I check my personal email just before heading out the door of work. Interesting. There's one from my daughter. She doesn't usually email me. She calls, or sends a facebook message. I click on it and start reading.
It began, "Here Lilly, Happy early birthday." The story pulled me in and took me on a fast journey into a the world of teenage girls. It wove and wound around corners, took me into treetops, not literal, but figuratively.
The language was smooth, real and believable. The characters painted were vivid, colorful, intense. Alive. Yes, that's it. They were alive. I could hear their voices. What an amazing writer! As I continued with the story, nearing the bottom of the first page, I recognized a spelling error, "meant" was spelled, "ment." Could this be Annabelle's story? No. Not hers. Then I came to this line, ""I felt like i was being packed in a sardine can. I couldn't move an inch without touching someone. Literaly. I hate people! I hate people! I hate people! I hated crowds, always had. I was a bit of an introvert.
Holy crap! This is Annabelle's story. NO WAY! Holy Crap!...
My dyslexic daughter is writing this?!
I began to speed read, my heart raced and I leaned close to the computer screen, hanging on each word. What would happen next? Questions filled my head. "Where did the tickets come from and why doesn't Annabelle want to go to the concert?"
Questions are good when you are reading story. It's what keeps the reader motivated. How can she do this so well, so easily...and so damn young?
I finished the chapter and went back to my email to send her a response, and saw there was another email from her. Yay. More of the story!
I clicked it open and continued on this journey.
Annabelle is now riding in a car with Harry Styles. And she doesn't know who he is because she's in a Broadway bubble. The most famous young man in the world, and quite possibly the best looking, is taking Annabelle to an audition. He'd knocked her down on the sidewalk, and then offered to give her a ride, to kind of make-up for it. On the way there, they get mobbed by teenage girls, and Annabelle is clueless as to why this is happening. I chuckle when I read it.
What a GREAT concept! I'm jealous of my own daughter's talent. I've been working on a novel for 2 years now...and she's just pumped out two riveting chapters...that look to be effortless....
I can't wait to tell her what an amazing writer she is. How proud I am that she has a story in her head, and is able to paint a picture with such brilliant colors. In some places, the colors are soft and pastel-like, then quickly, she uses intense reds, oranges and black. Moments later, the picture nearly shifts to grey...How does she do that? I don't know. And it doesn't matter.
I reply to her email, telling her that I'm hooked and want to read more, among other things.
This is not what I expected from her.
When I see her later on in the day, we talk. She tells me that she wrote more than 6 more pages today in class. "So you were in a class with computers?"
"No mom. No computers?"
"How did you write then?"
"With a pen, in my notebook."
My son chimed in. "The old-fashioned way, mom."
Boy did I feel silly. Yep. She's a writer.
She's definitely a writer.....
It began, "Here Lilly, Happy early birthday." The story pulled me in and took me on a fast journey into a the world of teenage girls. It wove and wound around corners, took me into treetops, not literal, but figuratively.
The language was smooth, real and believable. The characters painted were vivid, colorful, intense. Alive. Yes, that's it. They were alive. I could hear their voices. What an amazing writer! As I continued with the story, nearing the bottom of the first page, I recognized a spelling error, "meant" was spelled, "ment." Could this be Annabelle's story? No. Not hers. Then I came to this line, ""I felt like i was being packed in a sardine can. I couldn't move an inch without touching someone. Literaly. I hate people! I hate people! I hate people! I hated crowds, always had. I was a bit of an introvert.
Holy crap! This is Annabelle's story. NO WAY! Holy Crap!...
My dyslexic daughter is writing this?!
I began to speed read, my heart raced and I leaned close to the computer screen, hanging on each word. What would happen next? Questions filled my head. "Where did the tickets come from and why doesn't Annabelle want to go to the concert?"
Questions are good when you are reading story. It's what keeps the reader motivated. How can she do this so well, so easily...and so damn young?
I finished the chapter and went back to my email to send her a response, and saw there was another email from her. Yay. More of the story!
I clicked it open and continued on this journey.
Annabelle is now riding in a car with Harry Styles. And she doesn't know who he is because she's in a Broadway bubble. The most famous young man in the world, and quite possibly the best looking, is taking Annabelle to an audition. He'd knocked her down on the sidewalk, and then offered to give her a ride, to kind of make-up for it. On the way there, they get mobbed by teenage girls, and Annabelle is clueless as to why this is happening. I chuckle when I read it.
What a GREAT concept! I'm jealous of my own daughter's talent. I've been working on a novel for 2 years now...and she's just pumped out two riveting chapters...that look to be effortless....
I can't wait to tell her what an amazing writer she is. How proud I am that she has a story in her head, and is able to paint a picture with such brilliant colors. In some places, the colors are soft and pastel-like, then quickly, she uses intense reds, oranges and black. Moments later, the picture nearly shifts to grey...How does she do that? I don't know. And it doesn't matter.
I reply to her email, telling her that I'm hooked and want to read more, among other things.
This is not what I expected from her.
When I see her later on in the day, we talk. She tells me that she wrote more than 6 more pages today in class. "So you were in a class with computers?"
"No mom. No computers?"
"How did you write then?"
"With a pen, in my notebook."
My son chimed in. "The old-fashioned way, mom."
Boy did I feel silly. Yep. She's a writer.
She's definitely a writer.....
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