This is from a question I asked earlier, but with some samples of my writing. Thank you for answering. Here is what is on the original question and the link:
I need help. I feel like all I want to do is write any more, and yet I never want to write anything. I either never want to write anything worthwhile or anything that feels worthwhile, or all I want to do is 'cat vacuum.' I write any way, of course, because I love to write. Obviously this is going to get confusing....
I think I feel like I need validation for my writing. Is it okay to want to write a lot? (God I feel foolish asking this.)
I also feel like I'm in an over-editing rut. If you are constantly editing the thing down to shreds, the piece'll never get finished, will it?! But I am so critical of my work! I used to be able to tell when something I had written was good or a piece of c**p, even as recent as a few months ago, but now I just don't know!
Can any body volunteer to sort of evaluate a few samples of my writing? Because I feel like c**p like this, and I don't like it at all. Can someone please tell me what they honestly think? Please? Thank you. If you will do it, I can message you or email you or something some of my stuff.
And I am thirteen. Please do not write me off. Even though this is probably what I would do upon hearing this, please just give it a chance. But also please do not say something like 'good/bad for your age group.' I don't want to be judged that way.
I would also prefer an adult's opinion as opposed to a teenaged opinion, but of course everyone's opinions are appreciated.
Thanks.
(Wow, I feel like such a prat.)
59 minutes ago - 3 days left to answer.
Additional Details
12 minutes ago
Thank you so much, all of you! I'll send an email to you guys. :)
When people ask me what I write....
Well, I write about a lot of different things. Sometimes I write about what's happening in my life. Sometimes I write about something interesting I've found on the internet, or something I've read that I think is really great. But that stuff doesn't matter. When I'm writing, really writing, I write a lot of fantasy. Elemental writing is some of the stuff that I've been doing more of lately. I really just write about everything.
Thanks for making my laugh and smile!
I would reply to you individually, but I am nearly out of characters!
0 seconds ago
Blargh... I wish I could send this message to you guys, after I found it and put it all together and eveything, but.... it's too long for the character count. :( So I am going to attempt to put it up here!
http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AmNa73u10jc1lh7lfWdNgSTsy6IX;_ylv=3?qid=20080828183129AAWTTe4
And here is the message I tried to send:
Thank you so much for your help. Please be honest. Trust me, there is nothing more any one can say to hurt me.
This first one is the first bit of the prolouge for an idea I had. I've been expanding on it in bits and pieces, but this is the most complete part:
What a beautiful time, daybreak, when the sun first sheds its rosy glow upon the horizon. Its warm light brings hope and happiness to all, it heals and renews, and it spreads a blanket of mystery and longing upon that which we can not yet see. It is a time of change, and happenings, a time of new beginnings. For Colin, it was time to get up. Far past time to get up. The first sound of the day was made by his alarm, silenced quickly by his well-practiced hand. He mustn’t wake the Holfords. He pulled a thick dressing gown on and padded down stairs to begin the day. The clock on the wall marked the steady passing of time, and it seemed to say ‘On with it, on with it, time to move on!’ The dishes needed doing, and quickly, before Mrs. Holford stumbled in for her morning coffee. The machine was set, and the low hissing and dripping of black liquid was added to the whispers of the morning.
A small grey cat slunk into the room, and Colin knelt down to pat its curious white face before he set out a little dish of food. “There you are,†he said, stepping back. He glanced again at the ticking clock. It was time to wake Aunt Miriam. He slipped down the hall and knocked softly on the door before pushing it open. “Aunt Miriam,†he called. “Your breakfast is ready.†A grunt was all he got, as far as a response was concerned. This was how each day started, and this was how it had been, ever since he had been able to manage breakfast.
He slid a few eggs onto a patterned plate and placed it on the table, waiting for the rest of the family to wake before making any more. They always wanted something different, but never wanted to wait. Though he would be reprimanded yet again for his tardiness, it was better than being bombarded by complaints about the cooking and the wastefulness and the delay and the temperature of the breakfast he would have prepared.
A little girl with curly brown hair poked her head around the door, rubbin
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