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Love can be a strange thing. It’ll drive you to do strange and funny things. So funny in fact, that people may either question your motives or applaud you for your actions of unrequited love. Or so that’s what I’m told. I don’t have a story to tell, but I do have a record of events. Moments kept safe in a journal. Now I am to share my experiences.
Some show their affection through acts of kindness and caring. Others may end up showboating to grab their girl’s attention. I for one, chose to grip a pencil under a shaking hand, as I write about my feelings. Out of all the things I could do in life, I ended up becoming a poet. Hopelessly in love with a girl I knew since I was but a toddler.
I can vaguely remember my first poem. I was young and reckless at the time, which made my hand scribble about in an effort to show my affection. I barely understood the words I wrote down. Nevertheless, they seemed to have found their way onto my paper. I had toiled endlessly for hours. Erasing and jotting down more needless things. Making it more complex than it needed to be, or more grand in my own eyes. Placing all my heart and effort on a single poem. Then I somehow finished it. My first masterpiece. That initial accomplishment. The achievement of being able to finally express myself. All the ideas and hard work placed into my confession, a single piece, for my beloved. It was invigorating.
Though somehow in someway, shape, and form, I had gotten no reply. At first, I could barely contain my disappointment. I didn’t understand. How could have something that felt so right to do, bring me such misery? What did I do wrong? It clearly wasn’t good enough.
I never took the time to think clearly about such a question. Instead I put my hands to work. Writing and writing. Everyday, without fail. I would change the way I wrote and the way I thought. Using majority of my days to change that outcome. I shared my poems with my mother, whom obviously, supported me no matter what I did. Once again no reply. It still wasn’t good enough for her.
As the days passed a year had gone by like the blink of an eye. Leaving me with not much in my life. I had been secluded with that huge burst of effort. Chained to the thought of finally receiving her reply. The heartbreak and the pain was all but numbed by the ink that curled upon pages and pages of poetry. The floor to my room was littered with nothing but fully written sheets. Covered front to back of haikus, sonnets, and passages. Words upon words filled my life. A purpose, I guess that’s what kept me grounded. That single purpose protected me like a shield from the heartache.
It wasn’t until another year that my mother had realized I may have had a problem. My mind was so focused on my writing, that I didn’t notice my house burning in shambles until I was outside and my mother pulled away my pen and took a hold of me. Hugging me besides the smoldering blaze that once use to be our home. She blamed my father for leaving us, but I knew why I wrote. I knew the single only reason why. Because of her. Even then with my mother crying along my shoulder, I was still thinking of her. Two years had gone by and still no reply.
I spent the next following year writing along a notebook computer. It was easy and didn’t hold a mess of papers. It was also useful for hiding how much I had been writing. My eyes would usually be glued to the screen, typing away with a vigor my mother could not understand. She was confused and sent me straight to therapy. As annoying as it was to leave my keyboard, I attended each session obediently. The nights I had alone would only make me eager to return to my keyboard and get back to work.
My therapist was a good woman. She was a mother too and understood what my family was experiencing. Months passed by and she could diagnose my obsession with getting a reply for all my hard work. Told me it was unhealthy that I was so fixated with a single girl, though she admired my dedication and having it tuned into poetry. In fact she looked over a couple of my entries. It had impressed her. Told me my poems were advanced beyond my age. She assured me that whoever I was writing for, or would write for in the future, would easily reply in a heartbeat. Strangely, enough, to no surprise. I had yet to get a reply from the one that mattered.
Several of the following session after that, held some interesting points of my life. It was over fifty sessions, I guess, but this fifty-first one seemed to bring me into a new world of writing. The therapist who was assigned to cure me of my obsession, instead gave me an outlet. A positive one that made it easier to share my devotion. Right to the very public. She proposed a simple blog site that would post my work online. In fact we sat down and made the final details on several web pages. With any hopes she might see some of my poetry. Then I would finally get a reply from her.
