For your viewing displeasure I bring you two entries: one, a teenage love poem. Yes, you saw that coming, didn't you?
Let me preface this little disaster with:
a) I was writing under a pen name composed of three of my favorite poets, Sara (as in Teasdale) Butler (as in Yeats) and Autumn because it rhythms with Auden (as in W. H.) and
b) I was going through a hard core e.e. cummings phase. This entry is not the worst that came out of it, but I think this selection is both sappy and angtsy, without having any sort of redeeming qualities, unlike some of the other poetry that came out of this phase.
Sara Butler Autumn
I take no comfort in knowing
that mine are not the only
tears that have ever shed.
Nor does the thought that I
am not all alone in my grief,
in my sorrow. I know you
have hurt many just like
me; their numbers are stacked
high up, like checkers. But this
does not make the pain less;
does not stop the tears from flowing.
This does not stop the meaning in my
life from going.
Even more "special" than that little bit of angry poetry, I give you a few paragraphs of one of my early attempts at writing a novel.
I started trying to write novels in high school, and attempted this feat even though I knew next to nothing about how one went about such a task. Concepts like word count and genre didn't enter into my vocabulary, and I wrote with reckless abandon. Most of it is drivel, but I can see some of my style coming out.
Apparently my style at the time was overwrought imagery. I can't tell you how many times I was told I "walllowed" in my imagery. Since that's what I was going for at the time I took this to be a compliment. (what can I say, I experimented a lot as a teenager. We all go through a phase. Or two.)
"The young women stepped with one black, high sandaled foot in front of the other, cat-like, a tigress, using every curve and shape of her exquisite body to her advantage. Her bronze doeskin pants were laced with black leather up her long coltish legs to her hips, with a tan leather belt encircling her waist, the fringe from the end of the belt bouncing back and forth with her cat-stepping.
She wore a beige shirt, two or three shades lighter then her pants, that had a broad neckline, and showed her ivory shoulders, so pure-looking in the burning desert. Most people had never seen anyone without a deep tan, and that alone made her unequaled in their eyes. A black leather choker circled her neck, with tan, beige, and fawn colored beads woven into it. Matching beaded bands circled her wrists. A light cloak that matched her pants in color and material was tied loosely at her neck."
My font of choice at the time was Book Antiqua, but apparently Blogger doesn't support my nostalgia. This description of my character went on for eleven more paragraphs. I wish I was joking. I really wanted to make sure that reader knew what she looked like, so I described her in painstaking detail.
I swear I have learned valuable lessons on "show don't tell" since then. Honest. Please don't judge me.
Better yet, join me! Let today be a marker as to how far you have come! Post some sappy journal entries, teenage love poetry, and old "novels". Link back here, and on the Rejectionist and join us in our embarrassment!