LOA_Muscle
Virgin
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2014
- Posts
- 8
Please PM interest. Include a character biography and a sample first post in your message. My SRP profile is in my signature. Please read this before replying.
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It was a late autumn afternoon, and I was sitting in a quaint coffee shop off of Main Street. My head buried in my laptop and the open word processor in front of me. For three days, with little sleep and a great deal of caffeine I had poured over this short story, about a young girl who sought out her father in Ireland after being abandoned by her mother, and, like everything else I'd written in a long time, it too had been rejected from publication. The only indication that someone had even read the manuscript I sent was the scrawled words "too unclear" written on the top of the first page of the physical copy I had at home.
So there I was, like every other failed writer, penning out my great works in a café on my laptop. Normally I hated to be that person, but, as a young woman trying to make it on her own as a professional writer, not having had anything published in nearly a year was something of a problem. Most of my very modest income was made doing editorial work and ghostwriting for internet fluff.
But today I was determined to discover what exactly it was about this story that made it "too unclear".
I sat alone at a corner table, as I always did; hunched into a little ball, as I usually was. Most days I found myself in this small café, though most days I chose the company of a book over my own shortcomings as a writer. I enjoyed the small establishment for its ambience and my status as a regular patron. If people wanted to talk to me, I'd let them. I wasn't unapproachable, in fact as a young, fairly attractive woman, I thought I was fairly inviting—and any other day I would have enjoyed a conversation with someone.
But today there could be no interruptions.
And then Cassandra appeared.
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It was a late autumn afternoon, and I was sitting in a quaint coffee shop off of Main Street. My head buried in my laptop and the open word processor in front of me. For three days, with little sleep and a great deal of caffeine I had poured over this short story, about a young girl who sought out her father in Ireland after being abandoned by her mother, and, like everything else I'd written in a long time, it too had been rejected from publication. The only indication that someone had even read the manuscript I sent was the scrawled words "too unclear" written on the top of the first page of the physical copy I had at home.
So there I was, like every other failed writer, penning out my great works in a café on my laptop. Normally I hated to be that person, but, as a young woman trying to make it on her own as a professional writer, not having had anything published in nearly a year was something of a problem. Most of my very modest income was made doing editorial work and ghostwriting for internet fluff.
But today I was determined to discover what exactly it was about this story that made it "too unclear".
I sat alone at a corner table, as I always did; hunched into a little ball, as I usually was. Most days I found myself in this small café, though most days I chose the company of a book over my own shortcomings as a writer. I enjoyed the small establishment for its ambience and my status as a regular patron. If people wanted to talk to me, I'd let them. I wasn't unapproachable, in fact as a young, fairly attractive woman, I thought I was fairly inviting—and any other day I would have enjoyed a conversation with someone.
But today there could be no interruptions.
And then Cassandra appeared.
