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Iv been in the Process of writing a book for about 6 months now. And yea, i know. sounds stupid. But well, i suck when it comes to spelling, grammar. and pretty much all that stuff. But iv been doing things in kind of a mixed order and its all for this website but i have to submit the prologue soon. So i was wondering if you could tell me what you think and help me fix any errors. and i'm sure you'll be able to tell but its all nonfiction. I know it's long but i would really appreciate some feed back.
Prologue
Everybody has a story. Everybody's life... That's their story. Some sad, happy, fun. Some are short, and some long. Some have ending's or even beginnings they wanted, or didn't want. But everybody does have a story. Mine started out so simple. It wasn't exciting. But it was normal. Maybe not the kind of story that would be on the best sellers list in the times. But the kind of story your teachers would assign you to read in English class. Than they try to make you find some hidden meaning behind it. Some sort of underlying conflict that your pretty sure the author didn't even intend to put in their book in the first place. But now look at me. lying in bed at three in the afternoon. Wallowing in self piety. And my once normal life. The life i would have killed to have a little excitement involved. Is nothing but a fading memory, replaced by a life that i can barely recognize myself in. A life with a lot of excitement, but not always the good kind. Most recently none of it's the good kind. So now. Here i am lying on Egyptian cotton sheets that probably cost more than my car, in a shmansey fuckin pantsey hotel room in gods favorite city. London. The place where i dreamed of going for as long as i can remember. The place where peoples wildest dreams are supposed to come true. A place that for a while. Mined did. I should be happy right? Wrong. I keep asking myself the same questions. What did i do? Why is this happening?... When did this all go so wrong?... So very, very wrong.
I took a deep breath of the overly perfumed air. They had obviously cleaned the room while i slept. There such tight asses here i'm surprised they didn't make my bed while i lay in it. I was starting to become irritated but than realized i must not have put the "do not disturb" sign on the door after last nights mad rush through this overly priced hotel room now smelling of apples, cinnamon and the minuscule scent of bleach and something else i cant quit put my finger on.
You know those few minuets after you wake up, where your not quit sure of anything, your memory's are faded, your brain only half functioning. The other half still going through the process of awakening? Well thats what i was experiencing. The troubles from the previous night had not yet caught up with me, and for the most part, i was happy. And than... I remembered.
My eyes flew open and brought with them a sharp pain to my temple. I guess last night i had a few more shots of tequila than anticipated.
"Great! Life is over as i know it! And i get to nurse a hangover. Ah, fuck my life".
Followed by some angry mumbling i l will myself to open my eyes. After a few deep raged breaths, I find my gaze drifting to the little gold flowers so precisely placed at the corner of each marble ceiling tile. They seem as though they are mocking me. Each one matches up right next to the other, leading to the next tile. Each of those little gold flowers looked like they belonged. Like they were made to be exactly where they lay, on the corner of the white marble tiles, on the ceiling of this over priced room in this over priced hotel, in the overrated city of London. They belonged. They were so easily made to do something iv been trying to do since the day i got to this god forsaken city. They belonged.
Everybody has a story. Everybody's life..., that's their story. Some sad, happy, fun. Some are short, and some long. Some have endings or even beginnings they wanted, or didn't want. But everybody does have a story. Mine started out so simple. It wasn't exciting. But it was normal. Maybe not the kind of story that would be on the best sellers list in the Times, but the kind of story your teachers would assign you to read in English class. Then they try to make you find some hidden meaning behind it. Some sort of underlying conflict that you’re pretty sure the author didn't even intend to put in their book in the first place. But now look at me, lying in bed at three in the afternoon, wallowing in self piety. And my once normal life, the life I would have killed to have a little excitement involved, is nothing but a fading memory replaced by a life that I can barely recognize myself in. A life with a lot of excitement but not always the good kind and most recently none of it's the good kind. So now, here I am lying on Egyptian cotton sheets that probably cost more than my car, in a shmansey fuckin’ pantsey hotel room in god’s favorite city. London, the place where I dreamed of going for as long as I can remember, the place where people’s wildest dreams are supposed to come true. A place that for a while, mine did. I should be happy right? Wrong. I keep asking myself the same questions. What did I do? Why is this happening?... When did this all go so wrong?... So very, very wrong. I took a deep breath of the overly perfumed air. They had obviously cleaned the room while I slept. There such tight asses here I’m surprised they didn't make my bed while I lay in it. I was starting to become irritated, but then realized I must not have put the "do not disturb" sign on the door after last night’s mad rush through this overly priced hotel room now smelling of apples, cinnamon and the minuscule scent of bleach and something else I can’t quit put my finger on. You know those few minutes after you wake up, where you’re not quite sure of anything, your memory's are faded, your brain only half functioning. While the other half is still going through the process of awakening? Well that’s what I was experiencing. The troubles from the previous night had not yet caught up with me, and for the most part, I was happy. And then... I remembered. My eyes flew open and brought with them a sharp pain to my temple. I guess last night I had a few more shots of tequila than anticipated. "Great! Life is over as I know it! And I get to nurse a hangover. Ah, fuck my life". Followed by some angry mumbling I will myself to open my eyes. After a few deep ragged breaths, I find my gaze drifting to the little gold flowers so precisely placed at the corner of each marble ceiling tile. They seem as though they are mocking me. Each one matches up right next to the other, leading to the next tile. Each of those little gold flowers looked like they belonged, like they were made to be exactly where they lay, on the corner of the white marble tiles, on the ceiling of this over priced room, in this over priced hotel in the overrated city of London. They belonged. They were so easily made to do something I’ve been trying to do since the day I got to this god forsaken city. They belonged.
i hope its not to late, this is a very breifly eddited version... May i ask what this story is about/called? I enjoyed the intro and if its going to be published id like to be able to look out for it :) also any further stuff you need edited or just want an opinion on i would love to read!!!
You are too sweet! Thank you, and no it was not too late. I am truly challenged when it comes to spelling and grammar :/ and the story is called "Life Unasked For" It was for this fan fic competition thinger where you have to submit a certain amount every week and so on and so forth. I'm glad you enjoyed it though. Melts my heart :)
Lol awesome :) im glad