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Post by lisajane on Sept 17, 2007 22:26:10 GMT -5
Thunderous, as long as you remember that everything you write will never please everyone, you'll do just fine. It probably happens that the people who attacked you for this don't happen to like sentimental writing, it doesn't mean that your story isn't good.
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Post by shyviolet on Sept 18, 2007 2:19:12 GMT -5
LJ's right, the reaction you got does seem disproportionate. I'm sure if it was really that bad we'd all have been dithering about not replying because we couldn't think of a nice way of saying it. I think the problem might be that almost everyone remembers a sentimental children's story that they really loved, so if you write one that sounds too sentimental even on the first reading it always seems like an imitation of that one really good story, regardless of the actual plot. Despite being shorter, children's stories are much harder than adult short stories. (or I find them much harder anyway, could just be me)
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Post by zemira on Sept 18, 2007 7:49:26 GMT -5
Yeah, I'm not a fan of sentimental stuff. The genre just aggravates me. But it's a part of kids' books, so it's not like I'll ignore it just for that reason. Besides, I always try to critique because I think it helps. Unfortunately, my fellow English students hate me for it because I should be in an Advanced class, but I had to take a normal class, and I always find several things wrong, and they never find anything wrong. >_< It's bad for all of us, because they get mad at me, and I don't get any critique that I can use. >_<
But yeah, those people reacted a bit strangely. It's a children's story, it's supposed to be sentimental.
Like LJ said, you can never please anyone. It sounds sappy, but write to please yourself, not publishers or other forum people like us. ^_^
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Thunderous
Full Member
They Have Pulled Down Deep Heaven on Their Heads
Posts: 210
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Post by Thunderous on Sept 18, 2007 13:55:47 GMT -5
Thanks, everyone. ^^
The one thing in this story I think is worth saving is the idea of sailing so far west you can see the back of the sunrise. It's part of the reason I wrote the story, just so I could use that. Oh, and I wanted to put Finhaven in a story somehow as well. (see my art thread)
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Thunderous
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They Have Pulled Down Deep Heaven on Their Heads
Posts: 210
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Post by Thunderous on Sept 24, 2007 19:57:07 GMT -5
Meant to Be
A figure in white moved slowly between the rows, her steps in time with the music. She reached the front and the music stopped. Words were said, slowly, so that they seemed to take an eternity to the two people waiting. Finally they ended, as abruptly as the music had. The veil was lifted. Their lips met. They were meant to be. ~*~
A man sat in a stiff, modern chair, his face pale. A small boy held his father’s hand, unaware of the tension around him. The room was white. His wife was on the bed nearby, unconscious. Her head rolled around on its pillow, her face covered in sweat. Two other men were in the room: A doctor, standing by the bed with a clipboard in his hand, and a priest, on a seat not far from the woman’s husband. Suddenly a machine in the corner stopped its timed, monotonous melody and replaced it with a single, continuous high-pitched note. The doctor looked up, his face grim. The child inside the woman had died, he told them, and he quickly left the room. With a moan, the man buried his face in his hands. The little boy looked at his father questioningly, still blissfully ignorant of the grief and shock that filled the room like a noxious fume, still unknowing that his unborn sibling had just perished. The priest stood and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. This was meant to be, he said, and he too left the room. ~*~
A woman and her husband stood silently, dressed in black. The room was filled with blurs that were people, or people that were blurs, hovering and sighing and sobbing and crying. Golden-framed photographs of a boy surrounded the coffin. Some were of him as a young child, and others as a frail, hairless adolescent in a white hospital gown. The woman turned to the door, unable to bear the tangible misery any longer. The man followed her outside, to the parking lot of the funeral home. He comforted her. He was sick, he told her. It was his time, he told her. It was meant to be. ~*~
A man sat in a white car, a block away from the front of his house. He had not gone to work that day. He watched his own house through a pair of ancient, grey binoculars, their leather strap around his neck. His eyes narrowed in suspicion every time a car passed his house. Finally one slowed and turned into his driveway. The man breathed a curse. So it was true. His mind was curiously blank as he drove to the house, but his heart knew what was coming and beat in protest against his chest. He parked a little down the road and removed a black gun from the glove compartment. His heart still beating wildly, but his face emotionless still, he walked to the small, one-story residence and looked into his bedroom window. His worst fears were confirmed. A shot rang out, and the glass window shattered. He paused, and looked into the eyes of his wife. He almost couldn’t make himself do it. But slowly, his finger tightened on the trigger. A second thunderous shot, and the gun dropped. The man gave a sob, and turned back to his car. It was meant to be. ~*~
A woman lay silently under the earth, unhearing as he came to the place. Years had passed, and his hair was white. He stopped a few feet from her. Two little graves sat beside a larger one, with the name of a woman upon its weather-worn surface. He could not remember why he had done it, or why his remorse had not forced him into a confession ages ago. But that was the past, and this is now, he thought. Time mocked him. He knelt by the grave and pulled an old gun from his pocket, and placed the cold metal against his skin. He longed to leave forever, and be rid of his grief and is remorse. To leave time forever, for without time there are no memories. But something stirred inside him, and he put the gun back into his pocket. He stood, and picked a single white flower from a nearby tree. He placed it upon the grave, sighed, and walked away. It was not meant to be.
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Post by zemira on Sept 25, 2007 8:11:12 GMT -5
Ooooh, very spiffy. That's just my type of story. ^_^ And ahhh, so....much....symbolism....*dies* lol.
But very well written. There are so many phrases I could pick out that I luved, but I'll just cut to the chase and say nice job!
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Thunderous
Full Member
They Have Pulled Down Deep Heaven on Their Heads
Posts: 210
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Post by Thunderous on Oct 2, 2007 20:20:01 GMT -5
Thanks very much, zemira! ^^ ...I was just noticing, there is rather a lot of contrast between this and the last thing I posted.
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