Multiple People Writing One Story

This kind of makes me question some of the people's imaginations in our class haha

She stood at the edge of a precipice, between one moment and the next. A choice had to be made, dancing on a knife's tip. The knife, of course, being a fifty-two centimeter spanish folded steel that was broken, twisted, melted, re-forged, and then broken again. Unable to be used for its purpose to bring on the darkness. She cuts it into the juicy steak and takes a bite, "I don't even like steak," she mutters. The steak, it seems, didn't much care for her, either; it clung onto the sides of her throat like a vengeful tentacle. She started to loss oxygen, as breathing was nearly impossible. She wanted to save herself but no one around her wanted to help. No one loves her. Suddenly, it goes dark and she awakens to a sound of a car and her hands were restrained. It was only a dream, a dream she would rather be living.

Edited:

She stood at the edge of a precipice, between one moment and the next. A choice had to be made, she was dancing on a knife's tip. The knife in her hand seemed to symbolize her situation, broken and dull. It was barely able to do its job, a useless heap of metal that was worthless to the world just like her. She cuts it into the juicy steak in front of her and takes a bite, "I don't even like steak," she mutters. The steak, it seems, didn't much care for her, either; it seemed to expand in her throat, blocking the path she was trying to hopelessly to force air through. Seconds pass and she lost even more oxygen than before, falling to the ground to try and reach for a phone. She wanted to save herself but no one was around her big empty house to help. No one loved her enough to stay when she needed them most. Unable to move she coughed once. Twice. Three times. And then, the lonely woman in the big beautiful house at the end of the street was no more.



I think this is a little better, but I didn't want to change the whole story I wanted it to stay at least kind of true to the original.

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. 

Fiction, Fiction, Everywhere, and Not a Phrase to Think

We are supposed to write about writing fiction, or about fiction writing but I'm not really sure exactly what I should talk about. Any time you write fiction I think it's something different, you can never write the same thing the same way twice, which I am notoriously known for when I write out one of my chapters only to later type it out and end up with something different. I believe that your mind is always adding to ideas and building off of them to get better and better. I suppose that is the beauty of writing fiction stories, you have total freedom to change and adapt. This is what keeps me writing, and I hope that one day my writing inspires someone else to write the way so many writers have inspired me.

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Unsure of what else to write, I waited until after today's class to continue my response. I find myself suddenly feeling unsure in my decision to take this course; my love for writing suddenly coming to an impasse. During our writing assignment I was pretty proud of the story I came up with on the spot, considering my talent lies in coming up with well thought out stories that I usually take a couple weeks to even think about starting. But then I heard the stories other people wrote and I suddenly realized that perhaps I'm not so cut out for this like I thought.

But I suppose not much can really be done about it now, I'm here and I'll make the most of it. I guess I'll just have to stick to my fanfictions full of humor and no real storyline, since that seems to be the only thing I'm good at. What a waste; I wish I had realised this years ago when I started writing.

Fiction? YES!

Okay so I don't think you understand exactly how excited I am for fiction. Poetry is great in its own way, but there's no mistaking that writing and reading fiction is my favorite thing in the world. I really hope to improve my writing as we progress into the fiction portion of the semester and I honestly can't wait to get started.

One section that really caught my interest was the Mystery portion of the packet. My interest has always been caught by Mystery stories because I'm one of those people that get really drawn in by detail. And my gosh did these stories have a lot of detail; thanks to the imagery used I could almost see what was going on in the story. One story that I believe really shows great imagery is "The Record Store". Throughout the story I could really use what I know record stores look like and what the story detailed that the store looked like.

Another story that I thought was really unique was "Misdemeanors". It was really interesting to see two takes on the same story side by side like that. I think that it really expresses the fact that everyone sees things differently, even in the same situation. I love seeing different people's take on the same thing and how unique we all are.

I'm so happy to be moving on from poetry, short stories and even fiction itself is more my speed. I can't wait to see what's planned for us. Ja ne! <3

City Eclogue Part 2

The second half of City Eclogue was somewhat easier to understand, though not by much. I could follow the themes of the poems though which is an improvement over the first half.

Ornithologies is the scientific name for the study of birds, which makes sense since all the poems make references to birds of some sort. In the first poem in the section, Urban Nature, he says it is specifically "not the dead of no bird sing" and he also mentions the "hawk's kiosks". The topic then skips two poems to come back in Open/Back Up when he mentions "the auspice" which I was proud to have noticed considering my inability to understand poetry very well. In Monk's Bird Book it mentions morning doves and talks extensively about owls and their “soft, silent feathers”. I suppose this section of poetry was a bit easier to understand than the first two sections of the book, though not by much. The random spaces and blank pages are still causing me strife and I’m glad that we should be moving on.

One poem I found interesting from the second half of City Eclogue was Simple As One Two. It was a bit easier for me to understand than the some of the other poems for which I was thankful. I like that he asks why should someone have to play sick from work just to get some time to himself? I had to take a couple days off over the course of my years in high school just because I felt like I needed a day for me. Of course, I had to pretend to be sick or I would’ve gotten in trouble. I really think that there is no reason why you have to act sick just to get a day off from work or school a few days a year. And even when you play sick from work or school, you can’t go anywhere because you can’t be seen by coworkers or by your parents.

As riveting as I found City Eclogue, no sarcasm I promise, I’m glad that I don’t have to look at Mr. Ed’s version of poetry anymore but I can definitely say its been a good experience. I may have barely understood most of the poems, and I may still not understand Mr. Ed’s logic in how he spaces out his poems, but I can say that he’s definitely unique. In some poems there would be two lines and then the thought wouldn’t be completed until the next stanza. As opposed to the first half of the book, there was some punctuation which helped with my comprehension of the poems a bit I suppose. It was definitely an adventure reading City Eclogue, but like all adventures there’s always an end. Thank God.

City Eclogue Part 1

The City of Eclogue has been causing me some strife. I tried re-reading some of the poems but I still can't make any sense out of them. I tried pausing at different places and reading with a different rhythm but it didn't help any. I don't know if it's my non-ability to read between the lines, or if other people were having the same problem, but these are probably some of the most confusing poems I've ever seen.

One of the poems I did somewhat understand was Seqouia Sempervirens, the first line says "We are about what, a squirrel's size is to a tree, to this tree." I think this is comparing a squirrel to a tree like we are to the world. My interpretation is that he's trying to tell us that we aren't nearly as important on the greater scale of things. Basically, he's telling us that we shouldn't think the world revolves around us because we're not nearly as important as we believe ourselves to be.

Another line that I kind of understood is on page 56 where it says "he woke in a fight for his life in that he went at the alarm clock as if to kill." It made me think of this morning when I actually fell out of bed when my alarm clock went off. I had been reaching for it with one hand and protecting my face with the other. I had been having a bad dream at the time, so I suppose it was kind of like my fear of something in my subconscious was being passed on to something in the waking world.

I'm really hoping to get a better grasp in the second part of City of Eclogue, and I'm sort of looking forward to reading it in a backwards way.