male was interested in her, but she refused to do anything about it, claiming pride and dignity as the reasons.

Jack sat up slightly and kissed Liz. "Lizzie, do you remember the first night we spent together?"
"You mean the first night we had sex? Yes, I remember it."
"You told me you loved it, that it wasn't like you expected it to be.  Now, this is important. Were you lying to me or did you mean it?"
"Jack, of course I did.  Why with the questions?"
"I might need you to recreate that night for me, with a friend of mine."
Liz completely sat upright. "Why?"
"I am in a bit of debt to him, and I don't have a method of supplying the money to him, babe. If there was another way I could try, but there isn't and--"
"--How much debt?"
"About 300."
"Why did you borrow 300 dollars?"
"I was in a bout with a loan shark, you know how my gambling was, but that was before I met you, doll. Anyway, this guy was out for my ass, and Manny was there to give me the dough, and he said that as long as I repaid him, then I could have it."
"Jack, when was this?"
"About a year ago. Then the other day, right before I saw you in the store, he comes up to me, says he needs the money real bad."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him I didn't have it, and if there was any other way I could repay him, then I would do it. That's when he mentioned the sex."

Liz got up from the bed and retrieved her coat from the hanger.
"Lizzie, baby, where ya goin'? It's rainin' cats and dogs out there."
"I don't care, Jack Stevenson. Wherever I'm going, it's not going to be where you are, and I wouldn't care if that was the 5th ring of hell right now."
Jack got up and blocked the door. "You didn't hear me out, Elizabeth."
"Hear you out? You want me to whore myself so you can settle some gambling debt!"
"Lizzie, but he likes girls like you, with a little extra meat. He wants to go out on a real night on the town, with you paying for everything of course.  Just dinner and a night cap at a decent hotel, and that's it."
"That's it? You men, it's always simple when a woman has to objectify her body. I knew I should have stayed in Georgia!"
"Oh, Georgia, Georgia! You and this going back to damn Georgia all the time. You didn't, did you? You came back to New York to be here with me, because I took you when no one else wanted you. I did you that favor, and now you won't do the same for me! How do you think that makes me feel?"
Liz stopped and thought.  She hated it when he did things like that because she actually believed him, and what he said had some truth to it.  He was the only one. 

She sat down back on the bed and looked up at Jack.  "One night, huh? Just dinner and sex?"
He knelt down so he was eye level with her. "One night, darling. And you have to pretend that you're a virgin, he gets off on that stuff. Come on, I'll have my sister give you a little makeover, find something to dress you up nice.  It'll be over before you know it."
"I don't know about this, Jackie.  I saw that guy, and he looks a little sketchy."
"Who? Manny? He's not like my other friends, babe.  This one has real heart. He's just a little down on his luck."  She looked at him incredulously.
"Lizzie, he looked at you one time, and he wanted you, I could see it in his eyes, babe.  Do you know how proud that made me feel? To see that some guy wanted my broad? Just give him a little show, and I won't ask you to do anything like this ever again."
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Bubblegum Britt

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #126 on: January 26, 2009, 03:39:35 PM »

And I know the first paragraph sucks. I don't do well with description of characters...I think that should come out during the dialogue, so that's what I focus on.
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Alyss

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #127 on: January 26, 2009, 03:45:48 PM »

Hmm...okay. There's a few problems here but they're easily ironed out.
-The dialogue's nice, but a little jerky...I feel like the characters are saying too much. Try for a little less detail, while still getting the message across.
-Same goes for the description. First paragraph in particular, far too much detail. You need to stretch this piece out a bit, feed in the details as you go rather than lumping them all together.
-This'll be easier if you make the piece longer. As it is, it feels unfinished. We've got the build up, but not the resolution. Your conflict (essential in any fiction) is established, so now see where it goes, run with it.
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Alyss

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #128 on: January 26, 2009, 03:47:47 PM »

No, never had a head for it. I just don't understand it, not anything about it.
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Elle

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #129 on: January 26, 2009, 04:31:15 PM »

Woo, copyrighted! Ok. This is a something I wrote up a few months ago. It's original and all that jazz. Uhm. There's a shit-ton of backstory, but I wrote it to stand alone. Copyrighted because she's probably going to find her way into one of my books, although if this scene is there, it will be changed all up, refined, corrected, etc. Yep. Uhh....con/crit if you want. Here goes. It isn't titled.



