The prologue of my currently in the process writing book called "Black Blood, Black Tears" I hope you like c: Please give some contructive critiscm. Not just stuff like, oh this is good, or oh this is boring. Tell me why it's good, and tell me stuff I need to work on. It would be greatly appreciated:)
The rain pattered inconsistently on her window washing away the dirt and grime and she studiously typed away at her computer. Minute by minute, the clocked ticked by as a sentence grew into a paragraph, a paragraph grew into a page, a page grew into a chapter. She typed away the night, until the night became day, and once more until the day became night. These were her days, and the seemingly endless hours of the night did not faze her, for she made no notice of the time or day as to which it was in the real world. Her only world now was the place in which she created. A place no other knows exists, but a place where everything is possible, as long as she wills it to be, for, she is the author, as best an author can be. But, she does not write to please others. She writes to be free, to pour out the contents of the hot, boiling water brewing inside of her so she does not suddenly burst from the pressure. She writes for an escape.