Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

    Hey, here's some more of the story. Thanks y'all for the comments, they were very encouraging. The next bit might be posted a little later than I planned, because one of my characters is giving me a bit of trouble, but it's something I can resolve easily. I just need to work it out. Well, here goes.

    Scott needed to know what was going on. He ran over to the door, swung it open, and darted outside. Here he saw Alex walking in the direction of Silver Waters, Jim Astor’s ranch. Alex didn’t seem very confident, because he was walking so slowly and hestitantly.

    “Hey, Alex, didn’t you say you were going into town?”

    He turned around and looked at his brother. He said casually, “Yes, but first I needed to work something out with Jim. Is there something wrong?”

    “No, just wondered why you seemed sort of upset.”

    “If you really want to know, there was just a bit of an argument. You know how Jim’s got a temper.”

    “Yeah, I do. See you.”

    Scott went back to the house, and Alex went to Silver Waters Ranch. Scott began thinking about how strange it was that their ranch was called Stonewater and Jim Astor’s was called Silver Waters. They both had an “S” and a “W” in the name. The ranches were named on account of the long, winding creek that ran throughout the area. It was quite an odd coincidence, though.

    It had been late afternoon when Alex left. It was growing dark now, and he still hadn’t returned. At first, the brothers had planned to wait on him to come back until they ate supper, but as the evening wore on and Alex still wasn’t there, they forgot about that plan. The evening seemed to roll by very slowly. In time, Scott decided to go upstairs, because he didn’t think it very likely for him to come back any time soon. Jack, however remained downstairs.

    Finally, at around 10:00 in the evening, Alex stepped through the front door. Jack had almost dozed off leaning against the table. The sound of the door closing woke him up. He looked at Alex and the first thing he noticed about him was that he had a bruise on his cheek.

    “How’d you get that, Alex?”

    “Got hit on the corner of a door. Jack, would you mind stepping outside? I need to talk with you for a bit.”

    They did as he asked, stepping out into the hot, starry night. Alex crossed his arms and looked at Jack in the eye.

    “Now, Jack, you wrote a letter earlier today.”

    “I did.”

    Alex paused, as if he was trying to put his thoughts together. He gazed up into the sky. Then he looked back down at Jack, matching his own blue eyes to Jack’s soft brown eyes. “Who was it to?”

    “Why does it matter?” Jack shrugged his shoulders.

    “Jack, who was the letter for?” Alex’s voice suddenly shifted to a severe tone.

    Jack looked ashamed of himself. “The— the letter was for—”

    “Was it for Darcie Astor?”

    Darcie was Jim Astor’s much younger sister, who was only seventeen, two years younger than Jack. She lived in Kentucky with her parents, but had come out west to stay with her brother Jim for a few weeks.

    When Alex mentioned the name, Jack acted more embarrassed. He hung his head and sighed.

    “Don’t feel bad about it, please. I just need to know.”

    “Yes,” Jack said nervously, “it was for Darcie.”

    “And have you already given it to her?”

    No one said anything for a few minutes. Jack kicked a rock around with his boot.

    “Jack, have you already given the letter to her?”

    Hesitating, he answered, “Yes, I have.”

    Alex took a deep breath and was quiet for a moment. “Had you sent her any letter or note or anything before today?”

    Jack was so self-conscious that he felt sick. “What, Alex, did you hear something around town?”

    “I did. Now Jack, had you sent her anything before the letter you gave today?”

    Jack ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair in an agitated way. “Yes,” he mumbled. “What was it you heard about it?”

    There was a silence. Alex’s face was expressionless. “In the note, did you say anything about marriage?”

    “What? Marriage? Me?” He looked shocked and insulted. “Is that— that what you heard?”

    “Yes, it is. I didn’t think that sounded right. Is it?”

    “No. I swear I never said anything like that!”

    “I figured as much,” Alex muttered. “Thank you, Jack.” He stared off into the distance for a while. Then he focused back on his brother. “Look, I’m sorry I had to confront you like this. I really am.”

    Jack did a half-smile, because he didn’t know what to say now.

    “Well, I guess we should be heading inside. Come on.”

    The two brothers stepped inside the house and closed the door.

