Hello Book Lovers,
It’s been a while since I’ve been able to post due to having a crazy work and school schedule. I will be getting a bit of a reprieve after this week since my fall term ends and winter doesn’t start until January. I honestly haven’t had much time to read so I may not have a review up until the end of this week, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have other things for you. I’m going to be starting a series called Write In Wednesdays. I don’t want to define it, because this will include my own writings, and in addition I will post prompts and my responses to them. In order to get our writer juices flowing. It isn’t Wednesday yet, but I wanted to share something I’ve been working on.
For a long time now I’ve been working on fiction short story which takes place during the Vietnam War and I found a major plot hole. It wasn’t clear who the narrator was towards the end of the story, because of the events that take place. The following is something I came up with to help rectify that plot hole and add a new dimension to the story.
The house sat on the corner of mammoth street with a blue and white façade, beautiful white crown molding, and a wraparound porch. Eloise lived in this luxurious Victorian home alone. It was the family home and one she vowed to never leave. It was a dreary Sunday morning when she decided to go up to the attic. As she climbed up the stairs the door creaked open as if she was being welcomed inside. It was a tedious task, but one she had to do if she was going to use this space for her painting. For years she refused to enter the attic for fear of the memories that would resurface. While looking through old trunks in the attic Eloise came across a journal she’d never seen before. It was an old, torn, leather bound journal with the letters BL engraved on the upper right corner. Her heart began to palpitate and a bead of sweat dripped down her forehead, because she knew who this belonged too. She ran her hands across the rugged, old book and began to turn the pages as she leaned back and looked at page one.
At the sight of these words written in a way she recognized so well on torn, aged, beige pages her stomach began to flutter.
I don’t know if you will ever read this, but I can’t imagine not sharing this with you. I don’t know if I can survive this war. Everyday my comrades are dying right in front of my eyes. I miss you so much and I hope we get to see each other again.
Do you write? If so what do you enjoy writing about? If you want to share any of your thoughts behind writing or the stories you enjoy writing. Let me know if the comments below.