Anyone want to help me with my story?
It takes place in the early 1800's about a 16 yr old girl named Claire. The story moves way too fast and jumps into the plot quickly. Other than that, is it good for a girl who's turning 14 tomorrow(!!!)? Is it believable? Are the characters likeable? Here is a portion of it. I know it's long, but I tried to cut out a couple pages. You don't have to read the whole thing, just enough to help me!FRUSTRATED, I SLAMMED the heavy book closed with a bang. “Why must I learn all this information to become a successful wife?” I blurted out. My actions caused a disapproving look from my mother, who sat opposite the table. She pushed her reading glasses father up on her nose and said, “Young ladies do not raise their voices.”I sighed quietly. The only thing Mother was concerned about was marrying me to a well-off gentleman, preferably Mr. William Rounings, which meant I must learn to behave like a lady. I was only sixteen and had no interest in marrying yet, especially not to the likes of Mr. Rounings. He only wanted my looks and money, and could care less about the rest of me. The only way he would back out of the relationship was if my face was to be completely burned off in a fire and all my money with it. I picked up the dense, extremely dull book on European history and resumed my reading, my thoughts often drifting off someplace else.My fantasies carried me to a different place, one with happiness and true love, a place where I could be accepted for who I was and not covered over with face powder and unblemished manners. I could not imagine such a place like this existed in the real world, certainly not in my gloomy home town of London, England.“Good heavens, Claire, sit up straight and please try to remember to keep your elbows off the table,” chastised my mother. Always quick to obey, I folded my hands across my book and sat up as straight as my corset would allow.“Mother, these studies are such a bore. Might I go to my room and practice my sketching?” I pleaded. Mother looked up again, irritated at being interrupted from her reading, although I could hardly imagine she was any more interesting in her book than I was in mine.“I suppose. You still need to complete your drawing of a still life to present to Mr. Rounings, don’t you?”“Yes, Mother.”“Then you may go. Remember to use the nice charcoal pencils from France, not those inadequate ones that lead smith’s apprentice made for you.”Excusing myself and gathering up my books, I left the room and climbed the stairs. I caught sight of myself in the hallway mirror and stopped to adjust my hair. I was not used to having my hair pulled up in a elegant tangle of braids and pins, and found myself staring at my honey blonde hair in the mirror often. My mother and suitors said I was quite beautiful, although I questioned what they saw. Certainly, my piercing blue-gray eyes, high, pale cheek bones, and thin, graceful figure clothed in the latest styles were considered the prime of beauty, but to me, there was another level. My vain suitors and mother could not see past my looks and money, and if they could, would they still think of me as an attractive person? Of course they would. Their shallow idea of beauty had no meaning, causing me to become bitter to those who took interest in me. If they knew the lies I had told, the children I had ignored, my craving for items, it would not matter to them because I still had my face. I turned away from the mirror in disgust. When I reached my room at the end of the hallway, I entered and took out my drawing supplies. Even though I knew it was wrong, I unearthed the forbidden charcoal pencils. My good friend Stephen, the lead smith’s apprentice, made them for me on my fifteenth birthday, knowing I loved to draw. They were as good as any ones imported from France, a place I had never visited, but Mother talked of often. I set up my canvas of the dull fruit bowl in front of the glass window and picked up where I left off the day before. The long, gray brush strokes soothed me, reminding me so much of England’s climate. I became so absorbed in my drawing that I did not hear my brother enter the room with a quiet knock.“What are you drawing, Claire?” asked my twelve-year-old brother, Benjamin. I sighed, a habit that Mother says I must learn to control. “I’m drawing yet another still life. You have no idea how tiresome it is to draw the same bowl of fruit endlessly.” Benjamin looked serious as he nodded in agreement and studied my work.“You captured the shadow of the apple on the orange wonderfully here, Clairey,” he said, pointing to a place on the canvas. “Thank you, Benjamin. You would not believe the amount of work I had to put into that little shadow to make it just right. You know how bothersome Mother is with my artwork.”“Is this another drawing for the handsomely rich Mr. William Rounings?” My brother said sarcastically, rolling the “r” in his name. I smiled and nodded. “Unfortunately so. Promi
|
07-06-2009, 02:57 AM
Linear Mode
