Username: Who?
What will we call you: "Who"
What are your goals as an author?- Finish first five chapters in a way that doesn't mess up the plot line.
- Snag an agent
- Find a novel name that fits the plot-line of the story.
(list at least three)
Can you give us a sample of your writing? You were in the seat in front of me, half asleep. There was nothing I could do about that, except hope that the bus ride wasn’t going to take too long. The air inside the confined space of the school bus was rank with the smell of overdone perfume, Axe spray, and body odor. All those smells irritated my nose beyond belief, and I believe by the way you were sneezing that it bothered you as well.
The bus pulled up to the last stop on the course, which was Devan Smith’s stop. We both knew that Devan Smith was the lowest of the low, and he wasn’t even worth a sideward glance from us even. (And that was saying something.) He had long dark bangs that always blocked his eyes from view, and gritty facial hair that seemed too mature for his personality. Devan simply wasn’t that kindly scholar type who would happily help you with anything you needed. Actually, he was more of the ‘I-don’t-care-‘bout-anyone’s-'poo'-but-my-own,’ type. I regretted having to ride the bus with him, like you did. (Except you made a point of that in your drawings while I stayed completely quiet about that kind of things.)
Devan slipped into his seat, which really wasn’t an assigned seat, but more of his comfort seat. Like mine- three from the back of the bus, on the right side if you were facing the front of the bus. Devan’s seat was the second one from the front of the bus, on the left. Thank god too, for if he had sat any closer we would have been able to smell his stench.
The bus rattled on, thankfully, for the thing itself seemed ready to just fall apart on every single pot-hole that there was along the way. That happening wouldn’t surprise me at all; the bus was older than my grandmother (Slight exaggeration there. A very slight one.) Truth would be that if the bus had fallen apart that day, half of what was to come wouldn’t have happened at all. Of course, one little thing leads to another and another, and eventually it all comes together and leaves us all wondering what the heck has happened and where we’ve been while it chanced.
Are you currently working on any books? I'm working on a story that I hope someday I can get made into a book/novel.
Why do you want to join? I seriously need help in learning how to write a plot-line that doesn't spiral out of control, and to help others with their work.
Do you have published books yet? Not yet.
Do you wish to find a "writing partner"? Not really, but if someone wants one, I won't be a 'no'.
What Role(s): Author.
What's your favorite Genre? Mystery/nonfiction.
What kind of books do you write? Nonfiction. It seems that whenever I write fiction, the plot-line falls apart.