If you're not sure what to say, here are some questions to answer.
1. Did it hold your interest?
2. Does the main character seem/likable ?
3. Does reading this make you want to know what happens next?
Thanks in advance!
Here it is-have at it. :P
Good Morning, Dad, Good Morning,
Warren”. In some distant, quiet, part of my brain I hear them
both answer, “Good morning!” It kills me hearing them so cheery
but if they are where I believe they are, I suppose that makes sense.
You need to understand one thing about
me right off the bat. (Cue the eerie music). I talk to dead
people. No, I don't see them, like
that creepy little kid in “The Sixth Sense “ or that stick woman
with the surgically enhanced boobs in “The Ghost Whisperer” I
talk to them. Some of the time they talk back, most of the time, they
just listen. Sometimes, when they feel like it, they pay me a visit
and strike up a conversation.
I talk
to my dad, who's been gone for seven years now. I still miss him
like he passed yesterday. He and I were close, and he, well, he got
me, like only a few of my
friends now, do.
Warren is Warren
Zevon, the brilliant musician who was taken by cancer much too early.
I used to listen to him in high school and college, and recently
started listening to him again, discovering that he wrote some
profound, and almost beautifully painful songs. I'm reading his
biography right now, and the more I learn about him the more I'm sure
that he and I would have been friends (and possibly more) if we'd run
into each other . Maybe I'll get to talk to him in the Next Life,
that is, if I survive this one.
Now that you know
that, I'll introduce myself formally. I'm Sydney Wallace, 42,
aspiring journalist, writer, and former publicist for Mr. Peter
Sampson, the famous Broadway actor. If you haven't been living
under a rock, you'll recognize the name immediately, if not, trust,
me you're better off. I say 'former publicist ' because I just left
my job a week ago and am now frantically searching for something new,
so that I can continue to pay my rent and eat. Fortunately I saved
some of my paycheck so I can make it for two months, maybe three if I
eat Ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It also gives me
time to work on the novel I've been trying to write for two years
now. At least that's what I tell myself those days I don't job hurt,
but stare at the blank page on my laptop and curse that blinking
cursor that whines “you don't give me enough to do”.
No,
a writer's life is not an easy one, but, seeing as I've been writing
stories and little poems since I was seven years old, and making them
up for as long as I can remember it's kind of hard to stop now. Even
though my mother nags, “find a real job,
one with stability and a nice 401K plan that will see you through
your golden years.” What she doesn't say is that if I had a job
like that I'd be more likely to find an acceptable man with money so
I wouldn't have to work, and who would support me in my golden years.
Ugh. That's her
idea of a wonderful life, not mine.
It's
not that I wouldn't like to have someone to share my life with, a
companion, a friend, a guaranteed date for big events and holidays,
but I seem to have a tendency to fall for the unavailable whether
they are fledgling sociopaths, (I almost married that one), already
married, or dead. (I've told you about the dead one already.). I'm
pretty sure that marriage is out of the picture for now, and I've
been trying to muffle the ticking of my biological clock with about
twelve pillows. Some times that works, other days, not so much.
I've basically accepted.that I will be alone, and the more I stay
that way,the more I realize that there aren't many men who could
put up with most of my more, well let's just call them
eccentricities.
So,
that's where I am right now. It's not perfect, but it's a damned
sight better than where I was a week ago.
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