Jbr208
2013-01-18, 08:25 AM
Yeah, the title's a little vague, but I'm running on empty here.
Put simply, I'm working on a writing project I promised myself I would resurrect after I lost my original files about four or five years ago to unhealthy computer practices. It's a piece of historical fiction I started back in high school and worked on for about two years before my laptop failed and I couldn't recover the files.
I'm currently having trouble working past a prologue. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm having trouble writing much of anything I'm fully satisfied with. If some of you wouldn't mind reading my prologue and offering a bit of constructive criticism I'd appreciate it - sometimes a jolt of perspective can help with a writing funk I've been told.
Spoilered for those who have lost interest by now.
It all comes back to the lies we tell. Whether we lie to ourselves, to our friends, to strangers, or even to lovers, they all catch up eventually and we must reap what we sow. I sat in bed for hours trying to remember why I lied to Stephanie in the first place. I looked over Stephanie, her arm stretched across the bed as though reaching for me in her sleep, and I hated myself for lying to her.
It seemed innocuous enough, one of those little white lies we tell to everyone because the truth is either too much to say or because they wouldn’t care in the first place. She’d come to my apartment after I missed our dinner date, when I didn’t answer the door she got my building manager to open it for her with a quivering lip and a sad story about the pathetic guy that lived there. The last bit is purely speculation, I have no idea how she got the door open.
She came in and found me drunk, the same state I’d been in for the last several hours. When she asked me what was wrong I told her something I have said to hundreds of other people on thousands of other occasions, and regret now for the first time because she deserves better: “I’m fine.”
Put simply, I'm working on a writing project I promised myself I would resurrect after I lost my original files about four or five years ago to unhealthy computer practices. It's a piece of historical fiction I started back in high school and worked on for about two years before my laptop failed and I couldn't recover the files.
I'm currently having trouble working past a prologue. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm having trouble writing much of anything I'm fully satisfied with. If some of you wouldn't mind reading my prologue and offering a bit of constructive criticism I'd appreciate it - sometimes a jolt of perspective can help with a writing funk I've been told.
Spoilered for those who have lost interest by now.
It all comes back to the lies we tell. Whether we lie to ourselves, to our friends, to strangers, or even to lovers, they all catch up eventually and we must reap what we sow. I sat in bed for hours trying to remember why I lied to Stephanie in the first place. I looked over Stephanie, her arm stretched across the bed as though reaching for me in her sleep, and I hated myself for lying to her.
It seemed innocuous enough, one of those little white lies we tell to everyone because the truth is either too much to say or because they wouldn’t care in the first place. She’d come to my apartment after I missed our dinner date, when I didn’t answer the door she got my building manager to open it for her with a quivering lip and a sad story about the pathetic guy that lived there. The last bit is purely speculation, I have no idea how she got the door open.
She came in and found me drunk, the same state I’d been in for the last several hours. When she asked me what was wrong I told her something I have said to hundreds of other people on thousands of other occasions, and regret now for the first time because she deserves better: “I’m fine.”