    ~jm~

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

    Sir James Matthew Barrie here. I finally have a story that I like! Here are some things you should know about it first. 1) I'm writing this mostly just for me and Snicket. It's a Western, and it was inspired by she and I watching Bonanza too much. 2) I purposely put in a lot of dialogue because in all my other stories I've been writing, there wasn't much dialogue. Writing dialogue is my favorite thing, so now I'm making myself do it.

    So either enjoy or don't enjoy, but here it is either way.

    Scott Madison, who had just come over to the desk where Jack sat writing, and who was leaning against the wall, looked down at Jack’s little paper he was writing on. “Whatcha writing?” Scott’s brown eyes twinkled and glinted.

    Jack jerked his head up and quickly turned the paper over so his brother couldn’t see it. “Nothing.”

    Scott leaned closer. He look the paper in his hand. As he began to read it, he smirked. His smile always had a tendency to the right side of his face.

    Jack jumped up from the chair. He tried to snatch the paper back, but his older brother kept it away.

    Still reading it, Scott lauged quietly to himself. “Well, what have we got here?” he said, “A love letter, Jack?”

    A tight knot formed in his stomach and he bit his lip.

    “Don’t be embarrassed about it. But who’s the gal?”

    “That’s none of your business. You didn’t need to see the letter in the first place.”

    Jack tried again to get the letter from Scott.

    “Seriously, who is she? Faith McKinley, Emily Jacobs, Sally Carter?”

    “Don’t matter!”

    “Rachael Kingston?”

    “What’s it to you if it is?”

    “Darcie Astor?”

    “Quit it, will you?” Jacked kicked Scott hard in the gut and he fell to the floor with the wind knocked out of him.

    Just at that moment, Alex came through the door, in time to see why Scott was on the ground. Alex looked hot and sweaty, and like he’d had a bad time with the roundup. He took off his black hat, and sending a hand into the air, he shouted, “Great, I come in from a long day with Jim Astor, and now you two?” He walked over and helped his younger brother to his feet. “You all right?”

    Scott choked and said, “Yeah.”

    Alex crossed his arms and pointed his blue-eyed glare at Jack. “What was that for?”

    Jack slowly sunk into his chair, looking guilty. “I’m sorry, Scott, I’m sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. Didn’t mean to do no one no harm. Scott stole a private letter from me and then started teasing.”

    With a cough, he replied, “I did. Sorry ‘bout that. Now, what was that you said about Jim Astor?”

    Alex looked down at the floor and sighed. “Nothing. Just a little trouble. It doesn’t matter.” There was a long pause. The silence lasted for about thirty seconds. No one really knew what to say, and it felt awkward not to say anything. They only stood glancing around at each other and the dirty walls and floors of the house.

    Jack eventually decided to break the silence. “I guess I could imagine with Jeff come down with fever and not being able to help, things might be tough.”

    “Yeah, you’re right,” said Alex, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Jeff Carswell’s a good worker and a good friend. It’s a shame to have him sick. But he’ll be better soon, I can guarantee.”

    “I should hope so. You know we would have been happy to help with the roundup,” said Scott, “if we hadn’t needed to go into town.”

    Alex turned pale and shuddered.

    Scott lowered his eyebrows and said, “What, you’re not sick too, are you?”

    “Me? No. It’s just, er, something that happened out there. But that’s irrelevant. I’m not sick. What was it y’all said about a letter? A letter you wrote, Jack?”

    Slightly confused, Jack nodded his head.

    Alex put his hat back on and said there was someone in town he needed to see. Before he went out through the back door, he ran his hand over the gun on his belt. He slipped out and headed away.

    This worried Jack and Scott. Why would Alex have gone out the back door, and why did he touch his gun like that? Both the brothers had the same thoughts going through their minds. Scott and Jack stared nervously at each other. Jack bit his lip and drew a deep breath, running his hand through his hair. Scott twisted up his mouth and let out an anxious sigh.

    Y'all didn't have to like it. If you didn't then it doesn't matter. If you did, there's more coming!

    ~Barrie

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

   Don't let the title fool you, this is a random, disjointed, awesome poem about nothing! Emma, Snicket, and I (Barrie) wrote it just a bit ago, and it's been a great hit among the family. We each wrote five stanzas. Well, enjoy the nonsense!

