Due 2/14: Writing Assignment

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  • Entry #1

    Votes: 0 0.0%

  • Entry #2

    Votes: 2 66.7%

  • Entry #3

    Votes: 0 0.0%

  • Entry #4

    Votes: 1 33.3%
  • Total voters
    3
  • Poll closed .
"I guarantee you'll feel stoopider for reading this."

I wish Wal-Mart's guarantees were as sure of a thing as yours. :D

j/k. I liked it - good comedy.
 
I'm thinking of submitting something, I'll see if I get to do it (I'm about to leave for college and their internet is the epitome of t3h SUX0R -- usually I can't even connect).

For now I'll bash TJ for a second :)

Dude... in your last 3 lines you changed from "he" to "me" and from "Ash" to "I." :) Serious characterization flummox :)
 
Entry #4 - Untitled

[Note: This entry was pm'ed to me yesterday so its still eligible for the contest.]


Dearest Eleanor,

I write this letter knowing you will never read it, yet a kind of madness has taken me and I dare not deny its pull. The moon is high but the windows are drawn; even the thick lilac fabric can not shield me from its light. Neither wisdom nor reason can save me.

I can not rest.

No matter how many winter seasons I survive, it is always hard to have faith that spring will come again. February’s icy fingers have wrapped around my wrists and I wonder if March will be any more kind. It is more than a year since we parted, yet there is still no more warmth in my bones than when I last held you.

I can not get warm.

Last spring and throughout the summer, I imagined that the chill had passed. When autumn came, it found me without covering. To speak plainly, I was alone, and the loneliness was terrible. Winter, when it came as suddenly as autumn, was even more terrible.

Eliot wrote that “April is the cruelest month,” yet I would grant February that honor. My eloquence will never rival Eliot’s, so let me speak more plainly still.

I live my life now, searching, longing for someone with whom I can fellowship. I yearn to find companions and a place where I belong. Yet as time passes and no one chooses me, I am left with excess time to consider what is the matter with me. If no one will draw near to me, there must be a cause.

As autumn gave way to winter, my sorrow gave way to bitterness. I have begun to hate those people, a world away, who enjoy the warmth of others. I hate those who have what I desire.

Worse yet, I have started to close myself to all people, finding it easier to reject a person before that person has the opportunity to reject me. I can see no more light than the moon; I can feel my hope waning. I feel--terrible though it may sound--that I am waiting to die.

No one should have to suffer such as this. No one should live alone, waiting for death. It is cruel, crueler than even February.

I wait for spring, but I do not believe that it will bring warmth. I wake, I write, I slumber, and I dream. There is little else for one to do in solitude.

I will spend the last of my waking hours praying to God, though He has yet to answer my lament. It may be that there is no answer while I suffer through mortal realms.

It may be that the raven’s shadow will never be lifted.

Yours ever more,

Edgar
 
This "letter to Eleanor" really touched my heart at first, but for me it became a too-consistent mantra of related dark thoughts and it didn't build on the emotional impact it generated at the onset. I think the problem is that you have framed into as a prose letter material that seems to be conceived as a dark, anguished psalm of depair - and ultimately it comes off as a kind of strange mix between a story and a poem, lacking the development one would want in a story or the economy of wording one looks for in a poem. For that reason I highly recommend you consider rewriting this as a poem. It might lend itself well to Haiku, or you might look to Hebrew poetry and adopt a psalm form. If on the other hand you want it to remain in the form of a prose letter, I hope you'll consider adding more for the sake of the reader, who will want to know exactly who Eleanor is and who will need more incentive to 'care' that your character is going through such a dark time in his life.

Hope that makes some sense, I do tend to ramble on. ;)

Paul
 
Sorry about my two little retarded posts. I thought I had a good idea but... eh... I'm having trouble sleeping.

However, I do have 2 things to ask that I think are completely clear statements.

1. When's the next contest?
2. Dorkelf, where is your entry?

--- End of Post ---
 
ChickenSoup said:
so did I win or what
Click to expand...

Indeed you did, and well deserved too soup boy. I'll get your winning entry and Lazarus' posted onto the blog shortly.

Sorry guys about my general non-involvement with my own forum lately.
I turned in 28 pages of annotations to articles from academic periodicals yesterday, mostly typed up in a little over a week - which I blame on having three graduate classes in another state plus two jobs, though the real reason is that I procrastinated. :rolleyes: I happen to be in the middle of class right now in fact, I'll make sure to get another assignment posted ASAP when I get the chance.

Note to TJGuitarz - I do enjoy submitting for these contests (as a non-contestant, since I have an unfair advantage as originator of the guidelines). I will probably type something up for this one and post it after I have a chance to post the new contest. Thanks for asking.

Paul
 
dorkelf said:
I do enjoy submitting for these contests (as a non-contestant, since I have an unfair advantage as originator of the guidelines). I will probably type something up for this one and post it after I have a chance to post the new contest. Thanks for asking.
Click to expand...

Humbug.
 
Dorkelf's non-contest entry

A single black rose separated them. They sat facing each other, still and silent. She held a glass of blood-red wine between two fingers. He leaned forward with chin resting on nested fingers tipped with painted black fingernails.

“Janice?”

She placed down the glass, leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. Regarded him for a long moment. “No,” she said finally, with resolution. “I won’t marry you.”

He matched her silent gaze for a long moment, his lips pursed as usual, his expression indistinct. But she detected a bare hint of playfulness in his eyes.

“Why?” he finally asked her. This question was unexpected and it caught her off guard. She coughed, leaned back forward and took a hasty sip of the wine. As usual she grimaced as the strong, resiny liquid dropped down her throat like cough syrup.

“Fred,” she replied, hastily placing the glass back down. “We’re already married.”

Fred considered this for a long moment. Finally a slight sideways twitch of his black-painted lips indicated slight displeasure.

“That answer isn’t very hurtful to me.” The resentment was quite evident in his voice.

Her eyes softened with sympathy. “Well,” she said, leaning back again. Her eyes turned upwards. “Well,” she repeated after a moment. “I refuse to marry you because you’re cruel, Fred. You know I hate wine and you make me sit down like this every year and you always get upset if I don’t take a sip. But I hate it, Fred. I hate it!”

He stood up as she spat the last words, lifting the dinner napkin off of his lap and tossing it gently on the table next to his plate of rare steak and scallops. “I’m leaving now,” he said, a slight rise in his voice. And with that he turned and walked out the door.

As the door closed, she waited a moment, then lifted her fork and skewered a scallop. The door opened again.

“Would you…”

She nodded. “Sure hun, I’ll put your leftovers in the fridge.”

“Thanks dear.”
 
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