Post by lana2 on Dec 19, 2008 21:43:25 GMT -5
{{So you guys get to read some more of my crap work. Tell me whatcha think, as any feedback is welcome.}}
Her breath? It doesn’t exist. Not through the smoke, and certainly not through the tears. She clutches the box in her hands, looking at the teardrops that had landed on its surface.
She cries more, thinking about what she’s about to do. She stops to question what she’s doing. The misgiving quickly flies out the window as the words repeat themselves. Over and over – distorting and twisting until they were nothing but words of spite and hate.
… but this isn’t what we’re looking for here. We wish you the best of luck, but …
...you’re no good. Our only hope is that you’ll get better before you force your writing onto someone else.
… you’ll never amount to anything. Just forget this lifestyle and never look back.
And her sobs return, stronger than ever. She opens the cardboard box, staring at years of work. She chokes back one last sob, and dumps the contents into the blaze before her. Her eyes focus on one word, one name. The symbol of her hopes and dreams for so long.
Adeline was a strong, fiery character that had been everything she had wanted to be. Not afraid to stand up for what was right, and not afraid to hurt people that weren’t her family to achieve that freedom. Strong, proud, and had the people to help her along the way.
She watches as the flames slowly burn their way through the paper, watches as the paper browns and shrivels.
And then Addy was destroyed forever.
She had expected to feel some sort of sadistic joy. That with the burning of her work, she would be purged of her rejections, of her mistakes. But all she fells was regret. And then she remembered her English teacher, who had so believed in her and the story she had painstakingly spent so many months on. And the short stories that had been those niggling plot bunnies that she forced herself to finish.
It was all gone. Never to be looked at again.
And her lips curve upwards into a wicked smile. Good. No one would ever see again what she had written. The demonic words were gone, never to haunt her with their inadequacies again. She was free.
And then she pauses, her smile starting to dissipate. She looks at the letter again, at the words. This time, however, they don’t distort. Before, she had only seen the negative. Which had been only one or two sentences. It isn’t until now that she sees all of the positive feedback, of the offer to recommend her to another magazine.
She blinks once. Twice. Then, she crumples the letter and tosses it into the blaze, taking deep, smoke-filled breaths. The cold, hard ground shows no mercy as she crumples to her knees, staring at the still-burning paper.
The words had deceived her. She had fallen for their spell, for their curse. Artists were unfortunate enough to be their own worst critic. They twisted their view of their own work, didn’t see the beauty of something that needed fixing. That a product of long, hard work and constructive criticism was a better reward then a thousand good reviews from the beginning. There was no satisfaction in that.
In seeing only the worst of the review, she had succumbed to the curse of an artist. She had succumbed to the burn of the flames as easily as the remains of her work. She had lost perspective, had forgotten each and every piece of constructive criticism and praise, and tossed it all away.
And so, she sits in front of the fire as the paper slowly burns to nothing but ashes in the fireplace, watches the fire dance. It amazes her how something so beautiful could be so destructive. And the only thing she had done was fuel the destruction.
She would never be able to think about fire the same way again.
{{Somehow I think I lost the point of this halfway through and just wrote what came to mind. Don’t ask me why it’s negative, maybe it has something to do with the fact I’m PMSing and my mom is pressuring me to start finding some writing workshops.}}
Her breath? It doesn’t exist. Not through the smoke, and certainly not through the tears. She clutches the box in her hands, looking at the teardrops that had landed on its surface.
She cries more, thinking about what she’s about to do. She stops to question what she’s doing. The misgiving quickly flies out the window as the words repeat themselves. Over and over – distorting and twisting until they were nothing but words of spite and hate.
… but this isn’t what we’re looking for here. We wish you the best of luck, but …
...you’re no good. Our only hope is that you’ll get better before you force your writing onto someone else.
… you’ll never amount to anything. Just forget this lifestyle and never look back.
And her sobs return, stronger than ever. She opens the cardboard box, staring at years of work. She chokes back one last sob, and dumps the contents into the blaze before her. Her eyes focus on one word, one name. The symbol of her hopes and dreams for so long.
Adeline was a strong, fiery character that had been everything she had wanted to be. Not afraid to stand up for what was right, and not afraid to hurt people that weren’t her family to achieve that freedom. Strong, proud, and had the people to help her along the way.
She watches as the flames slowly burn their way through the paper, watches as the paper browns and shrivels.
And then Addy was destroyed forever.
She had expected to feel some sort of sadistic joy. That with the burning of her work, she would be purged of her rejections, of her mistakes. But all she fells was regret. And then she remembered her English teacher, who had so believed in her and the story she had painstakingly spent so many months on. And the short stories that had been those niggling plot bunnies that she forced herself to finish.
It was all gone. Never to be looked at again.
And her lips curve upwards into a wicked smile. Good. No one would ever see again what she had written. The demonic words were gone, never to haunt her with their inadequacies again. She was free.
And then she pauses, her smile starting to dissipate. She looks at the letter again, at the words. This time, however, they don’t distort. Before, she had only seen the negative. Which had been only one or two sentences. It isn’t until now that she sees all of the positive feedback, of the offer to recommend her to another magazine.
She blinks once. Twice. Then, she crumples the letter and tosses it into the blaze, taking deep, smoke-filled breaths. The cold, hard ground shows no mercy as she crumples to her knees, staring at the still-burning paper.
The words had deceived her. She had fallen for their spell, for their curse. Artists were unfortunate enough to be their own worst critic. They twisted their view of their own work, didn’t see the beauty of something that needed fixing. That a product of long, hard work and constructive criticism was a better reward then a thousand good reviews from the beginning. There was no satisfaction in that.
In seeing only the worst of the review, she had succumbed to the curse of an artist. She had succumbed to the burn of the flames as easily as the remains of her work. She had lost perspective, had forgotten each and every piece of constructive criticism and praise, and tossed it all away.
And so, she sits in front of the fire as the paper slowly burns to nothing but ashes in the fireplace, watches the fire dance. It amazes her how something so beautiful could be so destructive. And the only thing she had done was fuel the destruction.
She would never be able to think about fire the same way again.
{{Somehow I think I lost the point of this halfway through and just wrote what came to mind. Don’t ask me why it’s negative, maybe it has something to do with the fact I’m PMSing and my mom is pressuring me to start finding some writing workshops.}}