Introvert's Gift

When I heard she was an introvert, I was concerned. I had an unread copy of the Susan Cain book, Quiet, and embarked on a mission. I would give her my book. First, I asked L— if she could use it if I gave it. She said she might be interested. So, the following week, when I knew she’d attend service, I wrapped the immaculate book in a white plastic bag and folded it up neatly. Having trekked the two miles to our church, I walked into the sanctuary, bearing my precious gift. When I spotted her nearby the altar, I strode confidently up the aisle and presented the book to her. L— smiled with bubbles and spoke, “I can’t guarantee I’ll read it.” I felt a little condescended to. Mission completed as far as I what I could do, I sat down in my maroon pew while L—s grinned in camaraderie.

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Did this really happen? Or are your writing a short story? You’re really good at story telling.

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Yes, this is a true report of what happened. The woman is married, so my love is hopeless :roll_eyes: Thanks for the compliment. I wrote this as a sketch.

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@Borath. You are a good writer.

I wrote a story years ago about a little boy who gets lost in a market in North Africa. His mother goes to the church to pray to find him. A lion as big as a mountain is lonely so he eats the church. The little boy goes looking for his mother and encounters the lion who tells the boy to climb on his back and he will go with the boy to look for his mother.

The boy climbs on and the lion starts to move well the church dragging in the lion’s belly irritates his digestion and the lion throws up the church and everybody who was in the church comes outside and mother and son are united…

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That’s really good! And a happy ending, to boot. Everybody’s happy.

Thanks for telling me I’m a good writer. I hope I I’m a good person, too. My new antipsychotic is bringing out my instinctual self, which I hope can be trusted. So far, so good. Do you know what I mean re: what these new drugs do? I can remember being taught remorse. My dad and I were playing on a couch when I was two or three years old. I smacked my dad and he began mock-crying. Mom, across the room in a chair, said, “Now, say you’re sorry, Robbie.” Dad continued crying until I said I was sorry. Then his crying stopped.

When I brought this up with Mom years later, she didn’t recall that evening at all. Why do I remember it? I’m 51yo and I remember it clearly. It’s a little scary having such recall.

Thanks again.

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You’re a very good writer. But I’m not sure what kind of reaction you want your reader to get from reading this. There’s nothing especially interesting happening here. Maybe it’s more interesting in the context of the rest of the story? Or maybe it’s just not a very juicy part of the story? It’s still interesting to read, though, because it’s really well written. Just trying to give some constructive critique here, because I can see that you have a lot of potential.

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I agree with you. You are left saying, “So what?” My prose-poem, “Mona Portrait,” also under Creativity, ends with a better “clincher,” some kind of moral meaning. Something that leaves you satisfied that a point has been made. With the present writing, I just pasted it from my journal, hence its being fragmentary and rather pointless. I’ll work on that. Thanks a lot.

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I hope you don’t waste your talent. Keep writing and try to get your work out there!

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I have a blog with WordPress that does, overall, pretty poorly after about 18 mos. Only about 50 followers. I started posting when I was still drinking like a fish. More recently, after stopping drinking on 9/12/17, I’ve been struggling to get stabilized on the sz end of things. It’s not been a pleasure cruise… Like your avatar. I read The Two Towers at age 12.

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