Fans came pouring in one by one. Each one giving a reply or comment of some kind to my work. Each one adored my poems and some I had come to meet in person. Not a single one of them was the girl I had been writing for all this time. By the end of that same year, I had been dealt a huge amount of requests to submit my poems to a magazine. For some big fancy writing contest. I was uninterested, but had decided to go along with it. The comment section in my blog was filled with too many requests for it to happen. It didn’t matter with how many people may get disappointed or angry at me. Several hundred comments were pushing me to take part. I just needed to save room for that one comment I really needed. I want to see it clearly on screen without having to scroll through endless amounts of pages requesting the same thing. Even when I wanted a simple glimpse of her. I craved for just some sort of reply. One word would be enough to sate my heart.
Life continued all the same for me the following year. The only things that changed was moving into my new apartment and my status as a writer. After a couple of contests victories, I was offered a grant from a famous magazine I’ve never heard of. “Peculiar Penstrokes“ the name of the magazine mattered least of all, but If their money left me more time for my writing there was no way I was going to deny such a chance. As long as I kept sending entries for their pages the donations rolled in and more grants followed. Nothing short of a job, but I got to do what I wanted when I wanted. It kept me at home. Next to my desktop, pad, and pen. That is until I had to attend scheduled “meet and greets” with some fans of mine.
These sessions would go on and on. Doing everything that was asked of me, I shook hands. Waved at the crowds. I’d screw in a smile that wasn’t genuinely there to begin with and bare the strain of dealing with young-hope-filled writers and fans who seemed to think I was some kind of Guru on love. I never claimed to be a master of literature or an expert on relationships.
Dozens would coo and sigh as I reread my past work and people listened when I talk about my life. The reality is I don’t care about poems that failed to reach her. I don’t care about how or when I became who I am now. Even with all the fame and fortune I could ever ask for. I still could not achieve the one goal I always aimed for.
My head would roll from the constant requests for my work. Distracting phone calls or notifications from my monitor lit up with annoyances. When the orders came in for more entries to be written I would just sweep my living room and dump the old poems into an envelope or email some junk work from my computer. They must have been happy with it, because none of it was returned to me since I started working. The more they bothered me at home, the more work I sent them. Hoping that they would leave me alone and let me write. They had the opposite idea. They requested more and more of my work each time. While it wasn’t hard to just pile more into the delivery demands, they soon became problematic to my way of life. Soon books came out compiled of nothing but my writing. Which meant more scheduling for autographs, book releases, interviews, and less time for my work.
Those books had hurt me more than it seemed. I hated the series. Hated that they represented my failure. It felt like the pages were taunting me. Not only did it show I made no progress they sucked what remained of my free time for new poems. Soon I had no more room to stay at home at all. I would be in a cycle of traveling. Going from one place to the other. Moving from car to plane to car to the meeting place then rinse and repeat in a disgusting rush of wasted time. My desperation brought me to a handy little gadget that would save me from the chains that tied me down.
Using what little time I had in an electronics store, I bought an interesting little traveling pad. It allowed me to type on the screen and keep up my work in between trips. When I wasn’t putting up an act or signing things that held my name or some sort of sign of my influence. I would be on my pad. Tapping away at the screen or loading whatever was finished into my traveling notebook pro when I needed room to do more. For a while it felt like I was back on track. That is until I got behind a wheel on a very busy day. I was reckless that day and missed a red light. It was the only time I had that day to any writing. So I paid for it with shattered bones and a concussion.
When I first came to, I awoke in a hospital bed. Doctors all around me were relieved to see that I had gained consciousness. It was happy moment. So I smiled and asked the kind men for my own name. Amnesia and a clear sign of a severe case of it. I couldn’t remember anything. Not my job, my schedule, or my family for that matter. Nothing, but that one glimmer of perseverance that was always there from the start. I can still hear myself argue with the medical staff as they kept trying to offer me food. My writing had come first. I had thought back then that if I could only see her she would cure me. So I tried for days and nights. Sometimes without much rest or anything to eat. I wrote and wrote and made piles of my work while in the hospital. Still in the end, no reply.
By the end of that eventful year, I was released from medical hold for now to relive my life in hopes of regaining memories. Everything went back to normal except that I got fired from my job. An elongated leave of absence along with a sudden case of memory loss made the company think about what they may have to deal with in terms of insurance. Rather than paying a poor man to stay at home until he recollects everything about his job they cut ties and let me loose. Admitting that now still brings a smile to my face. I was free from the connection of social media, which meant more time for my work.
