Tag Archives: Feelings

The Ultimate Writing Resource Masterpost

This ultimate post is incredible, so of course I want to share it with my dear followers. I found it here.

This is an ultimate masterlist of many, many resources that could be helpful for writers/roleplayers.

→ GENERAL

Improvement

Describing

Masterlists

Body Language

Grammar/Vocabulary

Writer’s Block

→ APPLICATIONS

Application (Itself)

Para (Sample)

Prompts

→ GUIDES

Personalities

Disorders

Disabilities

Jobs/Hobbies/Beliefs

Drugs

Locations

Genders

Supernatural

Other

→ CREATING CHARACTERS

Biography Writing

Names

Personalities

Personality Traits

Habits

Secrets

Quotes

Mary Sue’s

→ WHILE ROLEPLAYING

Para Titles

Starters

Careers/Jobs

Locations/Settings/Activities

Character Developement

→ ROMANCE

Romance (in general)

Smut

Kisses

→ OTHER

Plot Writing

Eras

The Stranger Within

Cover of "The Outsider (Penguin Modern Cl...
Cover of The Outsider (Penguin Modern Classics)

(This is the same assignment as my previous post, but this is for English A1. The book which this text is based on is The Stranger by Albert Camus. I chose to write a descriptive passage from the perspective of Raymond. The first passage is a scene, were Raymond tells Meursault about his problem with his unfaithful lover, written in with the thoughts of Raymond himself. The second passage is stream of consciousness during Meursault’s execution.)

Passage One:

I just met Meursault in the stairs again. He is an interesting fella, walking around in this little town, silent and mysterious. I have to actually really drag his attention to me to make myself look interesting enough. He is a really smart guy too. That’s why I asked him in for some sausage and wine at my place. I needed his brain for a little favor. He wouldn’t mind.

My hand started to hurt again. As I wrapped it with some bandage I found, he asked what I’d done to it. “I’d been in a fight with some guy who was trying to start trouble,” I tried to say casually. Somehow, he was quite good at leading the conversation the right way. I told him the story of the guy who got his lesson, and tried to slip in some hints toward him, saying I needed his help about something. I don’t even know why I try. These social codes weren’t his strongest point. It had to be asked straight out. Not that he would mind, he never cared for those sorts of things. As I finished my story I continued to the real thing. “As a matter of fact, Meursault, I could actually need your advice on this whole business. You know, because you’re a man, and you know about things, you could help me out! And then we’d be pals, of course.” I assumed he was at least a little normal, not too much of a freak. He had gotten Marie but she wasn’t a beauty queen. I had stopped talking a while ago, but it was still silent. I asked if he actually wanted to be pals. He seemed to be thinking. That was a good sign. He was considering it. “It is fine with me,” he said shortly after. I had him.

The only matter now was how to make him do it correctly. Meursault isn’t the man to question too much, just enough to get the little picture he needed. I liked that about him. Nothing complicated. He followed directions, but wasn’t easy to guide. Other people would have fled when I started talking about how I punished my cheating woman. Meursault, on the other hand, listened until I was finished. Nervous and soar after all the talking, I asked for his opinion on the whole thing. He said something that told me he wasn’t very interested. I had to keep this going. He couldn’t tell if she was cheating on me, or what to do, but did agree that she needed to be punished. Good, now that I had made him come to that conclusion it was simple to ask him. I told him about my brilliant idea and the complications with it. I needed his mind quickly. I couldn’t in a million years write the way that would punish her enough. He was silent after I requested the favor. “Would there be any problems if you did it right now?” I asked, and got a short “no” in reply. He wrote quickly, with nice handwriting. To check that it was OK, he read it out loud for me. He looked at me for a long while. It got very awkward, and I realized he was done. He had to read it again. I was still gone, but I was sure it worked. He wouldn’t have tried to fool me anyway. I told him good night, sure that we were pals.

