Post by Fel Touu on Jan 2, 2011 16:15:44 GMT -5
Hey! This is a new book, story, whatever, that I'm writting.
I used to believe in magic. When I was three, I was enchanted by stories like Cinderella and The Princess and the Frog. I would have kissed every frog I found if my mother hadn't stopped me. When I turned seven I started reading the Harry Potter books, and I bought fake wands and sketched owls. When my eleventh birthday ended I was forced to concede that I was, apparently, a muggle. It took me a few days to get to that conclusion, however. For a while I hoped that Dumbledore had merely forgotten about me, and would come next year. When I turned thirteen I started reading Twilight, and it was my one wish to find Edward and become a vampire.
At seventeen, I want to go to college and study animation and writing so I can, hopefully, get a job at some television station somewhere and write tv shows.
Somewhere in my life, between Edward Cullen and Harry Potter, I started trying to write books. They were horrible, quite honestly. My books consisted of a mishmash of the TV shows I watched, my fathers bedtime stories, and the fairytales I entertained in my mind.
All of my stories focused on one particular character, Chrysanthemum Dagger. (If you care to look, there is actually a childrens book called Chrysanthemum which features a small mouse who is teased about her name) Chys, as I began calling her, was an unchanging character whose personality consists of every cliche and overused idea I had ever been exposed to. Full of contradictions, Chrys was nice, but had a dark side. She lied about everything, she was confident, but broken inside. She was proud, she never messed up, but everyone told her that she was a failure. Most of all, she believed the best of everyone, but forgave no one.
It is easy to see why my writings failed. I tried, and failed. Eventually an eight grade drama teacher would point me in the direction of writing scrips, but he wasn't the only reason I eventually figured out how to tell stories.
My father was a wonderful storyteller. Every night, since I was a little child, he would tell me stories. When I was small, they were funny. He would laugh a lot and tell jokes. Due to my short attention span, he was always leaving stories unfinished, forsaking them for something new that I demanded.
When I got older, he traded out Mugwump the purple flying hippo for a dragon named Sh'avon, Pronounced something like Shave-on. Puss in silver dancing shoes became Laurel, the nymph, and Beebee the gentle bear became Golgomath, an evil dictator.
As I grew older, he would make the stories more and more intricate. Sometimes Ron Weasley would be present, sometimes Donkey from Shrek would have a quick performance in the story before retreating to his own story. He was always willing to change a story for me. If he choose to end a particular story a certain way, I could argue that the ending wasn't appropriate. If I convinced him, he would concede and change it. He would not put Edward Cullen into my stories, though. For some reason he disliked the books.
Each time I gave up on writing, which was frequent, my father would tell me to listen to a new story he had just made up, and I would find myself wanting to write down my stories about Chrys again.
I have to admit that I had a good childhood, especially compared to some of my unfortunate friends. This ended up to be just as bad as it was good though. When my father vanished, cough, cough, ran off, I was unprepared for such a blow. Everyone was sympathetic enough, but they had their own issues to deal with. In a world where people were blinded by chemicals dumped into rivers, or where men serving their country were blown to bits by bombs, what tragedy did I have claim to? Sure, he was gone, but it wasn't like he was dead or anything. It sucked, but I got over it.
My life was swamped by normal, irritating problems. The kinds that don't involve evil wizards and aren't very likely to kill you. I don't say this to brag, I just want to show you that what happened that year wasn't anything like what my life was like.
You can imagine how surprised I was.
I used to believe in magic. When I was three, I was enchanted by stories like Cinderella and The Princess and the Frog. I would have kissed every frog I found if my mother hadn't stopped me. When I turned seven I started reading the Harry Potter books, and I bought fake wands and sketched owls. When my eleventh birthday ended I was forced to concede that I was, apparently, a muggle. It took me a few days to get to that conclusion, however. For a while I hoped that Dumbledore had merely forgotten about me, and would come next year. When I turned thirteen I started reading Twilight, and it was my one wish to find Edward and become a vampire.
At seventeen, I want to go to college and study animation and writing so I can, hopefully, get a job at some television station somewhere and write tv shows.
Somewhere in my life, between Edward Cullen and Harry Potter, I started trying to write books. They were horrible, quite honestly. My books consisted of a mishmash of the TV shows I watched, my fathers bedtime stories, and the fairytales I entertained in my mind.
All of my stories focused on one particular character, Chrysanthemum Dagger. (If you care to look, there is actually a childrens book called Chrysanthemum which features a small mouse who is teased about her name) Chys, as I began calling her, was an unchanging character whose personality consists of every cliche and overused idea I had ever been exposed to. Full of contradictions, Chrys was nice, but had a dark side. She lied about everything, she was confident, but broken inside. She was proud, she never messed up, but everyone told her that she was a failure. Most of all, she believed the best of everyone, but forgave no one.
It is easy to see why my writings failed. I tried, and failed. Eventually an eight grade drama teacher would point me in the direction of writing scrips, but he wasn't the only reason I eventually figured out how to tell stories.
My father was a wonderful storyteller. Every night, since I was a little child, he would tell me stories. When I was small, they were funny. He would laugh a lot and tell jokes. Due to my short attention span, he was always leaving stories unfinished, forsaking them for something new that I demanded.
When I got older, he traded out Mugwump the purple flying hippo for a dragon named Sh'avon, Pronounced something like Shave-on. Puss in silver dancing shoes became Laurel, the nymph, and Beebee the gentle bear became Golgomath, an evil dictator.
As I grew older, he would make the stories more and more intricate. Sometimes Ron Weasley would be present, sometimes Donkey from Shrek would have a quick performance in the story before retreating to his own story. He was always willing to change a story for me. If he choose to end a particular story a certain way, I could argue that the ending wasn't appropriate. If I convinced him, he would concede and change it. He would not put Edward Cullen into my stories, though. For some reason he disliked the books.
Each time I gave up on writing, which was frequent, my father would tell me to listen to a new story he had just made up, and I would find myself wanting to write down my stories about Chrys again.
I have to admit that I had a good childhood, especially compared to some of my unfortunate friends. This ended up to be just as bad as it was good though. When my father vanished, cough, cough, ran off, I was unprepared for such a blow. Everyone was sympathetic enough, but they had their own issues to deal with. In a world where people were blinded by chemicals dumped into rivers, or where men serving their country were blown to bits by bombs, what tragedy did I have claim to? Sure, he was gone, but it wasn't like he was dead or anything. It sucked, but I got over it.
My life was swamped by normal, irritating problems. The kinds that don't involve evil wizards and aren't very likely to kill you. I don't say this to brag, I just want to show you that what happened that year wasn't anything like what my life was like.
You can imagine how surprised I was.