Now I had all the time in the world. Which meant I was back to square one. This time though, I was determined. I had more purpose to make her see me. I didn’t know anything else besides that I loved her. That each poem was meant to translate each beating of my heart that ached for her voice to reach out to me. Some sort of acknowledgment. Something to let me know that she saw all my hard work. I was sure that she is the key to it. I was sure of it. So I went back to my first method of writing my poems.
Within a week’s time I had trashed my place. The ground was covered by white pieces. I had been obsessed. Another poem and another. Adding to the layers that piled upon the carpet. Nothing but pen and paper filled my life. The days going by with always the same routine for what felt like an endless amount of time.
Wake up, have breakfast, brush my teeth, and shower. That morning preparation all just for me to sit on my desk and get to work. Writing and writing. Right up to the point where my fingers would hurt. Have lunch and check my writing supplies or go shopping for more food and paper. More writing and even more. Another break to reheat some leftovers from lunch for dinner. Then back to the grindstone with more writing in bed under the light of a lamp. Right when my hand would grow tired for the third time in my day it was a sign of slumber coming my way. Brush my teeth, set my supplies back on my desk, and then I would close my eyes.
The same thing every day. For so long. One year passed and then another. More and more of my poems took over my space. Trashing them seemed to be such a waste so I sent some of my work to the addresses in a logbook I had kept. Addresses I had used back when I had work. I’m sure one of their articles will reach her one of these days. She’ll know and then everything can go back to normal. I have to keep writing.
One strange day I had actually decided not to write. I was breathless that entire day. Any thought was null and void in my mind. I had no reason to write. Maybe something was telling me to stop for a moment? Something out of my own control taking over to give my the break I so deserved? I just needed her right here with me. She never needed to really reply. Her smile, her face. I’m sure that’s all I needed right then and there. Just to see her. By the end of that day I knew what was bugging me. It was me asking myself “Why?”. I was coming to realize what I was doing. What the chances were. So why did I continue? Regardless my hand returned to the pen that very night.
Last year was harsh on me. Even right now it’s difficult to write it let alone share it. That recent New Years celebration had ended and left me new inspirations to write about. I had planned out different material for my poems. Promising myself that I would find more creative ways of writing to her. It never felt good enough so I tried finding new ways make my poems.
While I was busy staring out at the newly lit night sky, it hit me. My body grew weak and my hands gripped whatever was in reach. I fell to my knees and felt paper crumple and a pencil snap within my grasp. It has all come back to me now. As my life flashed back into life I curled into a ball laid on my side as I cried and wailed out. For the pain was renewed in my heart for the girl who had died all those years ago.
Her name was Sarah and we had spent our childhood together. It wasn’t until around high school that I found out about my true feelings for her. I had spent half of the school year trying to impress her. The last thing I did for her was write a small poem. It was suppose to be my confession. I had decided to share it with her on our morning walk to the bus stop. Though fate had a different agenda and took her away when a storm struck down a tree right into her bedroom. Right while the angel slept exactly the night before. Even now it hurts calling out her name.
So here I am now recording what I can reconstruct for my new therapist in a memory journal. It’s for the better that I sort this out. Sarah would want me to. I can’t help myself from wanting her reply. The reason why I continue to write is because I still want her to read my words. I want my emotions to touch her. Wherever she may be. I know it is crazy but I believe that if I write enough it’ll get there. And then I’ll get my reply. You think if I wrote enough it’ll reach heaven and she’ll get to read it? If I collected all my poems now, would it be able to carry me to her spirit so we can talk? What would she say to me?
Not once did I ever lay a letter or flowers by her grave. I had refused to see that dreaded tombstone since I first saw it. I still want her to hold it my poem in her hands. I desire to look her in the eyes with that blushing bright face and see her smile for me. Perhaps now would be a good time to say goodbye and give her my poem?
Love can drive you to do strange and funny things.
Some show their affection through acts of kindness and caring. Others may end up showboating to grab their girl’s attention. I for one, chose to grip a pencil under a shaking hand, as I write about my feelings. Out of all the things I could do in life, I ended up becoming a poet. Hopelessly in love with a girl I knew since I was but a toddler.