Passage Two:

Meursault had killed that Arab. That’s odd. I thought he was rational. Maybe he’s faulty. The trial failed him. He shouldn’t have shot that Arab. He’s in prison now. I wonder how it’s like in there. Maybe he’ll like it. It can’t be much difference. He wouldn’t care either. He never cares. He shouldn’t have shot that Arab. He’s odd. Did he enjoy it? Maybe he is that type of man, a born killer. But why would he care? Nothing pisses him off. I’ve never seen him angry. Did the Arab make him angry? He shouldn’t have killed him. Meursault’s going to die. The trial failed him. Execution in public, of all things. He looks odd up there. I can barely see him. He doesn’t mind being up there. Why was he with that Arab? Right, that thing. He shouldn’t have killed him. Everyone’s shouting, I can’t hear what the man is saying. Meursault found me. He looks odd up there. Like he doesn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind thought. Why is he looking at me that way? He doesn’t belong. The other man stopped talking. Something’s going to happen. Right, the execution. Meursault wouldn’t mind. It’s not like he wanted to live. Well, it’s not like he tried to die. Or maybe that’s why he killed that Arab? He was looking for someone to kill. I was his pal, though. He couldn’t kill me. What’s that sound? Oh, the blade wasn’t sharp enough. Too bad. He’s dead now, isn’t he? It’s just hanging there, slowly ripping off. He was a good man. He cared. I’m sure he had his reasons for killing that Arab. It probably was for the best. He looked at me as the head fell into the basket. He looked odd up there. Without a head. Everyone else has got heads. He doesn’t belong. I’m sure he’s somewhere nice. I was a good man, Meursault.

Galskap i Brev

(As I am currently doing the IB Diploma I have to write a creative piece. This is what I write for Norwegian A1.
The text is based on the novel Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. It is a letter from the madwoman in the attic at Thornfield Hall, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, to a fictional character I have named Maurita. She is a close friend of Bertha, which is why she can write to her about the following.) 

Kjære Maurita,

Jeg skriver til deg i tillit om at disse ord vil forbli mellom oss to alene. Du har vært min gode venninne i mange år, og jeg drister meg til å si at du kjenner meg meget godt. Ta derfor disse ord i betraktning og tenk på dem vel før du skriver tilbake. Min lit til deg er stor og jeg stoler på at dine ord vil hjelpe meg videre i denne vanskelige situasjonen. Jeg beklager for en slik måte å skrive på, men jeg må ta mine foranstaltninger. Det mine neste ord kommer til å ytre, omhandler en sak av ytterst ømfintlighet.

Du husker muligens min kjære mor, Antoinetta, eller hørt snakk som omhandler hennes nåværende natur? Du er muligens ikke overrasket når jeg forteller at min mor ikke befinner seg hos sin døende søster, slik vi har forsøkt å fremstille det. Jeg har hørt ryktene i gatene, det er merkverdig hvordan folks fantasi spinner for å lage en mer spennende versjon. Disse eldre damene som ikke lenger har sine unge sønner å ta vare på, har vel ikke noe bedre å ta seg til. Du får beklage min uforskammethet, men i så mange år har jeg villet utrykke meg om denne sak. Jeg håper du forstår at jeg aldri ville ført deg bak lyset om jeg absolutt ikke hadde noe annet valg. Kjære venninne, du må tro meg når jeg skriver disse ord, så inderlig jeg hadde lyst til å skrive til deg før denne stund, men jeg har blitt forbudt av min velvitende fader. Hvert forsøk har blitt oppdaget og straffet med sterkere midler for hver gang. Temperamentet hans har blitt verre og jeg turte ikke lenger å fortsette disse forsøk. Jeg antar at du har gjettet at dette ikke er en vanlig situasjon, og du har meget rett. Slik det har seg nå føler jeg en plikt til å skrive til deg. Du får beklage min hast, det er mye å fortelle.

