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Greatness
Life starts as a blank paper. From the moment I was born, my story was being written. The subjects covered early in life are mostly about things most other people would find menial: my parents, my likes, my dislikes, friends’ names, et cetera. I lived life passively, just letting things come to me. Those around me wrote my life’s novel, rather than myself.
As I grew, I contracted Ambition. That insidious wretch and blessed saint told me that I was the author of my own tale, the captain of my own ship and destiny and planted the desire to write my own story that will be remembered. The disease to be unsatisfied with normalcy and the yearning for greatness.
From then onwards, the complacent life of an average person seemed like a blight. Here were people who wrote stories that no one cared to read. Their stories got shuffled into the backroom of life’s library and stuffed into a dim, dusty room where no one ever ventured, let alone came to read, with billions of lonely manuscripts. The untold stories of every man, woman, and child who lived and died without being remarkable.
Were I to die today, I would be sorted in that same room. Mourned briefly, then lost to the annals of time and human existence. I can’t accept that. I must act, but how? How does one become a Great? What can I write, what can I do, to be enshrined in the glorious main room of life’s library? There’s too many options, too many possibilities that could all fail and leave me with nothing. What’s the best choice? Where does my story go?
Reality is harsh and impatient, and as I age past adulthood, I feel the doors around me shutting, the framework of my story being written. Will it be great? Will it be boring? Have I already trapped myself in a pointless, dull tome that nobody would dare open?
I sit terrified, weighing my options. Perhaps I spend ten years this sort of way doing that, then I will be in a prime position to be great or perhaps I’ll be no good, or even worse hate what I’m doing. What will my story look like then? Am I even writing my own story anymore?
I have no great talent as far as I’m aware. I am pretty decent at a lot of things, but not great at anything. Will I discover something I’m great at? Is it already too late for that? Am I a normal person, just like everyone else?
Please help. I don’t know what I’m doing, and every step forward I take seems like a step backwards. My story is full of hastily crossed-out sentences and blotted with white-out. I’ve switched to a pencil now since I can’t trust myself with a pen anymore. Everything was so much easier when I was a child. I could dream big and never worry about following up with my expectations.
I am a rudderless boat set adrift in a vast ocean, desperately searching for shore. I can do nothing but sit and hope. My story continues to be written without me. Time stops for no one, but I still beg for it to slow, just for me.
“I’ll write, I’ll write! Just give me a moment to sort things out!”
After a moment, I reach for my pen, but it is gone.
The uncaring specter of Time writes for me.
As I grew, I contracted Ambition. That insidious wretch and blessed saint told me that I was the author of my own tale, the captain of my own ship and destiny and planted the desire to write my own story that will be remembered. The disease to be unsatisfied with normalcy and the yearning for greatness.
From then onwards, the complacent life of an average person seemed like a blight. Here were people who wrote stories that no one cared to read. Their stories got shuffled into the backroom of life’s library and stuffed into a dim, dusty room where no one ever ventured, let alone came to read, with billions of lonely manuscripts. The untold stories of every man, woman, and child who lived and died without being remarkable.
Were I to die today, I would be sorted in that same room. Mourned briefly, then lost to the annals of time and human existence. I can’t accept that. I must act, but how? How does one become a Great? What can I write, what can I do, to be enshrined in the glorious main room of life’s library? There’s too many options, too many possibilities that could all fail and leave me with nothing. What’s the best choice? Where does my story go?
Reality is harsh and impatient, and as I age past adulthood, I feel the doors around me shutting, the framework of my story being written. Will it be great? Will it be boring? Have I already trapped myself in a pointless, dull tome that nobody would dare open?
I sit terrified, weighing my options. Perhaps I spend ten years this sort of way doing that, then I will be in a prime position to be great or perhaps I’ll be no good, or even worse hate what I’m doing. What will my story look like then? Am I even writing my own story anymore?
I have no great talent as far as I’m aware. I am pretty decent at a lot of things, but not great at anything. Will I discover something I’m great at? Is it already too late for that? Am I a normal person, just like everyone else?
Please help. I don’t know what I’m doing, and every step forward I take seems like a step backwards. My story is full of hastily crossed-out sentences and blotted with white-out. I’ve switched to a pencil now since I can’t trust myself with a pen anymore. Everything was so much easier when I was a child. I could dream big and never worry about following up with my expectations.
I am a rudderless boat set adrift in a vast ocean, desperately searching for shore. I can do nothing but sit and hope. My story continues to be written without me. Time stops for no one, but I still beg for it to slow, just for me.
“I’ll write, I’ll write! Just give me a moment to sort things out!”
After a moment, I reach for my pen, but it is gone.
The uncaring specter of Time writes for me.
I... mmph.
This is toeing a line between being an opinion dump and being an actual story. I'm reading about a character voicing their concerns just as they're living their life about how they'll be remembered, but... it's kind of too vague, and kind of too on-the-nose...
I didn't really get invested in this one. I can hem and haw about why, but I can't quite put my finger on it.
This is toeing a line between being an opinion dump and being an actual story. I'm reading about a character voicing their concerns just as they're living their life about how they'll be remembered, but... it's kind of too vague, and kind of too on-the-nose...