I can vaguely remember my first poem. I was young and reckless at the time, which made my hand scribble about in an effort to show my affection. I barely understood the words I wrote down. Nevertheless, they seemed to have found their way onto my paper. I had toiled endlessly for hours. Erasing and jotting down more needless things. Making it more complex than it needed to be, or more grand in my own eyes. Placing all my heart and effort on a single poem. Then I somehow finished it. My first masterpiece. That initial accomplishment. The achievement of being able to finally express myself. All the ideas and hard work placed into my confession, a single piece, for my beloved. It was invigorating.
Though somehow in someway, shape, and form, I had gotten no reply. At first, I could barely contain my disappointment. I didn’t understand. How could have something that felt so right to do, bring me such misery? What did I do wrong? It clearly wasn’t good enough.
I never took the time to think clearly about such a question. Instead I put my hands to work. Writing and writing. Everyday, without fail. I would change the way I wrote and the way I thought. Using majority of my days to change that outcome. I shared my poems with my mother, whom obviously, supported me no matter what I did. Once again no reply. It still wasn’t good enough for her.
As the days passed a year had gone by like the blink of an eye. Leaving me with not much in my life. I had been secluded with that huge burst of effort. Chained to the thought of finally receiving her reply. The heartbreak and the pain was all but numbed by the ink that curled upon pages and pages of poetry. The floor to my room was littered with nothing but fully written sheets. Covered front to back of haikus, sonnets, and passages. Words upon words filled my life. A purpose, I guess that’s what kept me grounded. That single purpose protected me like a shield from the heartache.
It wasn’t until another year that my mother had realized I may have had a problem. My mind was so focused on my writing, that I didn’t notice my house burning in shambles until I was outside and my mother pulled away my pen and took a hold of me. Hugging me besides the smoldering blaze that once use to be our home. She blamed my father for leaving us, but I knew why I wrote. I knew the single only reason why. Because of her. Even then with my mother crying along my shoulder, I was still thinking of her. Two years had gone by and still no reply.
I spent the next following year writing along a notebook computer. It was easy and didn’t hold a mess of papers. It was also useful for hiding how much I had been writing. My eyes would usually be glued to the screen, typing away with a vigor my mother could not understand. She was confused and sent me straight to therapy. As annoying as it was to leave my keyboard, I attended each session obediently. The nights I had alone would only make me eager to return to my keyboard and get back to work.
My therapist was a good woman. She was a mother too and understood what my family was experiencing. Months passed by and she could diagnose my obsession with getting a reply for all my hard work. Told me it was unhealthy that I was so fixated with a single girl, though she admired my dedication and having it tuned into poetry. In fact she looked over a couple of my entries. It had impressed her. Told me my poems were advanced beyond my age. She assured me that whoever I was writing for, or would write for in the future, would easily reply in a heartbeat. Strangely, enough, to no surprise. I had yet to get a reply from the one that mattered.
Several of the following session after that, held some interesting points of my life. It was over fifty sessions, I guess, but this fifty-first one seemed to bring me into a new world of writing. The therapist who was assigned to cure me of my obsession, instead gave me an outlet. A positive one that made it easier to share my devotion. Right to the very public. She proposed a simple blog site that would post my work online. In fact we sat down and made the final details on several web pages. With any hopes she might see some of my poetry. Then I would finally get a reply from her.
Fans came pouring in one by one. Each one giving a reply or comment of some kind to my work. Each one adored my poems and some I had come to meet in person. Not a single one of them was the girl I had been writing for all this time. By the end of that same year, I had been dealt a huge amount of requests to submit my poems to a magazine. For some big fancy writing contest. I was uninterested, but had decided to go along with it. The comment section in my blog was filled with too many requests for it to happen. It didn’t matter with how many people may get disappointed or angry at me. Several hundred comments were pushing me to take part. I just needed to save room for that one comment I really needed. I want to see it clearly on screen without having to scroll through endless amounts of pages requesting the same thing. Even when I wanted a simple glimpse of her. I craved for just some sort of reply. One word would be enough to sate my heart.
Life continued all the same for me the following year. The only things that changed was moving into my new apartment and my status as a writer. After a couple of contests victories, I was offered a grant from a famous magazine I’ve never heard of. “Peculiar Penstrokes“ the name of the magazine mattered least of all, but If their money left me more time for my writing there was no way I was going to deny such a chance. As long as I kept sending entries for their pages the donations rolled in and more grants followed. Nothing short of a job, but I got to do what I wanted when I wanted. It kept me at home. Next to my desktop, pad, and pen. That is until I had to attend scheduled “meet and greets” with some fans of mine.
