Time does fly fast when you have a blog and are as inconsiderately lazy as I am.
I could lie and say that I have been working excessively hard on the novel and haven't had time to work on my style, but style is effortless, non?
Well it's not really that effortless when you don't get out of bed till 11 and just hang around the house most of the day, chewing on bits of burnt toast and watching daytime TV like Tyra (hey, don't look at me like that, it makes me feel better about my life).
Also I am about 4,000 words behind...but yay I hit the 14,000 mark!
I did wear an alright outfit today, but sadly the batteries on my camera have died :(. Yes, I know, I told you this weeks ago and I still haven't fixed the problem. I also spent all my money on secondhand clothes and couldn't afford them. *Cried pitifully*. OK I bought McDonald's too. I am not just lazy, I am a consumer whore too.
Well, as ostentatious as I am, I will fill up this post, not with photos but (shock horror) writing. One of my passions is for fashions (mmm gotta love that rhyming), but another is writing. Here is the first page/section of my novel:
This story begins in the town of Hampton, the southern most town in all the world. At the bottom of New Zealand the wild Antarctic breeze blew through the streets a feeling of brooding possibility. I came to Hampton as a small boy, stocky and timid in form and personality, sent by my parents further south for the benefit of my health in a colder climate. I stayed with my Auntie and Uncle in a small, ugly but modern house on the shores of the sea. Out my window was a view of gaping solitude, as the freezing New Zealand waters broke quickly onto the golden sands. Hampton, compared to my former experience, was a stuffy and slow town.The families that lived there had lived many generations in seclusion from the modern world, and had slowly built on their caricatures without the binds of public scrutiny. This was mainly to do with the isolation that prevailed the town. They were further south than anybody cared to go, and lack of need or want meant their roads had never been sealed. My relative’s house was an elderly person’s house. It smelled of anesthetic and cream corn. I spent most of my days reading the long boring books they kept in her bookcases and counting the pattern on the wallpaper. At first, the town served as no entertainment to my young and inquisitive mind, that was until I found the Walkers.
Every town has their odd balls, those that are not different, but perhaps more extreme than the rest.
Their property sat high above the rest of
Many speculated at the meaning of the word that hovered above the town and the lives of
“Chase what? Rabbits?” my Aunt joked satirically, but the house and the word became a point of fascination for me. I became determined to investigate.
I’m am embarrassed to admit that this soon took the form of spying on the