2. Do you have an LJ dedicated specifically to your writing? If so, what's the username?: It's this one - mult1pa55. I have another journal for normal bloggy type things, but this one ONLY has writing in it, and it's relatively new. I only have this piece and a half-finished fantasy piece I've been working on for a while.
3. Are you looking for any regular readers/beta readers of your writing? I don't think I am at this point. Between working full time and being in school part time and family, etc I have an erratic writing schedule, so I don't think I want to make that kind of committment to someone.
4. What genre(s) do you write? Mostly fantasy. The piece I've put below is the only non-fantasy piece I remember doing.
5. Are you willing to critique/edit other people's writing? Yes, absolutely.
6. Tell us a bit about you: I am 26. I work full-time for an asset management firm doing domestic equities trading (operations side). I am going to school for my masters in library science, because dude, don't be fooled. Corporate sucks. (I know that there's a big element of corporate in libraries, too, don't get me wrong. But I'll be really PASSIONATE about what I do. Shut up.) I love to read. My favorite authors are Robin McKinley, Brandon Sanderson, and Stephen Gould. I'm currently reading Nightwatch by Sergei Lukyanenko.
7. Recommend a writing related link to us (if you know of any). It can be a message board, author web site, an LJ community, whatever www.critiquecircle.com. I lurv it. Oh, also my Brandon Sanderson plug - www.brandonsanderson.com.
I'm looking for some writerly friends for my LJ, so if you are looking for someone who will give honest and constructive feedback, I'm your girl. I may be pushy (probably why I'm good at my job), but I have a zero drama quotient. Friend me, and I'll friend you back.
1. Author name mult1pa55
Title: Coffee Fictions - worst title ever. If you can think of a better one, let me know!
Rating (you MUST provide a rating of G, PG, PG-13, R): PG
Genre: Literary Prose
Summary: A girl waits in a coffee shop.
Specific things you're looking for help with (plot, character, how to finish it, etc): This is the first piece of "literary" non-fantasy work I've ever done. Please critique whatever needs critiquing.
Are you in need of a beta reader for this story?: I think just general critique. This is a very short piece.
It's 9:00 AM. I wait nervously at the coffee shop table, drawing patterns in the spilled sugar. I can feel every pump of my heart in its slow, clumsy rhythm and I wonder how much longer I will have to sit here, impatient for him to arrive. Another ten minutes pass and I pull out my journal.
It's an ungainly affair with a green leather cover emblazoned with a celtic knot and a long cord that is supposed to hold it closed, but just tends to get in the way. I flip open the cover immediately, embarrassed and unsure why I had purchased it in the first place. I had found it in one of the large book chains in my area, and I can't say what it was about the lurid green and overused symbology that had drawn me to it. It is far too late now to change my mind, anyway. The book contains every thought and feeling I've jotted down for the last six months and is half filled with my semi-literate scrawl.
I take out a stub of a pencil, holding it awkwardly because of its length.
I hate it when he's late. He doesn't understand how much his thoughtlessness hurts me.
I am hunched over my journal, scribbling furiously. I am aware of how I look - a chubby girl with emo hair and black nail polish writing in a journal, but I don't care about seeming like every other emo girl that sits in every other coffee shop writing in their journals decorated with little skulls or covered in lyrics from emo bands. As long as he still comes, I'm happy to be here writing in my journal, blending in with all of the other dark coffeeshop wallflowers.
Tucking my writing protectively under my arm, I go up to the counter and order a third cup of coffee. I don't need it. I can feel my stomach churn and my hands shake from the excess caffeine as I pay for my drink. The girl behind the counter looks at me pityingly as she takes the sweaty bills from my palm and I can't help feeling a small flare of hatred. She is punk cute with playful facial piercings and jeans slung low around her hips. Her mouth is soft and red and I smirk nastily, wishing she knew what the boys said about it when she was not around. Her face was saved from sharpness by that mouth, and men were fascinated by its over-glossed pomegranate curves.
I sigh and go back to my empty table for two. I glance at the wall-clock. He's forty-five minutes late. Rubbing my eyes, I consider leaving but don't. Of course. I reopen my journal.
I'm having trouble drawing. My hands are shaking so badly from nerves and caffeine that all the figures I draw have a hesitant, hazy shadow around them - an effect from rapidly hashing out their shape with feathered lines. I decide I like their tentativeness and expand them, giving them dark eyes that jump off the page, but I am dissatisfied with it. I try to erase them and manage to smudge the rest of the drawing. Hissing in irritation, I slam my book shut.
I have a heavy feeling in my chest that he's not going to show up again. I've lost count of the number of times he's kept me waiting or decided not to come at all at the last minute. How many minutes of my life have I wasted sitting here, waiting for this asshole? I make up my mind suddenly that this will be the last time. I stand up and gather my things together and stalk out of the cafe, the ringing bell above the door the most familiar part of the soundtrack to my life. I hold my head up high, and walk almost jauntily back to my apartment.
I know that tomorrow I will be back at 9:00 AM hoping for a chance encounter with a boy whose name I don't even know. But for today, I am going to live with the fiction that I have liberated myself from this self-destructive cycle and be proud of my own inner strength.