These sessions would go on and on. Doing everything that was asked of me, I shook hands. Waved at the crowds. I’d screw in a smile that wasn’t genuinely there to begin with and bare the strain of dealing with young-hope-filled writers and fans who seemed to think I was some kind of Guru on love. I never claimed to be a master of literature or an expert on relationships.
Dozens would coo and sigh as I reread my past work and people listened when I talk about my life. The reality is I don’t care about poems that failed to reach her. I don’t care about how or when I became who I am now. Even with all the fame and fortune I could ever ask for. I still could not achieve the one goal I always aimed for.
My head would roll from the constant requests for my work. Distracting phone calls or notifications from my monitor lit up with annoyances. When the orders came in for more entries to be written I would just sweep my living room and dump the old poems into an envelope or email some junk work from my computer. They must have been happy with it, because none of it was returned to me since I started working. The more they bothered me at home, the more work I sent them. Hoping that they would leave me alone and let me write. They had the opposite idea. They requested more and more of my work each time. While it wasn’t hard to just pile more into the delivery demands, they soon became problematic to my way of life. Soon books came out compiled of nothing but my writing. Which meant more scheduling for autographs, book releases, interviews, and less time for my work.
Those books had hurt me more than it seemed. I hated the series. Hated that they represented my failure. It felt like the pages were taunting me. Not only did it show I made no progress they sucked what remained of my free time for new poems. Soon I had no more room to stay at home at all. I would be in a cycle of traveling. Going from one place to the other. Moving from car to plane to car to the meeting place then rinse and repeat in a disgusting rush of wasted time. My desperation brought me to a handy little gadget that would save me from the chains that tied me down.
Using what little time I had in an electronics store, I bought an interesting little traveling pad. It allowed me to type on the screen and keep up my work in between trips. When I wasn’t putting up an act or signing things that held my name or some sort of sign of my influence. I would be on my pad. Tapping away at the screen or loading whatever was finished into my traveling notebook pro when I needed room to do more. For a while it felt like I was back on track. That is until I got behind a wheel on a very busy day. I was reckless that day and missed a red light. It was the only time I had that day to any writing. So I paid for it with shattered bones and a concussion.
When I first came to, I awoke in a hospital bed. Doctors all around me were relieved to see that I had gained consciousness. It was happy moment. So I smiled and asked the kind men for my own name. Amnesia and a clear sign of a severe case of it. I couldn’t remember anything. Not my job, my schedule, or my family for that matter. Nothing, but that one glimmer of perseverance that was always there from the start. I can still hear myself argue with the medical staff as they kept trying to offer me food. My writing had come first. I had thought back then that if I could only see her she would cure me. So I tried for days and nights. Sometimes without much rest or anything to eat. I wrote and wrote and made piles of my work while in the hospital. Still in the end, no reply.
By the end of that eventful year, I was released from medical hold for now to relive my life in hopes of regaining memories. Everything went back to normal except that I got fired from my job. An elongated leave of absence along with a sudden case of memory loss made the company think about what they may have to deal with in terms of insurance. Rather than paying a poor man to stay at home until he recollects everything about his job they cut ties and let me loose. Admitting that now still brings a smile to my face. I was free from the connection of social media, which meant more time for my work.
Now I had all the time in the world. Which meant I was back to square one. This time though, I was determined. I had more purpose to make her see me. I didn’t know anything else besides that I loved her. That each poem was meant to translate each beating of my heart that ached for her voice to reach out to me. Some sort of acknowledgment. Something to let me know that she saw all my hard work. I was sure that she is the key to it. I was sure of it. So I went back to my first method of writing my poems.
Within a week’s time I had trashed my place. The ground was covered by white pieces. I had been obsessed. Another poem and another. Adding to the layers that piled upon the carpet. Nothing but pen and paper filled my life. The days going by with always the same routine for what felt like an endless amount of time.
