“In a world that doesn’t understand, how is one to come to grips with a reality not accepted by others?” - Me
---------------------------------------------------------------

“How does it begin?” It starts with a tingling sensation in my spine. “I don’t know” I lie. “It just happens.” And then the tingling sensation travels up my spine to the base of my neck. “What are you aware of when it happens?” Pins and needles around my head, numbness spreading throughout my body giving me a warming feeling. A feeling that tells me that everything is good, that everything is alright. “Nothing. It just happens.” I lie again. “Surely there is something that you can tell me about it.” Yes! My mind starts racing and I can’t keep up. I lose control and I feel so lost. So helpless. Help me! “Nothing.”

I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again. I promised myself that this time I would talk about it. That I would not waste another chance for help. But I can’t let it go. I have to hold onto it. It’s all I have ever known. “There is nothing I can say, it just happens.” She stares at me with knowing eyes. Compassionate eyes. Eyes that make me want to tell her everything. I can feel my lips part, I can feel it build up inside, ready to come out. I can start to hear my voice. I’m doing it! I’m really going to talk this time! “You have to start talking to me, sooner or later” she says, and with her words all of my will to talk escapes me. My heart is beating out of my chest. I close up. Another wasted visit. Another wasted opportunity to talk. To finally let it all out. Another two weeks of telling myself that this time I will talk. Another lie that I have told myself. Another failure.

The rest of the session was her basically describing what Bipolar II was and the effects that it has on people that experience it. She described in detail about the hypomania and how I can have delusions of greatness and end up in a lot of trouble because of that. She also went on to explain the depression that usually followed, and how it can come before the hypomania as well. She explained everything. In detail. Again.

it's an action book, but the main character is a kid like me. Does the writing style suck?

I don't know what you mean by the 'book' Dan....

but I liked it ....I'm guessing you wrote that...

if it's a book...then you can continue writing it...it's very good
...no sucking!!

it's a book I'm starting

ok...cool...

keep going.

I believe you have the concentration...remarkable thing..

you got plenty of experience with the subject...and you got moment to moment expression...

...and honesty...thats the trip!

thank you

[gabmux]

Originally Posted by landskaperdan

it's an action book, but the main character is a kid like me. Does the writing style suck?

I vote no. The writing style does not suck.
I have experienced the ""spine tingling" thing before. What exactly is that?

[rothfan6]

I would read it. Your writing style doesn't suck at all. I like the conflict you show between the inner thoughts and what's said out loud.

Originally Posted by landskaperdan

thank you

no probs...

you can feel words...

so yes...you might just want to write them...

cool that

[Clinte89]

Very nice Dan. I would read it.

[thickntired]

I liked it! And writing can be very cathartic.

Peace & Hugs,

TnT

[faerie_moon_x]

Your writing style is good, but you have some technical errors that could get you shot down by an agent or editor. Example, technical is how to cook noodles (boil the water, add the noodles, let cook until aldente.) Style is the flavor and spices you add to the sauce.

“How does it begin?” It starts with a tingling sensation in my spine. “I don’t know” I lie. “It just happens.” And then the tingling sensation travels up my spine to the base of my neck. “What are you aware of when it happens?” Pins and needles around my head, numbness spreading throughout my body giving me a warming feeling. A feeling that tells me that everything is good, that everything is alright. “Nothing. It just happens.” I lie again. “Surely there is something that you can tell me about it.” Yes! My mind starts racing and I can’t keep up. I lose control and I feel so lost. So helpless. Help me! “Nothing.”

Break it down into conversational paragraphs like:

“How does it begin?”

It starts with a tingling sensation in my spine. “I don’t know.” I lie. “It just happens.” And then the tingling sensation travels up my spine to the base of my neck.

“What are you aware of when it happens?”

Pins and needles around my head, numbness spreading throughout my body giving me a warming feeling. A feeling that tells me that everything is good, that everything is alright. “Nothing. It just happens.” I lie again.

“Surely there is something that you can tell me about it.”

Yes! My mind starts racing and I can’t keep up. I lose control and I feel so lost. So helpless. Help me! “Nothing.”

Do you see the difference? It makes it easier to follow along and realize there are two people talking instead of one guy talking to himself. Just remember that every time a
new person beings speaking, you need a new paragraph.

I say keep going on the writing, telling your story is important.

it's not about me, but thank you for the formatting info! see, here is the prologue

“In a world that doesn’t understand, how is one to come to grips with a reality not accepted by others?” - Me
---------------------------------------------------------------

“How does it begin?”

It starts with a tingling sensation in my spine. “I don’t know” I lie. “It just happens.” And then the tingling sensation travels up my spine to the base of my neck.

“What are you aware of when it happens?”

