I used to be able to write very well.
Like, with proper grammar and those eye-catching sentences and stuff.
Recently, I've been wanting to write a story about a girl falling in love with a serial killer (sick s**t, I know) but I've been having serious writer's block.
I KNOW WHAT TO WRITE GODDAMNIT but I just don't know know HOW to write it.
Ughh it's killing me not to be able to put this down in words. The whole damn story keeps repeating itself perfectly in my head!
Want to read what I have so far as of 11/21/09 7:00p.m?
Like, with proper grammar and those eye-catching sentences and stuff.
Recently, I've been wanting to write a story about a girl falling in love with a serial killer (sick s**t, I know) but I've been having serious writer's block.
I KNOW WHAT TO WRITE GODDAMNIT but I just don't know know HOW to write it.
Ughh it's killing me not to be able to put this down in words. The whole damn story keeps repeating itself perfectly in my head!
Want to read what I have so far as of 11/21/09 7:00p.m?
My name was Anna Marie Johnson and I was fifteen years old.
I don’t remember when I was born.
Not that anyone else had remembered the exact details of their bloody fingers or the color the doctor’s eyes were but I literally had no memory of it, no pictures, no videos, nothing. All I had was what my mother murmured about me while her life ticked away.
My parents weren’t there when I was born.
My dad was dead and my mom was high out of her mind on anything she could get her hands on with a thousand dollar check in her pocket.
I don’t know exactly what had drove her to insanity, whether it be my father’s death or that she was pregnant with me. No one knew her and if they did, her p***y was all they could talk about.
That was all I heard before my mom stopped talking completely.
I hated her dead or alive and wanted nothing to do with that woman.
My name is Claire Marie Davis and I’m eighteen years old.
My life took a U-turn when I was put into foster care at fifteen. For three years I was in and out of homes of all different kinds with people of every ethnicity. Each of them fed me, clothed me, bathed me, and taught me but none of them cared for me like I was their own. After all, I was only in their house for a month or two before another family’s greedy hands get at me. It was all for the money.
The day I turned eighteen had to be the best thing that had happened to me.
My foster mother at the time looked at me right in the eye and took my hand in hers. She was a very old woman of 70 and was showing signs of Alzheimer’s disease and arthritis. Her cold and boney hands shook as she cupped them over mine. Tears slowly emerged from her cloudy eyes.
“Anna.” She said to me barely above a whisper. “I want you to be well after you leave. I want you to live better than your mother did. I want you to be happy. Do you hear me?” A crystal river was flowing down the wrinkled of her cheeks.
“I hear you, Ma.” I wiped the tears off of her face. “I hear you.”
“And you don’t ever come back here! I want to die knowing you are happy. Do you hear me?” She pulled my hand back on hers.
“I hear you.” I repeated.
“Good,” She let my hand go. “Good.”
I kissed her forehead lightly and pulled my hands away from her. She continued crying as she dabbed my nonexistent tears. It was right at that moment that I had to say that she was the only person I ever truly loved.
