[wantanewme]

Can I write well??? I got rejected by a bunch of literary agents and am working on my self esteem.... so idk if I can really write or not... my family says I can but I want to know if they are telling the truth. Thanks.

Chapter One

Odair is my name, odair!! How dare this be my fate… If only I could cry. I could scream but what good would that do?? At least we had these last moments together, and we are going down at the same time. My soul, or ghost as the world I knew would call it, hovered close to Gage’s. If we tried hard enough maybe we could stay in this moment.

Chapter Two

I sat in the waiting room for half an hour, and they had failed to call me back. If I was lucky the therapist will have not been able to make it. Then my mother would be satisfied with my reasoning as to why I didn’t go. She demanded I attend every session. At age sixteen I already had “special difficulties” as my mother would call them. It was kind of like I had PTSD only nothing had ever really happened to me. My thought was that the corrupt world was just too much for my weak brain to handle. It was the same dream every night. I was a ghost and the love of my life was being ripped away from me. “Odair!!!!!!!!!” the man’s voice would scream. I didn’t look like me, but that was me. I didn’t know how I knew it was me but it was. “Gwen”, said my therapist from the doorway that led back to the talk rooms. I looked up in dismay and added a soft “yes, coming”. I then got up as slow as a slug and headed that way.
My therapist was in the same class as me, so her appearance was always grand and very put together. The classes were separated however so I didn’t really know how much less class the other sections had. Our class was as good as royalty. Our section was where the “Great Sir” lived. His reign was much kinder than his fathers and forefathers, which said a lot. We all lived in fear. Only those who were technically royalty knew his real name. Royalty could marry anyone in the purple class (the class I was in), but to marry beyond this section would be treason punishable by death. The only class that was allowed to travel to the different sections was white section. They were known as the servitude class. The thought was that since they were raised in it, it wouldn’t seem as bad to them. But we all knew that was a lie. They worked for days straight then slept for days straight, and their commute to purple section was a long one since purple was the furthest from white. They always looked tired. Many of them died before the age of forty, but since every couple in white was required to have children, the population of white still seemed to flourish.
“Gwen I asked you a question”, my therapist said from her “spinny” chair and I found myself being tossed into awareness like a person being pushed into an icy lake on a winter’s morning. Dr. Isa Swan was not as sweet as her name would lead you to believe. But then again, who could be in this world? “Well clearly you are going to have to repeat it” I snarled with equivalent distain.
“did you have that dream again??” Isa repeated. Like angry bees my eyes narrowed in on her, wanting to attack. But I remained a little civil, “yes… I had the dream”. “Have you been taking those dreamlessness pills??” and there it was the final straw. I felt my sanity snap inside me, but I remained calm. “Yes I have”, I lied. “Well if you’re such an anomaly maybe the great sir should hear about you… those pills have never failed before. Unless of course you are lying to me??” Isa said with all her sass. I ought to have told her the truth and apologized, I ought to not have been dreaming of strangling her, but instead I kept dreaming and said “perhaps the great sir ought to know about your infidelity”. I had her there and she knew it. Infidelity was punishable by death. Once I came to my session early and went back (they really would lock the doors to the talking rooms if they were smart) to see if we could miss our appointment and have her call my mom/tell her that she was “sick”. There she was on the couch I usually sit on being taken by a man who was not her husband, I knew it was not her husband because her husband was the great sir’s advisor. They never heard me open or shut the door, and I never came in early to my appointment again. When I was early or she was late—sitting in the waiting room became my fate. Isa gasped, “but how… how do you…. You are not to tell anyone of my infidelity you urchin” then quickly she composed herself. “I see it is best for both of us if you go under someone else’s care” she said with a fake empathetic tone. She added, “ a new therapist is just what you need. I will inform your mother. By the way… how’s your fiancé??”
I was bewildered, confused, dumb-struck, in complete and utter shock by that statement. What fiancé was she referring to?? Had she finally completely gone mad?? By the time I arrived at home my mother had answered the question that had thwarted my mind. “Darling, the Great Sir had chosen you as his bride”.
I could barely comprehend what I heard… there were so many eligible girls my age in purple. Why me? Dear God why me? I was fairly ordinary, except my demented problems. Had he even ever seen me? I certainly don’t recall seeing him ever.
“I know you don’t remember” my mother said breaking the loudest silence I had ever heard, “but you met him when you were ten… It was on the news. He was the man that gave you the rose. It was all over the news he met the prettiest girl he’d ever seen with eyes of gold”. And no one thought he was a pedophile?? Unbelievable. He’s had his eye on me since I was a little girl.