Rain was flowing down the glass of the little cafe, those small rivulets of water pouring down the window, reflecting the neon colors of the signs outside all over the dimly lit room. Blue eyes glassy and unfocused, Demi tracked their progress silently, so seemingly unaware of her surroundings that the waitress wasn't even bothering to offer to refill her cup anymore; Demi hadn't responded to her questions in nearly an hour. The waitress didn't mind, though. This girl always came here and she always left a large tip...or, at least her boyfriend did. Or, at least the waitress assumed he was the girl's boyfriend. They never kissed or showed any overt physical affection, but the sexual tension was absolutely palpable. A lot of the girls took bets on what they were, exactly, but week after week, nothing new happened.

But the girl had never been this upset before, and she had never waited so long for the gentleman friend...what did it mean?

The waitress looked over in time to see the girl's shoulders shake in an apparent sob, and though she felt bad for her, she wasn't at all sure what she could do, if anything, to help her out. Maybe she and the older man had a spat, and that was why she was here! Or even worse, what if something awful had happened to him, and she was here, grieving her unrequited love! It was purely romantic speculation, but she couldn't help it! She turned with a huff, tears threatening to sting at her own eyes as she retreated to the kitchen, bent on sharing her revelations with the cooks.

It was at that moment, with her back turned to the door, that the mysterious gentleman walked in. He was not hurt or maimed or otherwise in a position to be grieved, though he did look quite solemn. His eyes landed on the sad-eyed girl and he made his way quickly to her. Had the waitress not retreated to the kitchens, had she been watching, she might have noticed the way that he sat on the same side of the booth that the girl sat on, a first for them. She might have noticed that his hand slipped under her shirt in the back, that she didn't even acknowledge him until his fingers moved down toward her hips, at which point she flinched and turned to face him.

It was plain to see that she had been crying. He knew what day it was, that it was a bad day for her, that she could be strong and happy and mainly normal on other days but that this one was off limits....he had been aware of that. He knew that she had been waiting here for him for nearly two hours, but he had been in a meeting. Just coming here had required a phone call to his wife and a somewhat complicated series of excuses. After driving around for half an hour looking for a place to park and then walking through the rain for five blocks to get here, he felt rather annoyed, but it melted away in that moment when her eyes locked with his. Their usual brilliant blue was washed out, faded as though the tears had diluted them, all mascara and eyeliner was long since gone, the skin around them puffy and red. She was a mess. She was beautiful.

The apparent gash on her back worried him. He had asked her not to cut this year but she had promised him nothing, and nothing was exactly what he had received. He wasn't sure what to do or what to say; this was the first time she had sought him out on this day. She usually insisted on grieving alone. Her face contorted with more tears and she threw herself against him, and he found his arms wrapping around her without a trace of reluctance. He couldn't deny her...it would be his undoing, he was sure of it.

"Harry, I'm sorry..." she said, her voice shaking with an effort to suppress another sob. "I tried to stop myself but I.....I can't..." her thin form was shaking like a leaf in his arms, even as his fingers stroked down her back, even as he allowed himself to place a kiss on her head. "Demi..." he murmured quietly, not knowing what else to say and offering the feeble comfort of her name, spoken aloud and accompanied by his embrace. Her tears were soaking through the fabric of his shirt, but he wasn't about to pull away. Besides, he liked the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her body pressed tightly to his. Perhaps it was wrong to enjoy this, but he had long ago accepted the fact that there were very few things that weren't wrong with his feelings for Demi. As horrible as it was, he couldn't help but wonder if she was willing to accept that now as well.

"I...oh, Harry you....you can't....I can't....I can't go home tonight...not....not alone." His eyebrows raised slightly, his fingers now wandering through her soft hair. At once, he felt as though he should chastise himself for immediately allowing his mind to go there, but he had longed for this moment for nearly two years now...ever since the first day he had asked her to stay after class. Demi, in her Salvation Army clothes, with her gaunt cheeks and those junkie sores, barely healed enough to be scars. Her skin clung to her bones and her eyes held the kind of broken determination that could break anyone if they looked too long. Her hair was stringy and short, and her bag looked like she had found it dumpster diving. It was the second week of class, and he had found himself unable to refrain from catching her attention, from asking her to meet him after the lecture. There was no real rhyme or reason to why he desired her so; he loved his wife and their children. He found no more dissatisfaction in his marriage than anyone else, and he certainly didn't want it to end.

Still, he couldn't get this broken girl out of his mind.

And so he had asked her to stay after class, not thinking until later that he might need a reason to do such a thing. As she approached him, his mind spun until he wasn't sure what to say at all, and so he simply asked her to begin coming to private study sessions twice per week. She was far too brilliant to require independent tutoring, but she still came to those sessions twice per week, hungry, perhaps, for a little kindness or perhaps affection, both things that he was more than willing to give. Eventually, he learned more about her; the drugs, the prostitution. Her parents were his contemporaries, and after knowing that they had caused her such pain, it was difficult for him to look them in the eye at dinner parties and other societal functions.