Wake up, have breakfast, brush my teeth, and shower. That morning preparation all just for me to sit on my desk and get to work. Writing and writing. Right up to the point where my fingers would hurt. Have lunch and check my writing supplies or go shopping for more food and paper. More writing and even more. Another break to reheat some leftovers from lunch for dinner. Then back to the grindstone with more writing in bed under the light of a lamp. Right when my hand would grow tired for the third time in my day it was a sign of slumber coming my way. Brush my teeth, set my supplies back on my desk, and then I would close my eyes.
The same thing every day. For so long. One year passed and then another. More and more of my poems took over my space. Trashing them seemed to be such a waste so I sent some of my work to the addresses in a logbook I had kept. Addresses I had used back when I had work. I’m sure one of their articles will reach her one of these days. She’ll know and then everything can go back to normal. I have to keep writing.
One strange day I had actually decided not to write. I was breathless that entire day. Any thought was null and void in my mind. I had no reason to write. Maybe something was telling me to stop for a moment? Something out of my own control taking over to give my the break I so deserved? I just needed her right here with me. She never needed to really reply. Her smile, her face. I’m sure that’s all I needed right then and there. Just to see her. By the end of that day I knew what was bugging me. It was me asking myself “Why?”. I was coming to realize what I was doing. What the chances were. So why did I continue? Regardless my hand returned to the pen that very night.
Last year was harsh on me. Even right now it’s difficult to write it let alone share it. That recent New Years celebration had ended and left me new inspirations to write about. I had planned out different material for my poems. Promising myself that I would find more creative ways of writing to her. It never felt good enough so I tried finding new ways make my poems.
While I was busy staring out at the newly lit night sky, it hit me. My body grew weak and my hands gripped whatever was in reach. I fell to my knees and felt paper crumple and a pencil snap within my grasp. It has all come back to me now. As my life flashed back into life I curled into a ball laid on my side as I cried and wailed out. For the pain was renewed in my heart for the girl who had died all those years ago.
Her name was Sarah and we had spent our childhood together. It wasn’t until around high school that I found out about my true feelings for her. I had spent half of the school year trying to impress her. The last thing I did for her was write a small poem. It was suppose to be my confession. I had decided to share it with her on our morning walk to the bus stop. Though fate had a different agenda and took her away when a storm struck down a tree right into her bedroom. Right while the angel slept exactly the night before. Even now it hurts calling out her name.
So here I am now recording what I can reconstruct for my new therapist in a memory journal. It’s for the better that I sort this out. Sarah would want me to. I can’t help myself from wanting her reply. The reason why I continue to write is because I still want her to read my words. I want my emotions to touch her. Wherever she may be. I know it is crazy but I believe that if I write enough it’ll get there. And then I’ll get my reply. You think if I wrote enough it’ll reach heaven and she’ll get to read it? If I collected all my poems now, would it be able to carry me to her spirit so we can talk? What would she say to me?
Not once did I ever lay a letter or flowers by her grave. I had refused to see that dreaded tombstone since I first saw it. I still want her to hold it my poem in her hands. I desire to look her in the eyes with that blushing bright face and see her smile for me. Perhaps now would be a good time to say goodbye and give her my poem?
Love can drive you to do strange and funny things.
No Reply
For the first scene, we get an excellent job at revealing both the background and main thrust of the story while appearing to talk about something else. I hope this continues.
And it does, but …
It never goes beyond that. “I'm obsessed and this life event happens. I'm obsessed and that life event happens. I'm obsessed and …” It gets tiring quicly Until, at the end, we get a sudden revelation, which clears a few things up, but on the whole feels a bit empty after the promise of the beginning. (Though this is a problem that haunts all mysteries, so I can't get too grumpy about it.)
So the technical skills on display here are impressive, but once again I find myself needing wanting something more substantial behind them.
For the first scene, we get an excellent job at revealing both the background and main thrust of the story while appearing to talk about something else. I hope this continues.
And it does, but …
It never goes beyond that. “I'm obsessed and this life event happens. I'm obsessed and that life event happens. I'm obsessed and …” It gets tiring quicly Until, at the end, we get a sudden revelation, which clears a few things up, but on the whole feels a bit empty after the promise of the beginning. (Though this is a problem that haunts all mysteries, so I can't get too grumpy about it.)
So the technical skills on display here are impressive, but once again I find myself needing wanting something more substantial behind them.
