Is My Fiction Any Good?
I was lost for the longest time.
Stories were read to us at night by our mum. Caused to bicker by these stories, sleep would be afterwards. The story of French roofs; a kerosene lamp carried through the night; village peoples, were the reading of our night times cornerstone.
We possessed a whittle for the hours. Using imagination's power, we, the set of twins, built a blanket pillow fort. This was the happening when it rained. During our bed hours, we were read to by our mum. We drank steeped tea.
A caveman sombre winged asks: Why does it downpour? Trolloping sounds; the quietening of a painting, by time not forgotten; a forearms fur, habit births love.
During the melancholia of a season, this quote of Walter Horatio Pater, on our bedtime teacup rootlessly inscribed, over oscillated, inside of us was brought about a clamour, our youthful young minds: What does it mean?
In the darkness around me, something was perceived. Questions were asked by my brother's lumpen figures: Would we ever see our mum again? Did an after place wait for us?
A gate of iron swinging, depending on the season, the season of winter, a brass bell that tinkled was fitted to her, would, ribs of my brother contemplated, be a recoup. Depressing questions put aside, I, like some sort of fairy tale princess, would be a rescuee. Cognizant of my suffering, from sleeps kingdom excluded too, once more I would be read a story.
During the middle of the night my dad would perform these miracles.
Stories were read to us at night by our mum. Caused to bicker by these stories, sleep would be afterwards. The story of French roofs; a kerosene lamp carried through the night; village peoples, were the reading of our night times cornerstone.
We possessed a whittle for the hours. Using imagination's power, we, the set of twins, built a blanket pillow fort. This was the happening when it rained. During our bed hours, we were read to by our mum. We drank steeped tea.
A caveman sombre winged asks: Why does it downpour? Trolloping sounds; the quietening of a painting, by time not forgotten; a forearms fur, habit births love.
During the melancholia of a season, this quote of Walter Horatio Pater, on our bedtime teacup rootlessly inscribed, over oscillated, inside of us was brought about a clamour, our youthful young minds: What does it mean?
In the darkness around me, something was perceived. Questions were asked by my brother's lumpen figures: Would we ever see our mum again? Did an after place wait for us?
A gate of iron swinging, depending on the season, the season of winter, a brass bell that tinkled was fitted to her, would, ribs of my brother contemplated, be a recoup. Depressing questions put aside, I, like some sort of fairy tale princess, would be a rescuee. Cognizant of my suffering, from sleeps kingdom excluded too, once more I would be read a story.
During the middle of the night my dad would perform these miracles.
I was lost for the longest time.
Stories were read to us at night by our mum. Caused to bicker by these stories, sleep would be afterwards. The story of French roofs; a kerosene lamp carried through the night; village peoples, were the reading of our night times cornerstone.
We possessed a whittle for the hours. Using imagination's power, we, the set of twins, built a blanket pillow fort. This was the happening when it rained. During our bed hours, we were read to by our mum. We drank steeped tea.
A caveman sombre winged asks: Why does it downpour? Trolloping sounds; the quietening of a painting, by time not forgotten; a forearms fur, habit births love.
During the melancholia of a season, this quote of Walter Horatio Pater, on our bedtime teacup rootlessly inscribed, over oscillated, inside of us was brought about a clamour, our youthful young minds: What does it mean?
In the darkness around me, something was perceived. Questions were asked by my brother's lumpen figures: Would we ever see our mum again? Did an after place wait for us?
A gate of iron swinging, depending on the season, the season of winter, a brass bell that tinkled was fitted to her, would, ribs of my brother contemplated, be a recoup. Depressing questions put aside, I, like some sort of fairy tale princess, would be a rescuee. Cognizant of my suffering, from sleeps kingdom excluded too, once more I would be read a story.
During the middle of the night my dad would perform these miracles.
Stories were read to us at night by our mum. Caused to bicker by these stories, sleep would be afterwards. The story of French roofs; a kerosene lamp carried through the night; village peoples, were the reading of our night times cornerstone.
We possessed a whittle for the hours. Using imagination's power, we, the set of twins, built a blanket pillow fort. This was the happening when it rained. During our bed hours, we were read to by our mum. We drank steeped tea.
A caveman sombre winged asks: Why does it downpour? Trolloping sounds; the quietening of a painting, by time not forgotten; a forearms fur, habit births love.
During the melancholia of a season, this quote of Walter Horatio Pater, on our bedtime teacup rootlessly inscribed, over oscillated, inside of us was brought about a clamour, our youthful young minds: What does it mean?
In the darkness around me, something was perceived. Questions were asked by my brother's lumpen figures: Would we ever see our mum again? Did an after place wait for us?
A gate of iron swinging, depending on the season, the season of winter, a brass bell that tinkled was fitted to her, would, ribs of my brother contemplated, be a recoup. Depressing questions put aside, I, like some sort of fairy tale princess, would be a rescuee. Cognizant of my suffering, from sleeps kingdom excluded too, once more I would be read a story.
During the middle of the night my dad would perform these miracles.
Trust me, no one knows if their fiction is any good. Writing is an act of sheer spite. You see, whether you write, sing in a band, play soccer, act or do any form of art; the moment your effort is revealed to the world, you are cut down to size by a vast and very opinionated and anonymous crowd. The answer is to do what you like, and to be happy when you think you have done as well as you think you are able to do. If somebody else likes it, great. If not, the alternatives for any consumer are practically endless.
(edited 6 months ago)
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