Fiction Packet 3

Well hello fiction, why are you looking like poetry? These reading were unique and kind of interesting for me to read because to me they read like poetry. I don't understand poetry very well, but thankfully there were enough short story elements that I could think about it and eventually understand somewhat what was going on. I liked the story "When it Rains it Rains a River" for a reason I can't really figure out. Possibly it's because of the way it reads, but I'm not sure.

How they describe building the girl is very poetic, but in a way I can actually comprehend. It describes making her body with mud, focussing on the knees, and then how there's two bright moons which she looks through, her eyes. It's such a unique way to say it it just kind of drew me in.

"We take what is left of the mud and we make Girl. We start at the bottom and make our way up. Girl's knees are especially muddy. They make us want to stay forever kneeling."

He takes something unattractive, mud, and use it in a way that compliments women. Making a woman something to worship is one definite way to make them feel special.

"At night, when we look up from the mud with our mud-shot eyes, we see that the sky, it has floating up in it not one, but two, moons. These moons, they are what Girl uses to look at the world through."

I've heard pickup lines like "your eyes shine like the sun", "your eyes hold more stars than the night sky", and "your eyes are bluer than the ocean" but I've never heard someone compare a girl's eyes to the moon. It's a shame, because I think that the moon is really beautiful; I suppose this story gave me a new standard for a compliment from men.

My Writing or Lack Thereof

So I realized how bad I've been doing with keeping up with my blog and I feel really bad. I suppose it's because my writing has taken a slightly darker turn for me because I'm suddenly being introduced to all these people with writing better than mine and I feel extremely inferior. Instead of writing just for me and for the people that enjoy my writing I feel like I'm being analyzed and criticized every time I turn around. Suddenly people are telling me "Oh, you need more detail here" and "Your grammar is awful in this, what happened" and I feel like I want to scream. 

“Is something wrong Freddie?” I asked sweetly, inwardly cackling evilly as he just blushed red and nodded. Revenge was sweet… and too easy. It had probably been easy for him to just let me walk into the boys’ loo last week to get a good laugh, but now... it was his turn. 

Just thinking about what he had put my poor innocent, second year mind through made me cringe. “No, I’m fine.” He responded to my earlier question, at first I thought it was a bit late; then I realized that I had the ability to think super fast thanks to the FunDip he had given me as an apology for the bathroom thing. The fact that he managed to get me muggle candy here at Hogwarts was really an amazing feat… NO! Focus, Vix; you needed to get back at this boy for creating a situation where people called me a peeping tom for a whole week! “Are you okay? You seem a bit distracted there.”

I smiled up at him, happy when he blushed again. “I’m okay Fred, thanks for asking; it makes me happy to see that you care.” He smiled at me and I felt my heart flutter. No way; I can have a sugar induced heart attack after I get my revenge. I felt myself smile widely and started chatting animatedly when the girls’ washroom came in sight. This would make him see that he shouldn’t mess with me.

This is how I'm used to writing. This is an excerpt from my Harry Potter fanfiction, and here you see that I have a carefree kind of happy feel that I put into my writing. Suddenly, all I can seem to write is really depressing stuff, basically only because I don't ever feel happy when I'm writing anymore. It's become a chore since I've started taking this class and that really scares me. I've always found joy and peace in writing and I'm afraid that if I don't have that anymore what is going to keep me who I am. 

Mrs. Weasley had her arms around my shoulders and was heaving with sobs… but wait, those couldn’t be my sobs that seemed to echo throughout the room, right? I tried to hold my breath and failed, making me realize that it was indeed my crying that was moving both me and Mrs. Weasley. Why was I crying? I shouldn’t be crying; I should be happy. I’m Vix, and I wasn’t ever unhappy for no reason. “Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred,” I said his name like a mantra, not sure when it started and looked to the ring on my finger, wondering why it didn’t look so pretty, and why in the world I had the strong urge to throw it at the sleeping Fred. No, not sleeping, they keep saying.

Mrs. Weasley clutches my hand in hers and I finally turn to look away from Fred to her face and I felt like I had been slapped as reality stepped in. It destroyed my fantasy where Fred was sleeping. We weren’t getting married. I wasn’t ever going to bear his children. Fred was dead. He lied. He promised not to leave me but he did; I was all alone. No not alone. They try to convince me, Mrs. Weasley wrapping me in another hug along with all the other Weasley’s, Bex, and Hermione. But I was alone. I always felt alone without Fred.

I’m running. Where? Anywhere, my legs just keep going, carrying me through the destroyed castle. Away from all the people, all the tears. I finally stop somewhere outside near Hagrid’s cottage, collapsing to the ground. My breath comes in heavy pants as I look around the corpse laden ground, but I feel glad that they are the only ones around at the moment. I cringe as a hoarse voice echoes all over the grounds, and I resist the urge to curl up in a ball and wither away in fear. This was Voldemort. I had to listen, nothing else was more important at the moment.

Yeah. Kind of a drastic change. My OC is in love with Fred Weasley and I had to skip over to the part where he dies just so I could write something worthwhile. I don't understand what is going on with me right now or why I can't seem to get anything in my writing right, but I'm getting very discouraged. When I was re-reading my realistic fiction stories for this class I realized that I have a long way to go before I can become a great novelist. In fact, I really don't see myself going very far at all and I'm beginning to question why I even bother.