Early on, I figured the protagonist's muse was either dead or meant to represent some unattainable abstract concept of a significant other. This didn't make the road to the end unbearable, though. Accompanying the main character through his/her life and inner workings of their mind and how everything in their life is secondary to "her" was truly enjoyable, and I was eager to see how that would resolve.
...and then it didn't.
Yeah, main character accepts that Sarah is dead and will never reply to the poems, but it all happens so fast I feel it's a tad anticlimatic. One moment we're reading about how the memories of Sarah are coming back, and two paragraphs later, the story is over.
Eh...
Yeah... The protagonist's mom never told the therapist about Sarah? Because her death must have happened very closely to the moment the writing started, someone must have noticed.
I liked the protagonist, and the way his/hers view of life is portrayed, but overall, the story didn't hit me as hard as it could have.
...and then it didn't.
Yeah, main character accepts that Sarah is dead and will never reply to the poems, but it all happens so fast I feel it's a tad anticlimatic. One moment we're reading about how the memories of Sarah are coming back, and two paragraphs later, the story is over.
Eh...
She assured me that whoever I was writing for
Yeah... The protagonist's mom never told the therapist about Sarah? Because her death must have happened very closely to the moment the writing started, someone must have noticed.
I liked the protagonist, and the way his/hers view of life is portrayed, but overall, the story didn't hit me as hard as it could have.
This felt pretty repetitive in the middle.
And can you actually make money publishing poetry? I mean, I don't think there's really that much of a market for it.
Um, is the laser-guided-amnesia even useful for your story? It seems like he's done an excellent job of forgetting this girl without even getting hit by a car.
I feel like there's potential here for commentary about the self-destructive nature of obsession, and how the most crippling mental problems are the ones that come with benefits. I mean, sure, it's kinda destroying this guy's psyche, but he's a successful author, right?
And can you actually make money publishing poetry? I mean, I don't think there's really that much of a market for it.
Um, is the laser-guided-amnesia even useful for your story? It seems like he's done an excellent job of forgetting this girl without even getting hit by a car.
I feel like there's potential here for commentary about the self-destructive nature of obsession, and how the most crippling mental problems are the ones that come with benefits. I mean, sure, it's kinda destroying this guy's psyche, but he's a successful author, right?
It started very good. Felt a small kinship as we all have at one point had an idea or a purpose overtake us to such a degree it makes everything else fade away, and the feeling that the end result of our work in not good enough. There's a connection there.
It kept going and going about his obsession but it didn't get boring. It dragged on, but it pulled me with it. I was interested, and I gladly read each line.
The amnesia shook me. It felt tacked on, like a pre-requisite that had to be put on for the sake of completing an arbitrary list of tropes that must be in a work. It also felt like there was nothing coming out of it, apart from losing his job. He had already made himself forget the girl, and he could have lost or quit his job in hundreds of better ways that this. You know that thing you do, when your lips twist in distaste and your eyebrows furl like so, your whole expression saying "really?" I did that.
The end was... lackluster. There wasn't an impact. I would have waited a revelation, the character being taken aback, his core screaming. Instead I got, "Oh, fyi she's gone, kktnxbb." There wasn't an escalation of emotion or anything, the pace remained the sedate one it was before. At least a feeling of giving up or despair, nothing. Life goes, and the obsession continues even while the character had such an insight. Perhaps that is how humans work, but... yeah.
It kept going and going about his obsession but it didn't get boring. It dragged on, but it pulled me with it. I was interested, and I gladly read each line.
The amnesia shook me. It felt tacked on, like a pre-requisite that had to be put on for the sake of completing an arbitrary list of tropes that must be in a work. It also felt like there was nothing coming out of it, apart from losing his job. He had already made himself forget the girl, and he could have lost or quit his job in hundreds of better ways that this. You know that thing you do, when your lips twist in distaste and your eyebrows furl like so, your whole expression saying "really?" I did that.
The end was... lackluster. There wasn't an impact. I would have waited a revelation, the character being taken aback, his core screaming. Instead I got, "Oh, fyi she's gone, kktnxbb." There wasn't an escalation of emotion or anything, the pace remained the sedate one it was before. At least a feeling of giving up or despair, nothing. Life goes, and the obsession continues even while the character had such an insight. Perhaps that is how humans work, but... yeah.