Even though he made a point of making his desires ascertainable, if not apparent, she never gave any inkling that she would give in. She kept a physical barrier between them, granting him the occasional half hug or hand squeeze, but never anything more. Nothing suggestive. She needed a place to go over the summer, so he offered her a job as nanny to his children. Having her around the house was both a joy and a torture; their piano had never received so much use, but having her so close and denying himself...

Of course the children loved her. Of course they always begged for her to care for them. His desire for her grew, but knowing her past, he couldn't be too overt. He bought her things, little trinkets at first, but as time moved on, his gifts rose in value. She was sensitive to this, sometimes casting him a questioning look, but always smiling, always thanking him. He couldn't make it seem as though he were trying to buy her love; that would be the worst sort of insult. Still, she had to know that these things he bought were expressions of his feelings for her.

Finally one night she invited him to the cabaret where she danced, and he thought for sure that she reciprocated his feelings, his desire, and he had been quite happy to go...but even after nearly an entire night drinking and laughing together, she still maintained those boundaries between them. It had nearly driven him crazy, and had made the job of excusing his all-night absence on a Friday an even more loathsome task. She had opened up to him, she had told him things that he never would have expected her to share, and he had done everything he could think to do to help her; still, she kept her distance.

But tonight, now, this was different. She had allowed him to touch her. She had flung herself into his arms. And perhaps most interesting of all, she had asked him to stay with her...in so many words. Still carding his fingers through her hair, he softly replied, "Are you sure, Demi?"

Another sob caught itself in her throat and she gave him a nod, nuzzling into his neck, her fingers curling into his shirt as she absorbed all the comfort that he had to give. It was so, so wrong, and even now a hot knife of guilt was tearing through her, but there was nothing else to be done. She needed to feel the love, the acceptance that he would give her. It may have been perverse in all sorts of ways, in every way, but she knew that he would hold her, that he would kiss her, and despite it's nature, his love for her was genuine....she was sure of that. By receiving it, by refraining from the denial that had characterized their relationship up until this point, she knew that she was wronging someone else. That she was taking things that didn't belong to her. But he was willing, and she was so, so broken.

Pulling away, her washed-out eyes found his, searching for something (though she didn't know what) in those calm, brown pools, vindication or perhaps reproach. Whatever it was that she sought, she found nothing there but comfort, and as his fingers brushed across her pale cheeks, wiping away the tell-tale signs of her tears, she found herself unable to say no to him. Unable to resist the pull of the security than only he could provide.

They left the cafe without another word, sliding into the leather seats of his car, her fingers twining through his, never leaving his grasp as they drove to a place where he knew they could be alone. He made the commute to the university daily, but at times he had to work late, or arrive at the school exceptionally early. For those days they kept a tiny studio apartment in the same town as the school. There was nothing strange or out of place about him staying the night in that place, and for that he was especially thankful. After situating Demi and putting water on for tea, he slipped down the hall and called his wife. He had considered this situation many, many times, what he would say, how best to avoid sounding suspicious or worse, guilty. Even though the words came with relative ease, he had not expected the pain or the guilt that came with the lie. The other times he had been out with Demi, things had been innocent, even if not by his choice. This time, neither of their intentions were at all pure, and somehow, that changed everything.

He found himself back in the tiny apartment, the girl that had so long been the object of his desire now curled up on the couch, a steaming mug clasped defiantly in her hands. Even just the simple act of making her own cup of tea seemed to speak volumes in that moment. It was as though she were asserting that, while she needed him, she was still perfectly capable of taking care of herself. It was a bluff, a fact that was apparent to them both.

He offered her a sad sort of smile, and though she stared oddly at him, she stood and set her tea on the table. She walked toward the bed, her movement beckoning him closer, and he obediently followed. His coat found it's way to the chair next to the bed, his shoes slipped off before he crawled in beside her. Normally, all this empty space would have been filled with their words, the banter that flowed between them. Now, words were replaced with actions; the intensity of her need, of his desire. Their eyes spoke more than their tongues could have said, their hands communicating truths that they were previously too afraid to acknowledge. Both were overwhelmed with need, seeking satiation somewhere in that bed. In the end, each found what they sought.