Tilbake til min barmhjertige mor. For flere år siden hadde sinnet forlatt henne og hun var ikke til å kjenne igjen. Plutselige angrep anslo synlig uten grunn. Alle gjenstander i hvert rom hun befant seg i ble et våpen i hennes hender. Vi fryktet for våre liv. Det var grusomt, Maurita. Kvinnen som banket i veggene var ikke lenger min kjære mor, og vi fant ingen midler for å bringe henne tilbake. Det gikk måneder før min elskverdige far til slutt stoppet å gå opp til rommet og snakke med henne. Det var intet håp for å hente tilbake sinnet hennes. I løpet av denne tid hadde naboene våres begynt å lytte og spionere på oss. Sannheten om kjære Antoinetta kunne ikke slippe utenfor vårt hus. Av den grunn fant vi det nødvendig å sende henne av gårde. Forklaringen vi satte ut var ikke helt uten sannhet. Fars hustru er hos sin søster, men ingen av dem er døende. Tiden etter hennes avreise var meget rolig i handling, men det var demoner i luften. Du må tro meg når jeg sier dette, Maurita, jeg har tenkt på den tid før kvinnens sinn forlot henne. Stillheten her har gitt meg mye tid til å tenke og jeg er sikker i min sak. Det hele startet med en liten vane min mor hadde lagt til seg. Hun knøt knuter. Hver filt, hver tråd og hver løse snor ble knyttet med utallige knuter. Senere stoppet hun, og byttet over til noe annet. Middagene ble senere enn vanlig, og en ettermiddag hvor jeg studerte henne, la jeg merke til at hun brukte meget lang tid på kuttingen av grønnsakene. Hun studerte knivene, Maurita. Gåsehuden fikk meg ut av kjøkkenet raskt, men jeg glemmer det aldri. Det eskalerte, og endte, som du nå vet, i at hun ikke er gjenkjennbar. Jeg ber deg å ikke miste troen på meg når du leser mine neste ord. Jeg har nylig funnet en stor interesse i kniver. Knutene har jeg alltid holdt på meg, min mor ble irritert hver gang hun så det, det var slik jeg oppdaget at hun også hadde begynt. Hun hadde sluttet å klage. Tilbake til temaet, kniver er fantastiske. Det er noe ved deres skarphet som kutter en i synet bare ved å studere det. Glansen av en velpolert kniv er uvurderlig, Maurita! Nei, hør på meg selv! Vær så snill, å tro meg kjæreste venninne. Jeg tør ikke tenke på hvordan jeg utvikler meg. Redselen øker for hver dag. Far aner lite håp for meg. Kun noen få måneder til det ikke lenger er jeg som vandrer i denne kroppen. Du kan si jeg er meget heldig som oppdaget det så tidlig. Min gode far mener å ha kommet med en løsning. Det er visst en rik omreisende i området, en viss Mr. Rochester fra England. Han er meget ung, og far snakker så lovende om et ekteskap. Tror du han vil akseptere meg? Jeg er klar over hva resten av landsbyen vil ha det til, at jeg er Jamaicas vakreste, men han har vel sett mange nydelig kvinner gjennom sine reiser.

Det er her jeg trenger hjelp av dem, kjære Maurita. Det er ikke riktig. Slik en fin mann burde ikke ende opp med en kropp uten sinn. Tenk om jeg ender opp lik min mor, jeg kommer til å drepe noen! Jeg kan ikke ha det i hodet, vite at jeg er farlig for andre. Vær så snill, min vakreste venninne, jeg ber av dem, hva har du for råd? Kan jeg tillate at den omreisende blir lurt slik i stry? Burde jeg bli hos ham? Jeg orker ikke tenke på det min kropp kan gjøre når sinnet mitt har forlatt meg! Maurita, svar raskt! Tiden renner ut og jeg er redd.

Din kjæreste venninne,

Bertha Antoinetta Mason.

Passion of Words

There are many people who will judge me on these next words, but they will soon exist. Whether they like it or not.
I am surrounded by young people, striving and hunting for love. Someone to take care of them, someone to cuddle, someone to share the special little moments. My heart has fallen for the same trap; wishing for someone to come so strongly, that I cannot see. Now that there is no one to look for I realize my hearts true desire. What I miss, truly and sincerely miss, is to honestly tell someone with all of my heart the simple three words; I love you. A voice, merely a whisper. Air, streaming from the deeps of my lounges, eyes finding eyes, looking from the heart of my soul. The openness, the hope, the fear and the thrill. I want it.