Pins and needles around my head, numbness spreading throughout my body giving me a warming feeling. A feeling that tells me that everything is good, that everything is alright. “Nothing. It just happens.” I lie again.

“Surely there is something that you can tell me about it.”

Yes! My mind starts racing and I can’t keep up. I lose control and I feel so lost. So helpless. Help me! “Nothing.”

I promised myself I wouldn’t do this again. I promised myself that this time I would talk about it. That I would not waste another chance for help. But I can’t let it go. I have to hold onto it. It’s all I have ever known. “There is nothing I can say, it just happens.” She stares at me with knowing eyes. Compassionate eyes. Eyes that make me want to tell her everything. I can feel my lips part, I can feel it build up inside, ready to come out. I can start to hear my voice. I’m doing it! I’m really going to talk this time! “You have to start talking to me, sooner or later” she says, and with her words all of my will to talk escapes me. My heart is beating out of my chest. I close up. Another wasted visit. Another wasted opportunity to talk. To finally let it all out. Another two weeks of telling myself that this time I will talk. Another lie that I have told myself. Another failure.

The rest of the session was her basically describing what Bipolar II was and the effects that it has on people that experience it. She described in detail about the hypomania and how I can have delusions of greatness and end up in a lot of trouble because of that. She also went on to explain the depression that usually followed, and how it can come before the hypomania as well. She explained everything. In detail. Again.


PROLOGUE

The car was uncomfortable. The seat was positioned in a way that kept me from slouching over. Betty would be mad if I adjusted it. She had to have every little detail right and moving the seat would become such a big deal to her. She is the total opposite of my mom, who gives no attention to details. Even things larger than details, like me for instance. It’s amazing to me that two sisters can be such opposites. Betty cared enough for me to take me in when she saw what my mom was doing. She was going out and spending every last minute with her new boyfriend, often leaving me to cook and clean the house on my own. I really don’t see the big deal, I am 13 after all, and perfectly capable of doing things on my own. But Betty didn’t see it that way, and she quickly made arrangements for me as soon as she discovered what my mom was doing.

She thinks that I can’t take care of myself because of my condition. Looking at Betty I can’t help but think this. She thinks I need constant care and attention. She thinks I can’t do things for myself. Studying her face concentrating on the road as she drives, I can’t help but think of the past and all of the different emotions I have seen on her face before. Like when she used to argue with my mom about me, her nose wrinkled up and her eyes would narrow. Or when she first took me in and I did nothing around the house for a whole week out of protest… how sad and droopy her eyes had gotten. She was always my favorite person in this world. My favorite person until she took me in. I was so mad at her, mainly for taking away my freedom and my time alone that I had grown so fond of. For taking away the way of life that I had grown to know. I had a huge sense of accomplishment living on my own, doing the things that I knew needed to be done. Proud every time my mom and her boyfriend came home, proud to show off that yes, I did it. I was the one keeping everything together around the house. I was the one that was okay living alone. I was the one. No one else. And Betty took that away from me. Now I had no sense of accomplishment. Nothing. Nothing but constant supervision.

I look away from her, not wanting to see her face anymore. I turn towards the car window and I cross my arms by the window and lay my head on them. There is the gas station by our house with two cars in it. There is the fire station with it’s big roll up doors closed. Not a person in sight. Click, clack. Click, clack. I always hated the sound of the turn signal. Especially at the long lights, just hearing the sound repeatedly will always drive me mad. I watch the faces of the people driving their cars Betty turns left. Some of them looking right at me, some of them looking down into their laps. Texting, probably. I see the giant tree that tells me Betty turned into the first road of our neighborhood. The house is on the second road, but Betty takes this way sometimes when things are tense between us.

Parking the car, I feel her hand on my knee, giving it a squeeze before she gets out of the car and gently closes the door. I don’t budge from my position looking out the window out of protest. Protest of her taking me away from my life. Her dragging me to a psychiatrist. Her making me take medicine for a condition I won’t admit that I have. Her in general.

CHAPTER ONE

I wish I could articulate reality like you can Dan...

it's soothing to read...it's really very good.

you make all the details real by experiencing them too

[faerie_moon_x]

It doesn't matter if it's fiction or non-fiction. It's good to write. I can't write stories about me, I've tried a hundred times. So I break off pieces of myself or pieces I wish I could be, and I put them into my characters. It gives them their soul.

If you ever want some hardcore feedback (and I mean hardcore, don't ever go there if you can't take critisism,) a good place to post your work is authonomy.com. It's run by the publishing house: Harper Collins. I used to try to post Angel in Black there, I am going to do it again, once I get it closer to "done" and edited really well, because some of the people on there are brutal. You need 10,000 words to go live and every month they vote for books to be published for real. It's a good goal.