Posts Tagged ‘think’

I’m 13. Do you think I could become an author one day, or should I not bother?

Question by Introspective: I’m 13. Do you think I could become an author one day, or should I not bother?
Honest opinions, Please? This story is from a couple of my other questions, but edited. Thanks!

SAMPLE 1
The rain fell endlessly, pattering softly onto the damp earth. Thunder echoed faintly in the background, barely covering the sound of her footsteps. She padded through the mud into her secret part of the world. She loved it there, in her tiny escape from reality. It was a place of such natural beauty that she would not bring herself to whisper its whereabouts to anyone. Not even her most cherished friends knew of it.

As she stepped along the little path of earth made by herself, she revelled in the world around her. Plants and flowers bloomed and flourished under the rain, like a young girl at her lovers touch. Tree branches swayed eagerly, so that their leafs reached out to her, caressing her skin. She heard their whispered Hello’s through the rain, and said hers back. The girl smiled. She was home.

SAMPLE 2
She spun gracefully through the trees. Her dress, coloured in the softest of greens, twirled about her alluringly, yet it never caught on the nearby briars. The rain made the rocks wet and slippery, though she never so much lost her footing on them. The girl skipped across the boulders, light as a feather over the river and without a care in the world. The sound of the rain colliding with the river made a natural, beautiful kind of music. The kind of music she loved to dance to. And when she danced, she was the very embodiment of desire. The spin of her spindly legs, the slight toss of her fiery red tresses, the flick of her wrist that sent her soaked dress around her in a movement so exotic it would have tempted a saint. Her cheeks flushed the lightest pink with the effort, her breath coming in short, quick gasps as she strained to keep up with her imaginary beat. The rain made her skin glisten lasciviously.

SAMPLE 3
She walked nimbly through the trees, over the stones. Never once did she crush a single flower under her bare feet. And when she stood before him, drenched and angelic, he didn’t move. He didn’t try to hurt her. Not even when she reached up to the mask of his uniform, lifting it off his face with all the tenderness of a lover. The two, standing so close that if anyone were to have seen them, and they’d think for sure they were kissing, smiled at each other. Water droplets fell down each other’s faces. It was the first time he let himself love. It was the first time she had let a man into her circle, her escape, her life.

Best answer:

Answer by Rachel Adams
No matter what age you happen to be, if you have the talent then you can become an author. From the way you have written your three samples above you can keep exceeding and next thing you know you have written a best selling novel. Just dont give up. Keep writing and hopefully find a publisher and see what happens!

Good Luck!

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Tell me what you think?

by cskk

Question by butter fool: Tell me what you think?
These trite, tattered, ponchos and scarfs say p*ss and five bucks about me.
I cut my own lawn with silver nail clippers
Supported by short, grody fingers
That have been blistered pressing wire hangers downtown, Nebraska
and f*cked real bad scraping pie crust drippings from the bottom of my landlord’s gas oven.
I sweep the porch before heading off, Tulsa Welding School,
place’s like a feild day scent, latex caricature.
Ovens claming, Tight wound metal devices,
like the guts of a clock,
tick-tockin’.
and studio girls and boys, gather because of collected pompous attitudes,
to share slick, icy gestures
lip-lockin’
without me.
I snort ashes from the thighs of virgins,
And chew the human adrenaline gland.
Clearwater is a perfume luxury,
Fish rot while they’re still swimming.
Mexico City
I bought buckets of cheap jewelry
On my visit, to dig for buried treasure,
But I didn’t like the weather.
Now I’m back and wearing leather,
Waiting for my umbrella.
The first days are spent comptemplating what I know I know.
A fraction is a division problem.
Mile long one step equations force children over jungle gym tops.
A man owns the river I went down to draw,
“Tresspassing,” the sign complained,
Holding me back with a silver chain.
I keep on walking.
Instead of water, mud and garbage sunk on the bottom of natural crater
When the silver thawed, swampy pickle trees with thin trunks drooped like tired d*cks,
Exhausted sucking moisture from the soft mother bricks.
Over the gloss and sticky dirt carnival, hurricane disaster,
Plastic bag habitat, Silver man tricks
CLEAR WATER IS A PURFUME LUXARY,
FISH ROT WHILE THEY’RE STILL SWIMMING.
I sat to draw what I saw,
and it all turned out quite charming.
I seek pleasure. I seek the nerves under your skin. I am old hero, older then wacko pervert superf*cking man. I am wh*re who seeks experience. Excitement. Curiosity. The only conscious thing in our world is to love and be loved. Seek the hollow thrill. Say how you really, really feel. I am sister of the gods and gods own daughter slaughter. Will you be my daddy? Will you be my girlfriend? The single family who branches out from Rome, to Australia, to Brazil, and Puro, to Africa and Nebraska. Desire is a heat rash, but no illusion. Teeter forever on those golden scales, then sing me into eternity. I wanna be you lover. I wanna be your man. Day old Joey with gray hair, premature baby cries heart into salt canal. Secluded movie stars don’t get paid for sagging breasts. Cashier boy’s Calvin fixed scent lingers deep after hours, take a shower, pick some flowers, stolen change. We’re all here now and everything’s okay. We’re all coming over now, and we won’t be leaving right away. I fall into a pit. Pit of sh*t and sh*t. Inside of it. I skip like so many school kids, think of when time stops, electricity. I am inside a cartoon and I can’t feel a pinch but I like it like that, like it like that, like it like that. These trite, tattern ponchos and scarves say p*ss and five bucks about me. I grow the fur of an animal under my arms and cut my own lawn with silver nail clippers, supported by, short, grody fingers, blistered pressing wire hangers, scraping pie crust drippings. Place is like a field day scent, latex caricature. Ovens and clamming steel machines like the guts of a clock, tick tockin’, rock n’ roll, tick tockin’, my generation, beating. Can you feel? Stink.

Best answer:

Answer by nitish.1994
It is amazing, fantastic, fantabulous, cool, tremendous, beautiful.
I thing you should submit it to a newspaper and the’ll print it for you if they like it.

Know better? Leave your own answer in the comments!