“He told me broken you are more beautiful than any other whole girl”, my mother actually had the audacity to smile and shed a tear. “isn’t that sweet honey??” she managed to get out in her cracked voice. She couldn’t of been serious, a good mother wouldn’t have actually meant that, but I knew my mother and she was honest to a fault.
“I need some space for a while”, I heard myself say. Then I raced to my room, locked the door behind me, and began packing as quickly as I could. All the sections could wear any color except solid white. That was reserved for the white section. White class must wear solid white. So I packed the most colorful assortment of clothes you ever saw because that was all I had. Inside the pain had been reduced to numbness, and I felt paralyzed inside but I forced myself to move. I opened the window, popped out the screen, and ran. I ran for miles until I reached purple’s border—on the other side was yellow. The gates would open and shut as the carriages containing whites passed in and out. They all had different schedules. All the whites that is. One white was standing next to me, I hadn’t even noticed her. She was a withered old lady with glossy silver hair, petite little hands and feet, wrinkles as old as time, and soft blue eyes. For a white she was a beacon of hope, a dream come true, and someone to look up to because no one in white lived that long. “Dear you look like an absolute mess”, she whispered to me. Just that one line turned numbness into searing pain as I struggled to get out words in gasps between tears that never seemed to stop flowing. “Th… Th… Thank the great sir for m… m… my distress ma’am”. It was quite a thing to say, and in fact could have landed me in prison for life or at the guillotine, or as one of the “training bodies” the army used. The Great Sir’s army was impeccable because they trained by fighting and killing the “criminals” of the city. “oh my…. Gwen Athers?” the old lady muttered in shock. “Follow me” the old woman said in an even softer tone than before…. We went down many alleys before we were finally in a deserted dangerous looking alley. What sat before me made my stomach turn. It was a dead body, a dead body in a full white garb. “About your size eh?” said the old lady as she began to strip the dead body of its apparel. Our eyes met and I knew what I had to do. This old lady was going to help me. I had to get to the forgotten forest. It was the most dangerous forest in the world, but the only place I would not be found.
After I swiftly put on the clothes the nice old woman had found for me, we went to her carriage. It was ratty but painted a nice shade of white. Even the horses that pulled the carriages were white. As we approached the gate my stomach lurched and there I was nothing I could do to keep my hands from shaking. Luckily most whites were a little shaky from fatigue or hunger. If my face had been on the news surely the guards would recognize me. What kind of foolish idea had we had?? But just then the old woman said “pretend to be asleep”. I shut my eyes and felt the carriages jolt forward. I heard the guard ask “shouldn’t the young one be driving and you be sleeping??” and the old woman swiftly replied “ah but I am old because of my strength and she is asleep because she is weak”. There was a moment of silence than the carriage pulled forward again, I could hear the gates swinging open, and the guard talking to the carriage behind us. We made it. “There now, you can open your eyes for a while….” Said the kind old woman. “May I ask your name”, I whispered. “Claudia Marlow” she uttered wiping a tear from her eye. I wish I knew her pains, and could assist her as she assisted me. “You know”, I said as kindly as I could, “I could always use a friend in the forgotten forest”. Suddenly she was shaking her head no and smiling. “Dear this old body could not face the ferociousness of the forest… what lies ahead for you is a great battle—a battle these old bones can’t bear.” My heart sunk, because she was right. What lied ahead was perhaps the most daunting path anyone could ever take, the unknown. To most a path into the forgotten forest was known, you would be forgotten. Forgotten due to the mysterious death that was promised to all who dared enter the forgotten forest. Tales of demons possessing animals bodies that people have never seen brutally murdering trespassers. Not even the great sirs army dared enter the forgotten forest. On One side of purple was the ocean and past all the sections was the forgotten forest than the ocean again. We were told we were the only country left standing after the nuclear battle, but I was sure that was a lie. There was too much misery and it had to be balanced out by bliss somewhere else-- perhaps something even much greater than bliss since the world in which we lived was so much worse than misery.
I remember as a child I used to cut, but since I didn’t want anyone to know I did it on my upper thighs. It was the only time I really felt like I was alive. This “adventure” gave me the same rush. Just as the searing pain counteracted the numbness inside, this adventure counteracted my hopelessness. I had been so wrapped up in my thoughts I hadn’t even noticed how different yellow was. Our city was filled with all different colors but yellow was primarily yellow with accents of other colors. Everything in purple was modern except for the white’s carriages, but here everything was last year’s styles. I saw everybody using last year’s technology. Would everything get increasingly worse until white?? I hope not for the people’s sake. Not that it mattered what technology one had in this world of despair.

