Post by forgottenxthreat on Oct 14, 2010 7:34:42 GMT -5
Hey guys. So basically, as some of you know, i'm doing an independent study with my english teacher this year. And in it, i'm working on two novel ideas. One of them i'm writing by prompt, so i write one 'piece' or 'thing' that my character talks about or experiences, and then the next. They aren't written in order, and are essentially just many individual pieces of writing. And i think i would like some feedback on some of the prompts i write. Soooo, here's one i would like some feedback on. Tell me what you think!
Just so you know (background for you) the narrator is the main character and it's all from his point of veiw. He's a 35 year old man, and throughout the book he talks a lot of about different experiences, and life, and just reflections about the world around him.
This prompt is called Two Cups of Coffee.
When I was in college, I had a friend that was going to be a writer. I was quite young at the time because I was still pursuing the profession myself, and hadn’t quite figured it out yet that writing wasn’t for me. Not in college, not ever. But I was still optimistic about it then, and therefore shared a class with my friend every Wednesday evening at six o’ clock. His name was Brian Drown. Now he was a writer.
The young man constantly speculated about how he didn’t have the psychological means to be a writer. Or the patience, or the will power. But the truth was, he was the most self-driven, subconsciously disciplined writer on the entire campus. He could look at the chipped paint on a windowsill for less that two minutes and instantly be able to sit down and write fifteen pages about it- about how the chipping paint symbolized the decaying of tradition in our society, and the wood, the sturdy beliefs upon which the human race was built. No one could reach him during one of those writing spells. He was just gone. In the most beautiful and awe-inspiring form of the word.
As he continued to grow towards his author-hood destiny, it was becoming more and more clear to me that verbalizing my thoughts in to words was a form of creativity that I could never accomplish without hurting my brain. In two weeks, I dropped the class. In two months, I changed my major to business and sales. Something that I could handle a little more pleasantly.
Brian finished his first book during his senior year in college and was published one year after graduation. His book was the most incredible novel I have ever read. He wrote a 200-page novel about the outlook on a cup of coffee perceived by two different men living thirteen blocks away from each other. One man was in his late fifties, and struggling with the recent loss of his 23 year-old son. The other man had just turned thirty and was trying to grasp the idea that his wife was pregnant for the very first time. The book was so much more than descriptive, so much more than relatable, so much greater than a novel should have been able to be. Brian’s story only took place over the course of one hour, but his characters found more meaning in their cups of coffee in that hour than I ever will in mine. The morning after I had finished reading it I picked up my coffee mug and stared at it for a full three minutes before I put it back on the shelf, deeming it too intellectual for my own personal morning routine of sitting on the couch half asleep in my robe, blinking once every few minutes. I had juice instead.
Just so you know (background for you) the narrator is the main character and it's all from his point of veiw. He's a 35 year old man, and throughout the book he talks a lot of about different experiences, and life, and just reflections about the world around him.
This prompt is called Two Cups of Coffee.
When I was in college, I had a friend that was going to be a writer. I was quite young at the time because I was still pursuing the profession myself, and hadn’t quite figured it out yet that writing wasn’t for me. Not in college, not ever. But I was still optimistic about it then, and therefore shared a class with my friend every Wednesday evening at six o’ clock. His name was Brian Drown. Now he was a writer.
The young man constantly speculated about how he didn’t have the psychological means to be a writer. Or the patience, or the will power. But the truth was, he was the most self-driven, subconsciously disciplined writer on the entire campus. He could look at the chipped paint on a windowsill for less that two minutes and instantly be able to sit down and write fifteen pages about it- about how the chipping paint symbolized the decaying of tradition in our society, and the wood, the sturdy beliefs upon which the human race was built. No one could reach him during one of those writing spells. He was just gone. In the most beautiful and awe-inspiring form of the word.
As he continued to grow towards his author-hood destiny, it was becoming more and more clear to me that verbalizing my thoughts in to words was a form of creativity that I could never accomplish without hurting my brain. In two weeks, I dropped the class. In two months, I changed my major to business and sales. Something that I could handle a little more pleasantly.
Brian finished his first book during his senior year in college and was published one year after graduation. His book was the most incredible novel I have ever read. He wrote a 200-page novel about the outlook on a cup of coffee perceived by two different men living thirteen blocks away from each other. One man was in his late fifties, and struggling with the recent loss of his 23 year-old son. The other man had just turned thirty and was trying to grasp the idea that his wife was pregnant for the very first time. The book was so much more than descriptive, so much more than relatable, so much greater than a novel should have been able to be. Brian’s story only took place over the course of one hour, but his characters found more meaning in their cups of coffee in that hour than I ever will in mine. The morning after I had finished reading it I picked up my coffee mug and stared at it for a full three minutes before I put it back on the shelf, deeming it too intellectual for my own personal morning routine of sitting on the couch half asleep in my robe, blinking once every few minutes. I had juice instead.