Words seemed superfluous now, each of them lying there, staring at the other. His fingers moved over her back, finding the thick scar that sat just above the wound that she must have created earlier that day. Two scars. Two years since the death of her son, the product of her addiction. It fascinated him that she wore her pain like that, imprinted eternally on her body, the signs of it undeniable and haunting all at the same time. "What was his name?" He murmured softly, the light of the lamp next to the bed reflecting gold in his eyes. He saw tears rising up before she spoke, just a moment after he realized that his fingers were playing across her recent wound.

"Jacin." Her naked form shuddered beneath the thin sheet. "Jacin Mateus Jord." 
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Only when you eat a lemon do you appreciate what sugar is. Life is a paradox...but is it really? Is the contradictions within and around us really a formal dissonance, or just another word for a chord in a language we're yet to discover?

Alyss

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #130 on: January 26, 2009, 04:39:54 PM »

I'll get to this later, I'm kind og burned out right now...
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Mockery

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #131 on: January 26, 2009, 06:24:14 PM »

I use my DA account for writings. I posted this short story yesterday. i don't really think its any good but I've gotten a few good comments so who knows!

Mahogany's Baby
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buttercup.

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #132 on: September 05, 2009, 03:30:45 PM »

I posted this in Shameless...it's called Have you seen my Frog?
It's about a stuffed frog, an eccentric rock star's assistant, a neurotic young woman with unrequited love, and the man that's actually in love with her.
Also there's drag queens, drug usage, several different kinds of alcohol, and smelly things.
SO HAVE YOU SEEN MY FROG?
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Indja

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #133 on: September 05, 2009, 04:23:15 PM »

I just wrote an article about working in the library for my dad's online magazine - it'll most likely be published next month. Anyway, here's a sneak peek for any of you who aren't already subscribers to The Leisure Review!

As a child, I used to love going to the library. I remember the thrill of seeing shelves filled with books towering above me, seeming to scrape the very heavens; the hallowed sense of calm that filled this cathedral of words; how people dropped their voices upon entering, their whispers adding to the holy, church-like atmosphere; and the awe and slight terror of handing over my carefully chosen books to the huge but gentle woman behind the desk, known only as “the Lady” – “Give your books to the Lady, dear”, “No, the Lady has to stamp them first”, “Don’t lick the money, sweetheart, the Lady has to touch that later”. O, how I admired the Lady! So calm, so quiet, so infinitely wise, she seemed wholly unearthly and yet somehow, strangely familiar.
These memories came flooding back to me on my first day as an employee of Derbyshire County Council, when I saw a frazzled-looking woman turn to the smallest of her spawn and say, “Lydia, give your card to the Lady.”
She was referring to me.
I’m the Lady.
I was so flustered I could barely stamp straight.

I’ve been working as relief staff for the local library for around six months now, and I’ve not only handled my fair share of spitty pennies, I’ve also been snotted on, sneered about, shouted at and referred to as “the young girl on the desk who doesn’t know anything”. The world of book-lending is more sinister and mystifying than you could ever imagine, and significantly more surreal. I finish each day half-expecting Tim Burton to pop out from the local heritage section, or Davina McCall to swoop in and tell me I’m the unwitting star of a new piece of reality TV based on a combination of The Truman Show and Twin Peaks.
   The majority of the strangeness comes from the regulars. My personal favourite is Mr Davies, a very sweet little man of around sixty-odd who meets all the requirements of a Good Customer; he’s polite, patient, and only ever asks me to do one thing at a time. He also smells nice, a quality I find shamefully lacking in the general public.
   Mr Davies comes into the library at six o’ clock every weekday evening to use the computer for an hour. When he leaves, he books the same computer at the same time for the next night. He comes in, I say, “Evening, Mr Davies. Computer Six for an hour, is it?” and night after night he replies with genuine surprise, “Oh, goodness, how did you know?”
   Because you’ve been on Computer Six for an hour five nights a week for at least twenty four weeks, Mr Davies, I think to myself. Out loud I say, “Oh, just a good guess”. We’ve had this conversation around one hundred and seventy times now. It still amuses me.
   Of course, not all of our customers are as satisfying to deal with as Mr Davies. There’s Wheezy Sidebottom who phones up every so often seemingly with the sole purpose of finding an audience for her clearing the phlegm off her chest. Paul Who Prints comes in just before Mr Davies and spends an hour printing off pictures of fancy dress costumes; werewolves, astronauts, superheroes, he is wholly indiscriminate in his choices. So indiscriminate, in fact, that despite print-outs being twenty-five pence each, I’ve never known him to leave with less than twelve pounds worth of pages under his arm. There’s Bad Dad, who’s children seem to think his instructions are some sort of strange bird-call; Panic Attack flaps in every fortnight or so convinced that all her books are over-due, that there’s at least six she’s left at home by accident and that we’ve now switched from a ten-pence-a-day fine to demanding a blood sacrifice as payment; and Starey Mary, while equally as well-mannered as the lovely Mr Davies, would unnerve a Navy Seal with her ability to hold eye-contact. I’m beginning to doubt she has eyelids at all, like some kind of book-wielding lizard.
   Grimmest of the grim, however, is Shirley, who instils such dread in me that I daren’t even give her a nickname. Shirley is three times the size of me in every direction, speaks only in booms and shrieks and she knows my name.
   The first time I came across Shirley, I was doing an evening shift – five to seven – an she came roaring in at six forty-five with sixteen Mills & Boon books to return. She then took five minutes choosing sixteen others, found she’d read half of them already and insisted on taking them back and choosing some more. She did this three times before she was satisfied. Then Shirley asked me to put a request in for her for three books that she’d forgotten the names of by Amanda Lee – all Mills & Boon, of course. After searching the database of every library in the county, Googling ferociously and finally checking the Mills & Boon website, Shirley realised it wasn’t Amanda Lee at all, but Miranda Lee. All three books were on our shelves.
   Somewhere in this ordeal, I let slip my name – a folly I have lived to regret many times over. Shirley now announces herself by bellowing out across the desk, “No, I’ll talk to Helen, thank you – she’s such a helpful girl!” And I must take a deep breath, count to ten slowly and turn my grimace into a grin before spending twenty minutes hunting down The Italian Millionaire’s Love Affair With His Brother’s Ex-Wife.
   A weaker will would have broken by now, but I find strength in the knowledge that Shirley is wrong. I’m not a helpful girl.