Chapter Three

It took 24 hours to get to Claudia’s shack. At least that is what Claudia told me as she shook me awake in the middle of the night. I couldn’t believe we were here, finally at white. I noticed Claudia’s shack said Apothecary on it. Inside her shack smelled of every herb you could think of, quite a fitting place for the most calming woman I’d ever met. One wall was full of shelves, bottles, and boxes. The other side was a bed, little circular table, a window, and a tiny little fridge. “Claudia”, I mumbled half yawning. “Yes dear”, her soothing voice replied. “I need something to heal wounds should I need it…. The forgotten forest isn’t known for being forgiving to those who are hurt”. I saw her scrutinizing what I said, not in a mean way by any means, but as if she were seeing if just something to heal my wounds was enough. Two fingers beckoned me to follow her as she crouched to the floor and started knocking on wood. When she struck one piece of wood it made a hollow sound. Then she carefully lifted the wood after jiggling it loose. A jeweled box. How could someone in white have a jeweled box?? It looked like real jewels to!!! It was a tiny little trinket though that fit in the palm of her tiny hand. She pulled out a necklace with a rose quartz stone heart on a sterling silver chain. It almost glowed. I had worn it before. I don’t know how, but I have…

Chapter Four

Climbing the large brick wall was not quite as daunting as what was on the other side—that being the rebellion. Making peace with the rebellion (I didn’t even know there was a rebellion) took quite a bit of effort. At first they thought the Great Sir had sent out a training body to report on whether the forgotten forest was a treacherous as had been rumored, but finally I was able to convince them. Blaise was one of the newer members of their gang and was the first to chime in that he didn’t think I was lying. After all, he said, didn’t he not belong to the “original gang”. He seemed like the charmer, dazzling silver eyes, golden blonde hair, real masculine bone structure, and oh those muscles!! I usually didn’t notice men… or anyone for that matter. He didn’t seem like anyone though. He was… different.
There was so much I had to get used to. Whether it be the cold air, damp dirty floor of the cave, or always having someone on watch. When everyone went out in two’s to do their work for the day, my job was to sit in the cave and watch Emma (the child in the gang), while Blaise watched over me/the cave. We were told on nice days we could go outside—but what fun would that be in the rain?? So I sat in complete boredom while Emma talked about an imaginary world.
When Emma fell asleep I turned my attention to Blaise. His well-defined face, perfect complexion, and broad shoulders were just a few things that lightened my dreary mood. Perhaps I could be happy, I thought. Maybe, just maybe I could be free within the world that matters to me. Maybe I could find love, and maybe it could be with him. Why did I find the thought of solitude once so enthralling and then let the sight of one man completely overturn that thought. It was as if my dream was true and I had another half. Only I had been ripped from him, because our silence held the loudest truth of all—that we did not know each other. Much like my dreams I loved a perfect stranger, and unlike my dreams he did not love me back.
“You know”, Blaise said as he looked my way “I thought your name would be Odair or something…” he phrased that as if he was searching me for answers. I could be holding the answer he was looking for. Was he crazy? No. Was I crazy? For the first time in a long time the answer was no. It was real. My dream was real. He knew it, I knew it. There wasn’t a logical conclusion that could be drawn, but somehow it didn’t matter. We had found each other for a reason. We were two pieces of a puzzle that fit together, and although we hadn’t met until we had come together I was certain that it would last forever.
Before I could answer his question the gang could be heard drawing nearer to us from a distance, and he said “never mind, I must need sleep”. I was still in quite a bit of shock, and lost in my thoughts so I nodded. For now he could be kept in the dark as I was for so long, and I would shine a light when I wasn’t trying to search for more answers to the looming questions in my head. Why had we had the same dream? What could all this mean? Could such a love be real? Could we be those people in our dream? And how if we were the people in our life right now? Everything made little sense and I began to feel ridiculously tense. It seemed as if he just had uttered he was tired and now the rowdy new family that I had was back from doing whatever they do with packed full bags made of deer skin where empty ones once were.

Chapter Five

“you are just human, you act like you’re a God”, said the mighty Dauvain God of drama and entertainment. Convinced his creations could find goodness in the system of their recycled salvation, and meaning in the lives that they lived, he found no problem in establishing a system for the God’s entertainment. He was an artist, creator of a life that lived like God’s without the need for identity as God’s had. Only more recently he had been receiving guff from the other God’s. I had heard him being attacked for creating monsters, and there had been talk about letting him continue that one system so as not to be murderers, but to turn their backs from the world of humans. In other words, the system would continue without the supervision of the other God’s. The Gods’ world was called Livana. The souls of the humans lived in an area beside it as they waited to be brought down to earth for their new lives. It was an endless cycle. The Gods simply ignored the souls now—which was much different from the past when they were deeply fascinated by these recycled creatures.
Suddenly I was jolted awake—what the hell? Why had all my dreams been the same up until now? Now that this new man was in my life it was like I was receiving more pieces to a puzzle that I had never envisioned putting together.