~Barrie, Snicket, and Emma

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

1. A physical description of yourself...
2. What are some of your prevalent character traits?
3. What do you wear most of the time?
4. What are some of your quirks?
5. What are your speech habits?
6. What name do you want to have in my story, or are you fine with me giving you a name?
7. Do you have any characters that you would want in the story?
8. Please let them fill out this questionnaire then!
9. What are your hobbies, besides writing?
10. Tell me anything you'd like me to know before this questionnaire is over.

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

    Okay, gee whiz people, can y'all PLEASE start getting on our Chatzy! We're all lonely, and lately I've been needing some author-help and I can't get it if y'all don't get on Chatzy!

    ~A very vexed Barrie

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

Tis Barrie, I have returned from the magical faraway land called... Nashville. *ooh* Well, I must tell y'all something. I have destroyed Sonata Pathetique. I over-thought it, and some sacrifices I have made to the plot to "please others" have twisted and ruined it. All the "character slips" with them being online too much have given people preconcieved ideas about what they are like. I hated my two main characters, and my favorite character was a minor one, and he died early on in the story, so that made me want to make him much more important than he was supposed to. Hawthorne was originally going to be the most likeable fellow, but turned out to be a stupid hotheaded headstrong man. I didn't leave enough "wiggle room" in the plot, so it ended up being a stiff-collared, people-pleaser sort of story. I don't want to write only for others, I want to write so I can enjoy it, too. That might seem selfish, but what am I getting out of writing if I don't like what is coming out of my pen?

I have resorted to reading and watching movies, letting new inspiring ideas drift into my head through that. And it has worked. I now have over 6 new ideas for stories, all very different from anything I've ever written before.

I used to be reading Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, I suppose some of y'all are familiar? You miss everything that happens in the story because it's lost in the detail. Sir Scott uses long words only to show off with the big words he knows. There is an entire chapter devoted to describing the Prince's clothing. If Sir Scott had known better, he would have tried to please the crowd even a little. But yet Ivanhoe is marked off as a masterpiece. If it was up to me, I'd burn it. Now do y'all see why I stopped reading it? Well, last night I picked it up again, because I knew there were some beautiful monologues in there. So, I took from about the only good element in that novel, the dialogues and monologues. So I've stashed that away in my mind.

I am in the worst of habits. Writing Sonata Pathetique and reading Bleak House has put me in the atrocious habit of writing in the present tense. It is stressful, scary, and suspenseful. It puts you under some sort of rush, so now when I am writing, the present tense creeps in there. I have to take a deep breath, go back, and erase the part in the present tense. Never try writing in the present tense, my dears, no matter how cool it may seem, it led Sonata Pathetique to ruin.

I write little doodads and don't bother about writer's block. If I can't write, I don't try. It takes a lot of stress off my shoulders. By little doodads, I mean if I see an odd-looking person, I write a description of them on a scrap of newspaper or a bulletin or program or whatever paper I have. If I hear of an incident, I write it down in my interpretation, or if I have a random thought, I can turn it into a short little scene.

I like to write nonsense sentences. It somehow helps me with writing. Here are some of them.

The consumption of opium in some diverse territory is strangely oblique, while horses of American attributes dance on the line of contrary.

Sinister beings of the world have an abstract tendency to oppressive degradation.

I write nonsense songs that are supposed to be "beautiful" but just make everyone confused, including me. It's sort of my way of mocking modern songs. So that's how I have recovered from my writing crash.

Here is a warning about what I write. Snick says I write like Tolkien. It comes like waves. I write and write, then start over, I try again, get a little further, start over, and every time it gets just a little further, and then I start over. It is just how I write, it's what works for me. Please don't get frustrated with restarts.

Just a few of my new story ideas...

1. A fairytale about a prince who goes out on dates with a bunch of different princesses and doesn't live happily ever after.

2. A murder mystery, but I can't say what it is about, it would ruin the story.

3. A group of playwrights living in 1589. They are all nobles, highly esteemed, and they are afraid that if their plays aren't considered good, it would ruin their names, so they publish them under the name William Shakespeare.

4. A satirical modern fantasy.

I don't want to go into all of them. I have told thee the tale of min sad fate and how I svrvived. I bid thee farewell.

~Barrie

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

    'ello guvnas! *tips hat* Okay, I'm just really pleased with my story right now. I am just so happy I've got a real plot line that's actually really interesting and good. And I have a good bit of foreshadowing (though I'm not saying where... muahaha) and other good stuff. I'm really happy. 'ere it is.

