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Ok, those of you who know me will know that I have tried to write a few “serious” thingies of late, (two to be precise). I have just started this and would luurvee some feedback.
Criticism of the constructive variety I can handle.
Childish insults and hair pulling will make me cry.
So, here are the first few paragraphs. It’s about an alcoholic by the way.
************************************************************
I knew what I was. I had seen myself becoming it. Watched myself mutate, slowly over time into what now stared back at me every time that I looked in the mirror. Why had I become it? Who or what was to blame for it? I could pass the buck, but that would be cowardice, and anyway, what would be the point? Who am I trying to impress? Sure as hell not myself. Every morning I wake up, and before I’ve even brushed my teeth I’m filled with the same self-loathing and inevitable disappointment of what I’ll do that day.
Well, I say morning, but I would be lying if I said that it was for sure. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. If I could, I would spend an eternity asleep, dreaming, living my life in a place where I could never let anyone down and where anything is possible. Throughout the day I find myself constantly closing my eyes in an attempt to get some sleep, knowing that this is the only time that I can experience the pure bliss that other more “normal” people experience every day with their families.
I remember when I was younger, living at home, being woken each morning for school by my mother yelling up the stairs about how I was going to be late. Opening my eyes and having to squint because the light of the new day would seem so apparent. Well now, when I wake up and open my eyes, no longer am I blinded by the sunshine, but rather swamped by thicker darkness then before. I’ll look around my apartment and still be amazed every time as to how such a cluttered room can appear so empty, so devoid of any signs of life.
In my dreams, I surround myself with people. I know that they’re not real, that they’re just figments of my imagination, but I draw comfort from them, and that makes them real enough to me, real enough to keep me going.
Criticism of the constructive variety I can handle.
Childish insults and hair pulling will make me cry.
So, here are the first few paragraphs. It’s about an alcoholic by the way.
************************************************************
I knew what I was. I had seen myself becoming it. Watched myself mutate, slowly over time into what now stared back at me every time that I looked in the mirror. Why had I become it? Who or what was to blame for it? I could pass the buck, but that would be cowardice, and anyway, what would be the point? Who am I trying to impress? Sure as hell not myself. Every morning I wake up, and before I’ve even brushed my teeth I’m filled with the same self-loathing and inevitable disappointment of what I’ll do that day.
Well, I say morning, but I would be lying if I said that it was for sure. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. If I could, I would spend an eternity asleep, dreaming, living my life in a place where I could never let anyone down and where anything is possible. Throughout the day I find myself constantly closing my eyes in an attempt to get some sleep, knowing that this is the only time that I can experience the pure bliss that other more “normal” people experience every day with their families.
I remember when I was younger, living at home, being woken each morning for school by my mother yelling up the stairs about how I was going to be late. Opening my eyes and having to squint because the light of the new day would seem so apparent. Well now, when I wake up and open my eyes, no longer am I blinded by the sunshine, but rather swamped by thicker darkness then before. I’ll look around my apartment and still be amazed every time as to how such a cluttered room can appear so empty, so devoid of any signs of life.
In my dreams, I surround myself with people. I know that they’re not real, that they’re just figments of my imagination, but I draw comfort from them, and that makes them real enough to me, real enough to keep me going.
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Yeh it totally does I was just wondering as it is definitely written in a reflective style in which the protagonist is describing to us how his life as an alcoholic has ultimately left him miserable. I wasn't sure if that was what you were wanting to achieve though or if it was something completely different lol. Forget I said anything, it's great :D
I was trying to write it from his perspective showing that although drunk, his thoughts and actions of still drinking come from a sober mind…if that makes ANY sense.
I thought it was really good in the descriptive sense however I felt that if it is about an alcoholic and it is written in the first person, well then does that mean that he is currently sober? I mean it just sounds like he is telling his story at an AA meeting instead of actually following the escapades of an actual acoholic. This may be what you intended to do I don't know I'm just trying to clear that up heh. Any way very good English_Bloke :D Keep writing.
Ok, those of you who know me will know that I have tried to write a few “serious” thingies of late, (two to be precise). I have just started this and would luurvee some feedback.
Criticism of the constructive variety I can handle.
Childish insults and hair pulling will make me cry.
So, here are the first few paragraphs. It’s about an alcoholic by the way.
************************************************************
I knew what I was. I had seen myself becoming it. Watched myself mutate, slowly over time into what now stared back at me every time that I looked in the mirror. Why had I become it? Who or what was to blame for it? I could pass the buck, but that would be cowardice, and anyway, what would be the point? Who am I trying to impress? Sure as hell not myself. Every morning I wake up, and before I’ve even brushed my teeth I’m filled with the same self-loathing and inevitable disappointment of what I’ll do that day.
Well, I say morning, but I would be lying if I said that it was for sure. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. If I could, I would spend an eternity asleep, dreaming, living my life in a place where I could never let anyone down and where anything is possible. Throughout the day I find myself constantly closing my eyes in an attempt to get some sleep, knowing that this is the only time that I can experience the pure bliss that other more “normal” people experience every day with their families.
I remember when I was younger, living at home, being woken each morning for school by my mother yelling up the stairs about how I was going to be late. Opening my eyes and having to squint because the light of the new day would seem so apparent. Well now, when I wake up and open my eyes, no longer am I blinded by the sunshine, but rather swamped by thicker darkness then before. I’ll look around my apartment and still be amazed every time as to how such a cluttered room can appear so empty, so devoid of any signs of life.
In my dreams, I surround myself with people. I know that they’re not real, that they’re just figments of my imagination, but I draw comfort from them, and that makes them real enough to me, real enough to keep me going.
Criticism of the constructive variety I can handle.
Childish insults and hair pulling will make me cry.
So, here are the first few paragraphs. It’s about an alcoholic by the way.
************************************************************
I knew what I was. I had seen myself becoming it. Watched myself mutate, slowly over time into what now stared back at me every time that I looked in the mirror. Why had I become it? Who or what was to blame for it? I could pass the buck, but that would be cowardice, and anyway, what would be the point? Who am I trying to impress? Sure as hell not myself. Every morning I wake up, and before I’ve even brushed my teeth I’m filled with the same self-loathing and inevitable disappointment of what I’ll do that day.
Well, I say morning, but I would be lying if I said that it was for sure. Not that it makes any difference to me anyway. If I could, I would spend an eternity asleep, dreaming, living my life in a place where I could never let anyone down and where anything is possible. Throughout the day I find myself constantly closing my eyes in an attempt to get some sleep, knowing that this is the only time that I can experience the pure bliss that other more “normal” people experience every day with their families.
I remember when I was younger, living at home, being woken each morning for school by my mother yelling up the stairs about how I was going to be late. Opening my eyes and having to squint because the light of the new day would seem so apparent. Well now, when I wake up and open my eyes, no longer am I blinded by the sunshine, but rather swamped by thicker darkness then before. I’ll look around my apartment and still be amazed every time as to how such a cluttered room can appear so empty, so devoid of any signs of life.
In my dreams, I surround myself with people. I know that they’re not real, that they’re just figments of my imagination, but I draw comfort from them, and that makes them real enough to me, real enough to keep me going.
Page: