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Literature Text
“Don’t leave me. Please,” he begged.
I sighed. “I have to. I don’t even know what I’m doing…”
“No one does, that’s the point! It’s a learning experience, and honey, you’re losing.”
“I’ve barely even done anything!”
“And that’s the problem. You can’t give up now! If you do, I’ll….”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll ruin my life.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. Without you, I’m nothing.”
“You’ll be fine, Luke.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll become an alcoholic.”
“Sure you will.”
“And I’ll sleep with tons of women.”
“Not my problem.”
“And…I’ll…become an angry cat lady.”
“You’d need to be a woman for that.”
He pouted, grabbing my abandoned pencil and throwing it across the table at me.
“Hey, that hurt!” I whined, snatching it out of his reach.
He paused, his eyes unmoving, the anger subsiding beneath them until all that was left was a dimmed star and a sadness I knew I would never comprehend.
“What?”
“Nothing.” His grin faded, and I felt a draft sweep between us, though the window was closed. “Just tell me one thing…If you stop, what will happen to me?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Writers don’t create characters, they create people. If you stop writing, I’ll die.”
“That’s not—”
That’s not true dissolved on my lips. That’s when he stood up and walked away, waiting for me to follow, for the moment when he would hear my footsteps and feel that comforting rush of relief.
But I didn’t know if I would.
A voice in my head whispered, Coward and Failure, and other lies that left the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
I pushed the chair back, slowly, letting the feet scrape against the wood floors. Without looking back, I stumbled to catch up with him.
When I did, he smiled. And it was that smile that made me want to stay.
I sighed. “I have to. I don’t even know what I’m doing…”
“No one does, that’s the point! It’s a learning experience, and honey, you’re losing.”
“I’ve barely even done anything!”
“And that’s the problem. You can’t give up now! If you do, I’ll….”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll ruin my life.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. Without you, I’m nothing.”
“You’ll be fine, Luke.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll become an alcoholic.”
“Sure you will.”
“And I’ll sleep with tons of women.”
“Not my problem.”
“And…I’ll…become an angry cat lady.”
“You’d need to be a woman for that.”
He pouted, grabbing my abandoned pencil and throwing it across the table at me.
“Hey, that hurt!” I whined, snatching it out of his reach.
He paused, his eyes unmoving, the anger subsiding beneath them until all that was left was a dimmed star and a sadness I knew I would never comprehend.
“What?”
“Nothing.” His grin faded, and I felt a draft sweep between us, though the window was closed. “Just tell me one thing…If you stop, what will happen to me?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Writers don’t create characters, they create people. If you stop writing, I’ll die.”
“That’s not—”
That’s not true dissolved on my lips. That’s when he stood up and walked away, waiting for me to follow, for the moment when he would hear my footsteps and feel that comforting rush of relief.
But I didn’t know if I would.
A voice in my head whispered, Coward and Failure, and other lies that left the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
I pushed the chair back, slowly, letting the feet scrape against the wood floors. Without looking back, I stumbled to catch up with him.
When I did, he smiled. And it was that smile that made me want to stay.
Literature
never become a writer
i.never become a writer.
you will become a perfectionist,
picking life apart
with a magpie's eye,
hunting for the beautiful bits
until you can make yourself
a sparkling throne
in the center of a junkyard.
ii.you will write when you're sad.
you will write when you're happy.
whenever you feel something,
you will vomit the emotion out
into some sort of literature.
when you're finished,
you'll be empty
and surrounded by
pages and pages of
everything you once were.
iii.you will try to make
pain sound delicious,
painting over the ragged wounds
with pink paint
and candy-coat lies.
you will learn
how to decorate graveyards.
everyone will play
Literature
She's a Writer
She sits at her desk
Her headphones in,
The world shut out.
She bleeds for others
As words fly from
Her mind to her fingertips.
She stares at the screen,
At every little comment,
The good and the painful.
She forms her emotions
Into books and poems
To throw away the hurt.
She's a writer,
And her best weapons
Are her mind and her pen.
Literature
How It Began
"God, your two o'clock is here."
"I have a two o'clock?"
"He's been here since 7:45. I figured it's only polite to... sir."
God sighed. "Fine, send him in."
While He waited God cleared His desk of papers and blueprints; no need for outsiders to see His plans. Soon enough the door to His office opened and God stood, smiled, held out a hand towards one of the two visitor's chairs.
"God! Great stuff you're doing in sector 2-7-0! Great stuff!"
The man's hands were clammy, his handshake limp. Rumpled suit, porkpie hat, briefcase... oh Jes-- oh dear, a salesman. God's smile slipped a little but He soldiered on gamely. With luck He could shoo
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"When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature." ~Ernest Hemingway
I hate the feeling of wanting to write something but not having enough inspiration to do it. There's always that little voice that says you're useless and won't accomplish anything...
But sometimes, it's wrong.
4/26/14: I added a few things.
I hate the feeling of wanting to write something but not having enough inspiration to do it. There's always that little voice that says you're useless and won't accomplish anything...
But sometimes, it's wrong.
4/26/14: I added a few things.
© 2014 - 2024 Asterlia
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I like this! It makes me want to hug all my characters and give them love and attention! Very well written!