    ---------------------------    

     Upstairs, while Judith sits upon her bed, while she sighs blissfully for her husband to be, while her heart is all aflutter with her girlish dreams of happily ever after, while her eyes are fixed upon the hills, where her Hawthorne roams, Richard stirs in his own bedroom, pacing the floor. His mind cannot possibly be at ease while he knows his own dear sister has made such a sudden decision about something so permanent, so important! “It is very much like her,” he says to himself, “to do such a thing. To fly off, find a man who she finds handsome and want to marry him. And of course Grandfather will consent; he will consent to any of her wishes. Poor Judith. I should speak to her. But how to begin? No, no, no. “Judith, there is something I should like to speak to you about. I am not pleased with—” oh no, that won’t do. “Judith, when we were at dinner, you said something that—”of course not. What a horrible thing! Come on, Judith, you know better. I know you do. O God, please help her.”  Inside him something is stirring, something stirring that tells him he has not much time. “Fickle isn’t the right word to describe her. She always does change her mind, but for the moment she has made a choice, she is so strongly convinced that way is right. If only she weren’t so stubborn, that could help things, but she is. It’s my fault that this happened. I could have prevented it if only I had talked to her sooner. Of course I am to blame. Poor Judith will get married to this man we’ve never even heard of, and she has never even talked to, and I will be to blame. If I could find what to say to her, and if she would listen. It’s all my fault. I have to talk to her. I have to.”

    He strides out his room and further down to Judith’s. Shaking, Richard knocks on her door, biting his lip. After a few moments, no answer comes from inside, so he knocks again, this time receiving a response. Judith, smiling, dances to the door and flings it open, a wild glint in her grey eye. “Oh, Rick, what is it? Come in. What?” He slides in, and standing quite awkwardly, with his hands clasped behind his back, says with a shaky voice, “Judith—there is something I must tell you concerning—”

    “Richard, do sit down.”

    “Um, thank you. Now, what I was going to say is—”

    “Oh, it is stuffy in here. Let me just open the window.”

    “Judith, please.”

    “Oh, tonight is very humid. I’ll leave the window closed then. Too bad.”

    “Please listen to what I have to say.”

    “Of course, Rick.”

    He bids her sit down, too. Nodding her head, she spreads out her full blue skirts upon a chair and looks at Richard, eyebrows raised.

    “Judith, at the dinner table, you mentioned a man named Hawthorne, did you not? Yes? Well then, um—I did not like what—oh!”

    “Oh, what’s wrong? You seem ill.”

    “I’m all right. It’s just that I wanted to say— I hope you two will be very happy together,” he says quietly.

    Upon her asking him, quite confusedly, if that is all he has to say, he whispers yes; they tell each other good night, and Richard retires to his room, angry with himself for not having the courage to say what is right.

    jm

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

Hey, it's me again. I know I haven't posted in a long time. I got to get back to writing this puppy. It's undergone a few changes, so I have been working it out with Snick, and I am ready to start writing again. Don't worry, it doesn't affect anything that's already happened. So... here it is. Tell me if Richard's in it too much, I am working on making him a more minor character.

    But in the meantime, let us follow young Judith Waverley home from her call to Jane Berkeley, back to Green Collis, though we were just there, it is now time for dinner. It is sunset; the hillocks swallow up the mighty sun, leaving a stretch of darkness across the wold. Even in absolute darkness, which it is not, the girl could find the way home by the same path she has walked every day since she was a little one. She is anxious, for she does not know the result of Hawthorne’s visit.

    She grabs her long skirts and runs into the house.

    “Good ev’nin’, Miss Waverley,” says the housekeeper, in a shock because of Judith’s sudden entrance.

    “Good evening, Martha. Do you know where Grandfather is?”

    “Ev’ryun’s at dinnah already, miss. Come now.”

    Judith takes the lady’s arm, and, breathing the delicious smell of the pork waiting on the table, appears in the dining room. She realizes she is quite late when she sees the impatient look on old Mr. Waverley’s face, but is too excited to apologize. “Grandfather, Grandfather, what did he say, what did he say?”

    Richard, at the other end of the table, laughs quietly at her jitteriness, and then is silent.

    “What did he say, Grandfather!”

    Taking off his spectacles to wipe them with his sleeve, he thinks for a moment and replies, “I do not know, Judith.”

    “How can you not know?”

