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i was trying to cobble together a story.
that narrative writing class requires a manuscript-audition for a place in the class. i have quite a few stories that i could offer, mostly written (can it really be?) three years ago, the second half of my first year of college.
they are mostly finished short stories. perfect in length for the purpose. and i couldn't make myself hand any of them in. they're not me. not anymore. and in this one thing, i will not be lessened. i will not put myself in a box. not even if it was one that i used to call home.
so, instead i'm handing in three short disconnected excerpts from the novella i've been germinating in my head for a few months now. i write bits and pieces of it whenever i can pin them down. i'm not sure that this will get me into the class, but i can't muster up the wherewithal necessary to fake it.
it will be what it will, i suppose.
i can't compromise. not on this one.
hey, no one has ever called me sensible.
well, not for long anyway.
that narrative writing class requires a manuscript-audition for a place in the class. i have quite a few stories that i could offer, mostly written (can it really be?) three years ago, the second half of my first year of college.
they are mostly finished short stories. perfect in length for the purpose. and i couldn't make myself hand any of them in. they're not me. not anymore. and in this one thing, i will not be lessened. i will not put myself in a box. not even if it was one that i used to call home.
so, instead i'm handing in three short disconnected excerpts from the novella i've been germinating in my head for a few months now. i write bits and pieces of it whenever i can pin them down. i'm not sure that this will get me into the class, but i can't muster up the wherewithal necessary to fake it.
it will be what it will, i suppose.
i can't compromise. not on this one.
hey, no one has ever called me sensible.
well, not for long anyway.