I'm a HUGE fan of new experiences, as I'm sure most of us are...I ADORE anything that has to do with creating...My life seems to be the script of a crazy movie sometimes... I love writing of course!
I want SPECIFIC feedback, including WHERE I can make the suggested changes.
I don't shy away from criticism because I just want to improve my writing.
Be as honest and blunt as you like, just no unnecessary haters please. Thanks so much and smile on! :D
Written By: Ainsleigh
May 10, 2014
My bedroom window is really two windows; they're split on the corner of my house that was later built as an addition and juts awkwardly out onto my back yard. From the left window, I can see the old house -- the small part that's stood strong and sturdy and has contained my family for 17 years straight. On the second floor, if I poke my head out far enough, I can see my younger brother through his bedroom window, sitting at his desk, pretending to do homework but instead texting a friend.
Further in the back yard, against the big oak tree -- the one that used to scare me when I was little because of its creeping spider-like arms -- there is an uneven patch of grass that lies beneath the fairy house my sister made last Sunday afternoon.
This structure is of the same kind I used to build when I was little.
How about that? Looking out these windows makes me feel older, not younger. You'd think looking out on your backyard, open, green, and full of wildlife before spring had really even started with summer somehow just around the bend, you'd get a free-spirited, newly alive feeling. Apparently, this is not the case.
I am most definitely not old when my years are compared to the average human life span, but somehow I'm not quite young, nor am I in the middle. I'm still early on, but not brand new.
Speaking of "not brand new," looking once again through the old glass, I see the hammock on top of the hill we used to sled down in the winter. That hammock was the place I spent the majority of my summers -- when I had time to spend, that is.
Now, late at night, when I'm at my desk, these windows are the only ones to cast light on the backyard. At this hour, my little sister dreams of fairies using the tiny hollowed-out acorns for cups in the house she built them, taking shelter from the rain, while I sit at my desk, reading Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream for my English class. I see the fairies on the cover reflected in these same windows.
I guess I live with a different kind of magic now.