- I’m encouraged, more like expected to read.
- I pick up books I wouldn’t normally even glance at.
- I get to write about fictional worlds.
- I have my own opinions, but more importantly, I can share them.
- I am reading and writing a lot more than I would on my own.
Rid resistance as much as you can
Eliminate what isn’t needed until you can’t
Wake up, get out of bed
Sleep enough: no more, no less
Do what seems impossible
Push the boundaries of possible
Give yourself many chances
Don’t give yourself a choice
Make something a priority
Create your own opportunities
Stop waiting for something to happen
Get your heart beating
Be excited again
Fall in love over and over my friend
Keep going even when you’re free falling
You will reach the end
No isn’t an answer
Can’t isn’t either
I love silence. I love being silent.
Sometimes I don’t want to talk. More like most of the time. Sometimes I can’t talk. I still remember getting my tonsils removed, and I kid you not, I didn’t mind not being able to speak properly for days.
But I think people who understand my silence deserve a reward of some sort. Thanks for understanding that I don’t always want to talk. That, in rare cases, I physically can’t make sounds with my vocal cords.
I’m not trying to come off as rude. If I do, I’m sorry. I figure it’s better to say too little than to say too much. Or better yet, maybe say nothing at all.
I love commas. I mean I love every punctuation mark.
I don’t discriminate. I don’t exclude.
But I really love the Oxford comma. And if you don’t, I’m not judging you. *secretly judges you from afar*
How can you not love it and use it?
For the love of grammar, do employ commas correctly. Even better you can’t really go wrong with an Oxford comma. It tends to clear up confusion in some cases.
Who wants to be confusing and unclear?
Not you. So use the Oxford comma. And yes, I’m assuming everyone knows what it is because you should. Honestly, I’m too lazy to explain it. Also, someone out there has defined it more eloquently than I ever would.
So please, please my eyes and use the Oxford comma. And all commas. Correctly, especially. If I see a comma splice, it’ll be too soon.
Because reading is a lifestyle. Buying books is a way of life.
I refuse to change.
Why would I?
To think I used to feel bad about buying books.
Who was I?
It’s the best feeling in the world.
Can they just arrive already?
My biggest pet peeve right now as a reader:
When one character calls another character by name more than once in a conversation.
Rarely do I ever use someone’s name when I’m talking to them. And definitely not mutiple times in a conversation.
I’m just being picky. But for some reason this has been bothering me. In certain contexts, not so much. More often than not, I don’t like it.
I had a weird, almost out of body experience today when I thought about my blog and all that’s happened in the past three or so years.
So thanks for being part of this. Whatever this is. Thanks for being you, for doing what you do.
Thank you for making this a safe, fun space. Unlike school. School isn’t very fun.
I’ve been meaning to criticize my own writing since the dawn of time because there’s so much to criticize.
Obviously “dawn of time” is a stretch, but I think after I published Commenting On My First Post, I thought about doing the same with my stories. Several months later, here I am with a story I published earlier this year.
Let’s see what happens.
She fingered the edge of her mattress with one hand. Grace was lying down, looking at the other side of the room where another bed used to be. Two years have passed since the spot was vacated. As much as she wanted to fill the void, Grace didn’t have the heart to put anything there.
That last sentence though. Ew, no. Just no. Get rid of it.
There was still plenty of time before the sun would set, yet she felt fatigued already. The clock on the nightstand read half past three when Greg burst through the open doorway.
He burst through an open doorway? Okay. Sure he did.
He glanced at his sister on the bed with her lips drawn in a tight line. The room looked the same to him even though he had moved out two years ago. Ever since he moved into a new house with his current girlfriend, Greg started sleeping in a king sized bed rather than a tiny twin. “What’s wrong?”
The size of his bed is very necessary in your understanding of the story…
She sat up, one hand on her abdomen. “You’re assuming something is wrong.”
Do you hate my dialogue yet?
He had his hands on his knees, bent down to catch his breath. “You said you wanted to talk.” He paused before shooting her a half-hearted smile. “You rarely call anymore.”
Let’s play pretend. Pretend you never read the above paragraph.
Swinging her legs to the side of the bed, she stood. Grace walked over to the full-length mirror by her closet door. Back then a natural blush coloured her cheeks. Now no concealer in the world could hide the yellowish hues parading across her face. “I rarely call because you never pick up. I just wanted to talk to my little brother in person.”
At least I didn’t dangle a modifier. I used to do that all the time as a kid. I’ve learned. But this is agonizing. I don’t know which character I despise more.
In that moment, she noticed how Greg’s jeans hugged his wide hips. His grey T-shirt fit snug around his mid-section. But Grace thought her clothes enveloped her in an overwhelming web of fabric.
I also don’t know why I try with description sometimes.
Greg folded his arms across his chest. “You’re talking to me now, aren’t ya?”
Ugh. Stop talking Greg.
A long pause descended between them. With her next sentence, Grace couldn’t quite meet her brother’s eyes. “You’re always busy with her.” She spat out the last word as if it was poison.
Grace is annoying.
“She’s my girlfriend, remember?”
Like she could forget, Greg.
“I’m your sister.”
Thanks Miss. Obvious.
He crossed the room in two quick strides to stand beside her. “What do you want from me? I can’t exactly spilt myself into two and spend time with both of you equally, can I?”
Spilt myself into two? That’s the best I could come up with?
She frowned, touching the beanie on her head.
“Don’t you remember we’re having a baby?”
Her frown deepened. “You never told me that.”
“Oh, I didn’t?” Greg scratched his forehead with a fingernail.
Greg’s a great brother. I really hope you can detect my sarcasm. If not, I’m telling you right now. I’m a sarcastic person, and sarcasm doesn’t translate so well when you can’t see someone’s body language. I wish I could record myself reading and reacting to this, but I’m not competent enough to do so.
Grace rubbed her own flat tummy with one hand. “I hope it’s yours.”
Wow. She just went there.
His eyebrows knitted together in disbelief. “You’re only jealous you don’t have a boyfriend,” he mumbled.
He went there too.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Nope, he’s not.
“Then what’s your problem?”
You, Grace. You’re the problem.
He might as well have driven a stake through her heart.
Clichés make me cringe. I guess they didn’t back then.
A phone rang. Greg stepped back, reaching into the pocket of his jeans. He took the incoming call, listened closely, and hung up. “That was Linda. I have to go.” Greg hesitated at the doorway. “Goodbye Grace.”
Is there any good in goodbye?
She would not get a chance to say goodbye before passing away three months later.
We’ve reached the end! Finally. Goodbye my friends. Until next time.
Rachel does something similar on her blog, where she reacts to her old stories. It’s fantastic. She’s fantastic. But don’t just take my word for it. Go find out yourself.