Monday, October 04, 2004
Supposedly the story on my fictious character impressed my teacher (I am quite modest, and so I fear using the word "impressed"). She had informed me that this piece of writing is quite possibly worthy of publication. So she says that she will keep an eye out for any opportunity, and that I should be aware of any writing contests that are floating around. I did not want to make a big deal out of this, and I still haven't. I hide away in my shell when compliments are being thrown at me, especially from a dear friend whose writing I've always been fond of. Of course my mother, who is quite simple-minded in her way of living and is easily fascinated by things, was ecstatic upon me telling her the resulting mark of my story.
I see this as a one time thing though. My imagination has now dried up. Now I'm just going to create disappointing pieces of work from here on.
I'm optimistic.
...my mother keeps bringing up the incident where my grandmother's tea leaves were read and supposedly it indicated that her youngest granddaughter will be a musician and writer.
Although I find it quite funny that I have returned to the 'profession' that I first wanted to be when I was younger.
Well. It's not that funny.
I am too random to actually stick with some sort of career. Just let me travel. Let me travel to Scotland. Find myself a burly old scotsmen, and live a life of eating haggis and wearing kilts.
The End.
I see this as a one time thing though. My imagination has now dried up. Now I'm just going to create disappointing pieces of work from here on.
I'm optimistic.
...my mother keeps bringing up the incident where my grandmother's tea leaves were read and supposedly it indicated that her youngest granddaughter will be a musician and writer.
Although I find it quite funny that I have returned to the 'profession' that I first wanted to be when I was younger.
Well. It's not that funny.
I am too random to actually stick with some sort of career. Just let me travel. Let me travel to Scotland. Find myself a burly old scotsmen, and live a life of eating haggis and wearing kilts.
The End.
