I Write

It is something I have loved to do all my life. I read, and I write. But I have always been to shy to write for others to see. Maybe that’s why I like blogging, I don’t have to show my face but people can still let me know how they feel. I don’t have much confidence in my writing, and the only people who usually give me feedback are people it is assumed have to be nice. That’s why it sucks asking a friend to read over something, or a relative. They tell you how good it is, how much they enjoyed it. But how often do you believe they are saying it because they mean it vs. them saying it to make you feel good? Here is our problem, often times the people we love are too nice, that may sound ridiculous but it’s true. Bear with me know, have you ever seen a lady walking down the street in a too tight sweat suit with juicy written on her ass? Didn’t you begin to wonder what kind of friends she had that none of them told her she was too old, and that sweat suit was too tight for her? The problem was they were all too nice to be honest.

So here it goes, people we love are not honest enough because they care too much about our feelings. But you guys don’t know me, you don’t have to be polite, you can give honest and good constructive criticism without worrying about hurting my feelings. So, I’m going to do the boldest thing I’ve ever done. I’m going to ask you all to do just that. I will give you a small section of a silly little short story I wrote once. Tell me if I’m a crap writer or not. Tell me honestly if I should write for fun and do something else with my life, because at some point in Rebecca Black’s life, that’s what someone should have done for her. Ok…

The first thing I noticed were his eyes. I didn’t mean to notice any part of him, but I wasn’t watching. I’m never watching, and we collided, head on, (Well, not head on, my head only makes his chest) and I fell. My stuff went flying all over the hall. I only glanced at him for a second before I was on my hands and knees grabbing at anything I could salvage.

Then I hit something again. That’s when I saw them. They were hazel, and I know you don’t usually use beautiful to describe a guy but, his eyes were beautiful. He was still taller than me, even crawling around grabbing at papers too. I just stared into his eyes for a moment, shocked. Then the warning bell rang and he stood up, offering his hand in the process. When we were both on our feet he handed me the papers he’d collected, smiled, and apologized. Then he was gone, but I couldn’t forget his eyes.

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