    “Well, the fact is, it is too serious a question to be brought up so lightly, dear, and I felt like quite an idiot once he left. He did not give an answer, and how can I blame the boy?”

    “How can you blame him? That’s ridiculous talk, of course you can blame him. He can say yes or no; it is his liberty.”

    “Oh, I don’t think so, my girl.”

    “Why ever not?”

    “You have quite some will, and once you set your mind to something,” he stops and takes a bite of the bread, “you make it nearly impossible to say no.”

    Richard blushes, for he does not understand what they could possibly be talking about; neither Judith nor Mr. Waverley have remembered to tell him how she wishes to marry Hawthorne, because of course it is easy to forget about matters of such little importance.

    “There’s no stopping me? Perhaps that’s right. And he is very handsome, is he not?” Bursting into a fit of girlish giggling, she cannot help herself from becoming very silly about the young man.

    “Dearest, he did not respond. I tried to convince him as best I could. I told him about the land and the inheritance,”

     Richard’s fork drops with a clang onto the plate; Mr. Waverley forgets his grandson is actually at the table when he says the last word. Mr. Waverley glances at him and sees his face is dreadfully pale and his hands are shaking.

    “Oh, Richard, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean that. You know that. I simply meant that he would have, erm, a share of the fortune. He would not be the heir of the plantation, that’s nonsense!”

    “Yes. Of course, sir.” Face remaining colorless, he clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “Of course.”

    “Well, Grandfather, how much longer ‘til he’ll give an answer?” She emits another giggle, throwing her arms up in the air. “Do you know?”

    “I told him he has until next week,” he answers in a low tone, “and then we shall see if he shall be your husband.”

    Judith jerks her head up, like she just remembered something of great importance. “Oh, dear Rick, did we forget to tell you? Ha, ha! I am engaged to Mr. James Hawthorne!” Squealing with glee, squirming in her seat, she turns to her brother, eagerly awaiting an avid response.

    Obviously uncomfortable in this sort of subject, especially when it has to do with his own sister, Richard bites his lip, half-expecting Judith to forget what she has just said and to ask another question to Grandfather, but she does not utter another word. He feels it rude to not respond, he coughs and replies, “You are? Well Judith, I am sure he is a good man and won’t let you down. At least I hope he won’t.” He finishes with a smile and sighs quietly.

    Facing his granddaughter, old Mr. Waverley says, “Child, he has not accepted yet. We cannot know what his decision may be.”

    “But you just said that he cannot possibly say no.”

    “I did not, dearest, I said that---”

    “Good, it’s all settled then. Ha, ha, ha! Thank you so much, Grandfather, good night!”

    “But Judith, you haven’t eaten anything yet.”

    “Good night, Richard!”

    She skips out the room, giggling crazily, and shaking her golden curls, dances upstairs, into her bedchamber, leaving the two alone in the dining room.

    “So, Richard… we have been having nice weather, haven’t we?”

    He does not look up or answer his dull remark; only runs his fork about on the empty plate.

     “It is quiet without Judith. It always is. Very nice for a change, eh? Even if it is for only a few moments. That girl can talk. And giggle.”

    “If you would excuse me sir, I need to speak to go upstairs. Goodnight.” Richard slips quietly out of his seat, into the hallway, and away, as is his customary way of leaving a room.

    “Well, tonight is indeed odd,” says Mr. Waverley to himself, “isn’t it? Ah, I forgot no one is here. No one to talk to except the pork.” He stabs the pig with a knife and cuts a piece.

    ~jm

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

    Hello, this is the next part of my story, but with a warning, Jo Pippin just went over it for the first time last night, so it is basically unedited. I have not been able to write how I should until Rick comes in, since he is the best character. Hawthorne, though the main character, is intolerable, which actually works with a story like this, but I wish Richard was in it more.

 **********************

    With a feeling of defeat, he walks out the door and realizes that he had hardly breathed that whole time. Wondering if Waverley takes pleasure in making people feel uncomfortable, Mr. Hawthorne enters the grand hallway and hardly notices the old servant saying, “How did it go, Mr. Hawthorne?” He answers with a low mumble that she cannot understand as he proceeds to the door, observing every corner of the house, every door and nook, every floorboard and every inch of the walls, thinking of how all this can be his. It can be, if he will only marry Judith. Yes, only marry Judith! That is not too much to ask; just be together for a lifetime, only be her husband, only give up his life for her, only wait on her hand and foot, only serve her and love her, only be hers forever. Hawthorne meets the same dirty street with much different feelings than the last time he stood there, only a few minutes ago. Now what to do with himself? He must have a plan for the future: a wife, a house, he realizes now, perhaps for the first time. Where he is now is not a beautiful place; he is near penniless, depending on his older brother for food and a place to stay. As he considers his standings, Miss Waverley appears better and better, if not for that Helen McLeod.