[IchbinkeinTeufel]

Seems pretty good to me, regarding the story.
(sorry, I'm too tired to read it all, so I skimmed, but I liked what I saw)

[spondiferous]

Hey there, wantanewme, looks like you're fairly new to PC so welcome.
First off, it doesn't really matter how 'good' you are. Literary agents are tough buggers to bag. I have a friend who is an incredibly gifted writer and couldn't get anyone to run her work (she was applying mostly to publications, etc) and now she's getting published all over the place after years of rejection letters. If you're serious about writing, don't give up, and what I would also suggest is a writing class. It doesn't have to be a university degree, or anything like that; but writing with other people, being exposed to different styles and different formats, and getting honest, constructive critiques on your work not only helps you become a better writer, but it helps you develop a thicker skin. Because again, no matter how 'good' you are, there's always someone out there (usually multiple someones) who will find fault in it.
Good luck!

[tinyrabbit]

Hey wantanewme. I'm a freelance writer, have had short stories published and have an MA in creative writing, just to add some credence to my advice. I have some tips for you. I see writing as a craft, not just an art - you can always learn new tricks and techniques.

My advice to you is:

Mind your spelling and grammar. You shouldn't be submitting work with typos in it to agents and there are lots here, mainly issues with upper/lowercase and punctuation. If you're not sure about proofreading, ask a friend or relative to do it.

It's really important to show rather than tell. So rather than saying that someone is into vintage fashion and rides the bus, you might describe their vintage Chanel bag and mention that there are some bus tickets in it.

Here are some examples from your piece where you're telling, not showing:

"I sat in the waiting room for half an hour, and they had failed to call me back." You could show this by talking about a clock or watch, and a receptionist who isn't speaking to you.

"...her appearance was always very grand and put together" - how? What did she wear? How did she do her hair? Was her lipstick perfect?

You do some showing here, but mostly it's a lot of telling.

Lastly, make sure you read agents' submission guidelines. Are you sending an entire manuscript when they want a proposal consisting of three chapters and a synopsis? You would be better off working up a good proposal than sending an entire unsolicited manuscript which will go on the slushpile.

Hope that helps.

[Maven]

I agree with tinyrabbit. Also, using multiple punctuation marks (!!!!! or ?????) usually is seen as unprofessional.

Watch your capitalization and order of punctuation marks, too: "you are just human, you act like you're a God", said the mighty Dauvain God of drama and entertainment. It should be as follows: "You are just human. You act like you're a god," said the mighty Dauvain God of drama and entertainment. (If that whole term is a name, then it should be "Dauvain God of Drama and Entertainment.") Although you can do it in a limited manner, you shouldn't separate two sentences with a comma. Use a period (or exclamation or question mark, if the sentence calls for it). Notice the comma is inside the quotation marks.

I agree you should try a writer's class and buy a good reference on writing.

[sewerrats]

Bigger print woudent go a miss , you wouldent print a book with that small lettering, i just carnt see it to read it.

[Shiny Things]

I liked your story, it is very interesting. I think more cogent paragraphs might help. Think of them like little bubbles of pieces of story. I'm not a writer, nor do I play one on tv.

I am working right now and don't have the time to read your writing, but I will say this. The average writer works five years before getting a contract or finding an agent willing to pick them up. Piers Anthony, one of my favorite authors, worked over ten years making squat for magazines and writing short stories before he was recognized enough to be published, and his second book, A Spell for Chameleon, took him from his wife supporting them and him bringing in only a few dollars to him making over six figures overnight.

To a degree, your talent has nothing to do with whether you will be selected by an agent or a publisher. The more you can put your name out there will help, however. Start a blog using your book (this is recommended by almost everyone these days), pick up freelance writing jobs, anything that will get you known by people. It will greatly increase your chances. Writing, much like acting, singing and a number of other things has as much to do with being at the right place at the right time and luck as it does with talent.

If you haven't picked up The Writer's Market, it is a writer's best friend with suggestions and it's loaded with publisher and agent info.

My background: I've been writing freelance for over ten years off and on. I have written one full book (which I've been publicizing for over two years), and started about four others. You can check out my book project I'm currently turning in to a blog by going to the link after my signature. My other blog about my adventure moving across country is also there.

I'm not an expert, but if you or anyone would like to answer questions, I'll answer the best that I can. I've been doing this for a while.

P.S. I just read through other's comments and want to reiterate a few. ANY errors are reasons for someone to refuse you. You need to have someone look at your work, and in order to be a writer, you have to develop a bit of a thick skin. By the time an editor is done with your work, you may not recognize it. They are notorious for tearing it apart. As for writing size, if you're sending it at the size it's currently at, most won't read it. They generally want it a 12pt, double spaced, and their specifications are usually well written out.

Be patient and diligent. You will need every ounce of self-confidence and determination you have to break in. Most people don't get in easy, but when you succeed, it will make up for everything.

[Maven]

I also want to mention, you might write the next great novel, but if it isn't submitted following the agent's/publisher's guidelines, it will probably be tossed aside and not even looked at.