I didn't really get invested in this one. I can hem and haw about why, but I can't quite put my finger on it.
Boring, forgettable, with a not-plot that's unimaginative. The only reason its not the very bottom of my slate is that its not 'in your face' meta, just, 'writing about not writing' meta.
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
-Ozymandius by Percy Bysshe Shelly
I'm really not surprised that this round has brought out the meta in us; Mono's opening epigraph, along with the prompt (I wondered after seeing the prompt, whether his 'Noooooo!' had a significant impact on the votes...) really suggests the theme of 'writing' as 'the endless struggle', especially since, if anyone knows what sort of a struggle writing is, it would be authors aspirant. Still, this seems sorta clumsy and overdone, and I reacted rather poorly to it.
The ending here has something of a message, in that if the character ever wants to be successful in something they actually need to get up and start doing, rather than thinking, but... the whole thing deals with fairly personal ideas, which are likely to be decisive. If this wasn't meta, that might be alright; given a distinct character to project on, people can say 'I understand that works for you, but I disagree'.
But as it is, I think people putting themselves in the place of this nameless, faceless 'I' will find themselves annoyed by what seem to be presumptions about where they draw self-worth from, whether 'greatness' is worth it or how it's best pursued - infamy may be remembered as long or longer than fame - and such. And although I can understand some of what's written here, I think I fundamentally disagree on a fair bit, too, and that annoyed me as I read.
In the end, I think this is rather too obviously meta for the topic it's trying to handle.
Oh, also, I'm pretty sure you've used menial wrong. But maybe not, I dunno.
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
-Ozymandius by Percy Bysshe Shelly
I'm really not surprised that this round has brought out the meta in us; Mono's opening epigraph, along with the prompt (I wondered after seeing the prompt, whether his 'Noooooo!' had a significant impact on the votes...) really suggests the theme of 'writing' as 'the endless struggle', especially since, if anyone knows what sort of a struggle writing is, it would be authors aspirant. Still, this seems sorta clumsy and overdone, and I reacted rather poorly to it.
The ending here has something of a message, in that if the character ever wants to be successful in something they actually need to get up and start doing, rather than thinking, but... the whole thing deals with fairly personal ideas, which are likely to be decisive. If this wasn't meta, that might be alright; given a distinct character to project on, people can say 'I understand that works for you, but I disagree'.
But as it is, I think people putting themselves in the place of this nameless, faceless 'I' will find themselves annoyed by what seem to be presumptions about where they draw self-worth from, whether 'greatness' is worth it or how it's best pursued - infamy may be remembered as long or longer than fame - and such. And although I can understand some of what's written here, I think I fundamentally disagree on a fair bit, too, and that annoyed me as I read.
In the end, I think this is rather too obviously meta for the topic it's trying to handle.
Oh, also, I'm pretty sure you've used menial wrong. But maybe not, I dunno.
If you wrote in such a way that you pleased yourself, or pleased, helped or instructed others, you've made of your life a good book. Greatness often isn't worth the candle.
I feel the sentiments behind this story, having considered some of them myself. But this is more of a statement of a frame of mind than a story. The reader is less likely to commiserate than to say, "Oh, you want to be great, eh? Join the club." I feel the protagonist is too passive, and hence the work is as well.
I feel the sentiments behind this story, having considered some of them myself. But this is more of a statement of a frame of mind than a story. The reader is less likely to commiserate than to say, "Oh, you want to be great, eh? Join the club." I feel the protagonist is too passive, and hence the work is as well.
Not great, ho hum. This story I think gets lost in the pretensions of its own ideas so much so that it ceases to be a story. The author seems to be aware of this to some extent because when it comes for the ending line, we are given something of a parable's conclusion. Nonetheless, as a parable, this story fails to impress because it seems that the ending is more tacked on to the existing diatribe with little regard to how it fit with the musings of the protagonist. If the author wanted to go for a "Obsessing Over Greatness Prevents You From Living Life" moral, he/she should have actually established that quality in the narrator before heading towards the conclusion. As it stands, this is primarily a non-story.
Rating: Not so great
Rating: Not so great
Well, I don't have much to say. I don't relate much to the character hereby depicted, since I never wanted to be on centre stage. Limelight is not for me, I'm the extreme opposite of an ambitious. I just try to live my life as easily as possible and making everyone around me happy is my prime reward.
So, not much to say here, except: it serves them right.
So, not much to say here, except: it serves them right.
So, unfortunately, for me, this just takes the aspects of both Sunlight and Other Things and Performance Eval that bugged me and combines them into something I just really don't enjoy.
That said, writing is decent and I can certainly empathize with the narrator, just... yeah. Not my kind of piece.
Watch changing your metaphors. The addition of the boat thing is a bad idea, IMO. Stick to one core idea and don't bring in other metaphors.
That said, writing is decent and I can certainly empathize with the narrator, just... yeah. Not my kind of piece.
Watch changing your metaphors. The addition of the boat thing is a bad idea, IMO. Stick to one core idea and don't bring in other metaphors.