For someone to understand this profound longing there is a need to listen. Pay attention to the story of common love.

Heart bursting out as a shadow leans over the building. Frozen damp clings to the thin window, forming glorious shapes. Circles twirling around each other, playing games, teasing, fooling. Nowhere to go, they change to rivers. Every inch of the glass was decorated by the moving atoms. Through the storm of ice he could see her, crossing the street with small jumps as if the cars might pop up any second. As she moves closer, her eyes swirl around, gazing upon the people. On the way to the door their eyes meet. A little tilt with her head and her smile is almost diagonal. To this day it amuses him how she manages to dazzle him with those little wonders. The body in the cold walks towards the frozen glass, eyes fixed on him. There could have been a million people passing her in the meantime, he wouldn’t know. They were the only people on Earth, separated by a thin window. Their breaths didn’t combine. Their hands didn’t touch, their lips didn’t speak for themselves. There was no need for those simple gestures. He found a grin on his face while he melted the words “Come” on the glass. A teasing look, top to bottom and up again, made his hair rise. She knew how to get a man around her slim finger.
Three long minutes passed. His hand was a part of the glass by now, covering the encouraging letters. She came up from behind, cold hands appeared under his shirt.  Caught by surprise as always he lost the grip of the window and placed the frozen hand on the shivering, beautiful face. They were filled with her cheek as the impossibly gorgeous smile spread. The other found its way around her waist and harbored on her back, pressing her into his chest. Her hands had long her fingers into his hair, and forced his lips to hers. Warmth spread from inside them, from every living cell registering their connection. The bodies moved, synchronized, together. As he dropped her on the couch their lips were ripped apart, redeeming their longing. In deep desperation for more he dived after her pressing his lips next to her air. His panting blew warm, soft air as he murmured the sacred words. A slight moan escaped her mouth as she lifted closer to him,  limiting the distance between their flesh. Quickly she turned around, leaving him on the bottom. Eagerly she swooped  down, pretending to go for a passionate kiss. As his lips opened to welcome her she stopped, looking up at him, smiled and repeated the same three words. I love you.

Source: http://photodune.net/item/frost-and-sun/807284?WT.ac=item_similar_thumb&WT.seg_1=item_similar_thumb&WT.z_author=didesign

Consider this

Everyone goes through different fases at any time, some less pleasurable than others. Seeing someone struggle with their situation creates desperation to fix it. As much as the people around would like, there is little we can do. It is in the mind of the troubled that the change has to occur. People might change, they may never. Their development, or lack of such, should never stop you from doing or becoming anything. I therefore ask you, read these words of wisdom with awareness. They might appeal to your own situation, or those close to you. I said that there is little we can do. That might be true, but showing that you see, and how it troubles you may open up their eyes to realize that other care about them. It is a wonder how knowing that you mean something, even the tiniest bit, can make you feel significant again.


Until next time

Hello,

I promised myself not to write more personal posts, but right now I’m happy. Very happy, and it’s a little unusual. I must say I don’t quite know what’s going on. As you can see by my previous posts my inspiration can impossibly come from something bright and cheerful, so my mind is deserted. To try to adjust to this new type of living I’m searching for something interesting to write about, but there’s already too much writing about the incredible happy couples and singles in the world, and it sickens me. It disgusts me, knowing that people out there are happy, and I’m not. Right now I am, but there are other people who are where I used to be. They are the ones I want to reach to.
It’s going to take some time to get my imagination going again, so I am truly sorry if you won’t hear from me in a while.

Now to the matter I really wanted to write about.
I love my shelf right now. It’s next to my desk, almost extending it on the far right. Stacked with books, notes, folders, old coffee cups, and dictionaries I love staring at it. Currently I’ve filled it with books on photography, America (because I wish to study there), and uncountable novels which have marked the world. Brönte, Collett, Austen, Hamsun, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Woolf, and a British version of Jane Eyre, recently watched. All the novels I’ve read, all the knowledge I’ve acquired, and those aren’t all of them! There is so much more I want to read, but time fools me. Please, send me titles of books I should get my eyes in, I want it all!