I’m no kind of girl at all.

I am the Lady.
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Savannah

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Re: The Writer's Thread
« Reply #134 on: January 01, 2011, 10:05:51 PM »

So here's the thing i wrote to laugh. Please excuse me Canadian people. It's not that i don't like the snow, but i live in a country where the weather very rarely goes subzero.



12th of august: Dear diary, i moved to my new house in Canada. I'm so excited. It's so beautiful here. The landscape of the mountains is so wonderful. I can't wait to see them when they're covered with snow.

14th of october: Canada is the most wonderful place of the world. Leaves turned to orange and red. I made a countryside trip riding a horse, and saw some Canadian deers. They were so beautiful. Probably the mostt beautiful creatures in the whole world. This must be heaven. I like it here a lot.

11th of novamber: The deer hunting season is starting. I can't understand how they can aim to kill such wonderful creatures. I hope it snows soon. I love here.

2nd of december: It snowed last night. I woke up in the midnight to see everywhere is covered with this beautiful white blanket. It's like a postcard. We went out and played snowball, then we had to clean the snow out of the garage and stairs. When the snow clearing machine has come we had to clean the snows out of the garage again. It's a nice place and i like it.

12th of december: It snowed more last night. We had to clean the snow out of the garage again. I like here.

19th of december: It snowed a lot more last night. I couldn't go out of the garage with my car. It's a beautiful country but i'm so tired of cleaning the snow. Damn snow cleaning machine!

22nd of december: It snowed a little more of this white shit last night. My hands got blistered because of shoveling the snow out. The silly snow cleaner machine man is watching me form the corner till i clean all the snow, then he drives the machine and it covers my garage again.

25th of december: It's fucking new years! It snowed again. If i catch that stupid snow cleaner man i swear i'll kill that son of bitch.I can't understand why they don't use more salt to melt the snow out of the highways.

27th of december: God damn snowed again last night. Because it's been 3 days since the snow cleaner machine last came here, i couldn't manage to clean the snow on my doorway and i am jailed into house. I can't go nowhere. The weather guy said it will snow 25 cms today. Do you know how many shovels does 25 cms take?

28th of december: Weather guy-the pudding head was wrong. It snowed 83 cms more. I guess it will never melt until the summer. The snow cleaning machine stucked into the snow and the jerky driver wanted to borrow my shovel. i said i have broken 6 shovels while i was cleaning the snow and would be happy to break the 7th one on his head.

4th of january: I finally could go out. Went to the market and bought something to eat. When i was driving back home, a goddamn deer jumped before my car. It will cost 3000 dolars to get my car repaired. I think it's necessary to kill all of this damn animals. These bloody animals are everywhere. I hope the hunters clean them all.

3rd of may: I took the car to a repairman in the town. The vehicle body has become rusty beceause of the damn salt they poored to melt the snow.

10th of may: I turned back to my country for good and moved to the coast side. Fuck the cold and snow and deers!
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