    In his thought, he trudges through the crowd, bumping into quite a few in his haste. He pushes by a sharp-eyed man, and is knocked back with a jolt onto the dusty ground. As he gets up, the man tells him to watch where he is walking, throws a fiery glare at Hawthorne, and shoves him into a lamppost. By the time he turns around, the stranger has disappeared into the faces. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, and feels blood running down. Red with anger and heat, he growls something under his breath and looks at his coat. It is a tattered, useless thing after all the wear it has gotten; it is ripped on one shoulder and worn down so in many places that it shows his dirty shirt, for the coat is threadbare. He tears a strip off his sleeve, wipes the blood from his face, and casts the scrap into the dirt.

    And so, with Green Collis to his back, the knolls at his feet, and the bustling town separating the two like a high brick wall, our Mr. Hawthorne flees to the hills, his safe haven, where he can be free from this alien worry, but his mind remains to be plagued by the very idea.

    ********************

     Don't laugh at me, it has only been edited once, and it is normally edited for days before it is posted on here. And sorry it was so short.

     ~jm

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

    Okay, I'd just like to say some stuff about how I write and what I do and things like that, because my processes and such have changed since I first joined. Oh, and one thing I'd like to say before I start, please read my story, I feel like no one remembers the poor widdle ting. My genres I like to write are:

• Fantasy
• Historical Fiction
• Romance
• Weirdness-who-knows what

    Making characters: I don't make characters, I run into them and copy them onto paper. I can come up with made-up names right off the bat, but real names are trickier. It took me 3 days to find the name Albany Gordona McLeod, and then at least a year later it took me the whole afternoon to find the name Helen. It took at least a week to come up with Judith.

    Fantasy: I have had a really bad experience with fantasy, all dark and bad. I know how important swordfighting is in fantasy, but girls cannot fight, it's wrong, they aren't meant to do that, so they can't. Girls get attitudes like: "Oh, I'm just so cool with my sabre" or "I can fight better than any man" when they fight, so that's why the shouldn't and can't. Men do not get those thoughts when they fight, because they are protectors.

    Romance: Okay, people, I must at once define my meaning of romance. Modern romance has gotten the meaning of kissing and another thing which I should not say on here, because there are some people who do not know about it, but if you do, you know that it is all in modern romance, and why I should not mention it. I'm done rambling. But my romance means drama. It's all dramatic, and yes it is a love story, but no, no one kisses until they're married. Romantic means with feeling and emotion and drama. It does not mean it cannot be God honoring. Got it? Okay.

    How important is outlining? Very. I used to not outline, because I thought it was only English-lessons:

    I. Stuff

        A. Something

            1. blahblahblah

               a. boring stuff

               b. more boring stuff

                c. even more boring stuff

    And so on. But outlining can simply be a paragraph summarizing the story, or something more like this:

    Chapter 1

• This important event happens and causes John Doe to do this
• And the other important thing that happened was this.

    And onto the next chapter. I didn't outline Aniquia, and that is why I have to dump the story now, because I don't even know what happens in it! Ack! Now, Sonata Pathetique is so deliciously complex that while the plot was weaving itself out in my mind, I was so afraid I'd forget an important part, and one day I just broke down, grabbed a pen, and poured out every word in my mind into a paragraph summarizing the whole story, and the outline itself is a page and a half!

    Accents: I have made up at least 10 different accents, and I hear them, but I must tell authors something very important. Do not type accents unless it adds to their character or gives the reader a feel for something. Do not type accents all throughout the dialogue, ESPECIALLY if they are the main character. Take this for example:

    Wrong: "Tha' duzzen change ennathin', Amy, i's still wrong, an' ah don' know whah y' keep doin' i'!"

    Right: "That doesn't change anything, Amy, it's still wrong, and I don't know why you keep doing it!"