Children of Divorce

There are many of us, the children born in a divorce. Some might call us lucky; we never had to go through the dividing of a once whole family. We wouldn’t have to wonder what we did wrong, what we said, or what we could have done to make it all work. Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family. Never had a moment of everything being at its proper place. The dream will never be complete.
We have it better because when someone asks for your dad, you don’t know who to refer to. What a benefit we have, knowing all transportation systems between the parents’ houses by heart. How fortunate we are, being born with the features they hate about each other. We are their constant nightmare, reminding them of their former love, their past. They cannot escape us. We are the reminder they never wished for. Do not mind us, the kids who will never know who they are because their personality traits are despised by both sides. We cannot grow as we have no ground to stand on. Where do we come from; who do we belong to? These are questions that haunt us on the midst of the day. We have no place to escape, no one to turn to.
Ask a one of us to define Good and Evil. We will answer vaguely as we know that those who intentionally hurt other people are evil, but we don’t want to think of our parents as evil. There are no right or wrong, yet there are always two sides of a story, hard to separate from the truth. Excuses are vivid, we live among people who want to protect us, but drag us further down the rabbit hole.

Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family.


Source: http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvas8uoZp71r6qljho1_500.jpg

One Look is Enough

I’m not here for your or my sake,
Only because he looked at me.
It wasn’t long,
but long enough.

One glance was enough
to make me grand.
Greater than I was,
but great enough.

Ha said something to me.
I don’t know what,
but he spoke,
spoke more than enough.

I’m not here for your or my sake,
I’m here for his.

Translated version of this:

Eg er ikkje her for di or mi skuld,
Berre fordi han såg meg
Det var ikkje mykje,
Men lenge nok.

Eit lite blikk var nok
Til å gjere meg stor
Større enn eg var
Men stor nok.

Han sa noko til meg
Eg vet ikkje kva,
Men han snakka
Snakka meir enn nok.

Eg er ikkje her for di or mi skuld,
Eg er her for hans.

Unsettling

I must say, after reflecting upon the work that I’ve posted and previously written, I have absolutely no idea what went through my head when I was younger. I wrote about suicide, drugs, losing a family, horrors of being alone in the world, being killed by mystical creatures. I was only around fourteen years old, or even younger for some of these. I have to write about something I know, my imagination must have gone wild with the spare time I had back then..

Just a thought that won’t leave me.

Rehab

She lies on the floor with the kitchen knife in the back. The radio pours out Rehab by Rihanna, a rather unusual song for that channel to broadcast. When she had turned it on I was expecting soothing tones from a calm melody. I had never really liked pop-music.
I had managed to spill on the expensive carpet she had bought. Obsessively she had managed to not get any stains on it. Oh well, too bad it had to be ruined in this situation. I might have kept it. Though, it’s not me to blame. We were going to get married. She and I. We were meant for each other, a perfect item, but she wanted to test fate. Thought she had met someone better, someone perfect. Bullshit! I was the only one for her. The only one that could ever love her this deeply, cherish her as she was rare. Only I. He stole her from me, that bastard. Blindly she would have followed her, into his neat little web. It was a trap, why wouldn’t she see? She was into it, that little whore. Wanted to be fooled, taken away from this paradise and into the devil’s layer. Away from me. One does not simply walk away from me. It took her a while until she understood, but by the time I saw it in her eyes they turned to glass. The time was up. Contrary to that bitch, I had learned.

I look at her. The blue-green eyes had turned pale a while ago. The hands were still reaching for me, or where I used to be. The knife had long ago found its place. Forced through her back and into the unfaithful heart. The skin on her chin had turned to sandpaper. Something cold ran down my spine, the goose bumps spread like a deadly sickness. Next to her ear was an insignificant tear, striving to reach her valuable carpet. I swiped my finger over it, stood up and walk over her body, across the floor and open the door. My back turns against the hall and I take a last look into the small living room. The memories flow back and my eyes start to burn. Facing the other way I walk away, humming the tones of Rehab by Rihanna.