    Or if you want to type the accent, do it like this:

    "That duzzen change anything, Amy, it's still wrong, and I dunno why you keep doin' it!"

    See, it's a lot less overwhelming that way, and still you can hear their voice. And if an accent doesn't quite do it for you, you can use certain phrases or sayings over and over to give a character a voice.

    Getting past writer's block: Write, that's how. Read, that's how. Write portraits, write landscapes, write conversations, as long as they don't belong in one of your stories.

    That is all I have to say for now. I must take my leave. Good day. *tips hat* *bows* *strides out the door*

    ~Sir James Matthew Barrie

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

Sorry, this has been waiting for too long. Jo Pippin got hold of my papers and wouldn't stop editing them day and night and now I can hardly read them through all the red ink, augh! Here it is. Note: The last name Cranston has been changed to Waverley for reasons you can see here: http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/haileyscharacters/691134

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    The first link in the bleak chain, the day that led to despair, is a bright afternoon in the year 1810, as flawless as day can be, light clouds lazily floating by: perfect contrast against the impossible blue. Rolling in green, spotted with wildflowers are the famous hills of Oakley, and through them meanders a man of no more than 25 years, appearing to have nothing to do, not a care in the world. He gazes up at the sun. Suddenly, he turns to the large house in the distance. He takes walking at a brisk pace towards it, as if he is late for something quite urgent.

    With a distressed countenance, he nudges his way past the people who wander through the dusty streets of town. It takes not very long for the man to arrive at his destination: the Waverleys’ home. He knocks on the door, straightening his collar, brushing the dirt off his worn coat, running his hands continually across his hair, trying to appear decent before the old gentleman, for this is an important matter. He knows not why Mr. Waverley desires to speak with him, for truly, he is but a worthless young man, a poor carpenter, and has no business with such high people as the Waverleys.

    An old black woman opens the door and curtsies to Mr. Hawthorne. “Sir?”

    “Er… Hawthorne… Mr. Waverley was expecting me…”

    “Ah, yes. This way, sir.”

    The door slams behind them. The woman leads Hawthorne down the hall to a closed door. They hear Mr. Waverley inside, murmuring something to himself. “Mr. Waverley, there’s a Mr. Hawthorne here to see…”

    “Let him in.” The old man’s voice is cold, hard. Face red and blotchy, Tom’s hands shake as he cautiously pushes open the creaky door.

    “Hawthorne, my man. I should like to have a word with you. Sit down.”

    Blushing, he eyes a chair behind him, and takes a seat uncomfortably as if he was sitting on an anthill. “Yes, Mr. Waverley?”

    “I shall have no dilly-dallying now, so I will get straight to the point. My granddaughter Judith has shown quite some liking towards you, though you may not have noticed it. She admires you so that she wishes to marry you. Are you following me, man?”

    “Um...”

    “Good, then. I think I know of your thoughts right now. You might not want to marry her; there are a great many handsome ladies in Oakley--- and perhaps one in particular you care for, eh? But are you quite aware of the sum you shall accumulate as my grandson-in-law? When my… time… comes…” He pauses and clears his throat. “There shall be the entire plantation left to my direct descendant. That would be Richard. We all know Richard himself… does not have much time left.” He pauses for a moment and draws a deep, slow breath. “Poor Richard… poor, sick boy. As Judith’s husband, you shall be the one to inherit the fortune, the land, the house, and I believe you and Judith will be incredibly happy with Green Collis. That is, unless I pass before Richard, or he gets married. Hawthorne, will you marry my granddaughter?”

    “I am very gracious of your kindness, but, Mr. Waverley, I don’t think...”

    “Nonsense, my boy. You shall never be made such an offer in your life.”

    “I know, sir, but…”

    “And if you do not accept, you are throwing away hopes of financial security and a comfortable home.”

    “Sir, I cannot…”

    “Well, then, my boy, you shall have to come to a decision. I shall grant you until next week to make your choice. Hear me?”

    “Yes, Mr. Waverley.”

    “Very well, then. Good day.”

    “Good day.”

Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

Please read my story? Only Taylor's read chapter 2, and she's my sister, so she's already read it a million times before... http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/writingforGod/688781. And this is the first chapter: http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/writingforGod/685031. BTW, issa romance, but not mushy. Dramatic, no mushiness, and it's historical.

~Jarndice... oh wait I'm Barrie on here.