Just a little preface to a story I'll never write, which I'll never add to the front of it. Enjoy the rants of an idiot writing what he believes prefaces are supposed to be about.
Before you, dear reader, do what you do best and read this, I'd like to point out that I have absolutely nothing against English teachers in any way, and if my English teacher does come into contact with me telling me that I should change things around, then I'll listen very intently to what he has to say.
I, like many people, have a dream. This is not some American fancy, or a British disappointment. Instead, my dream consists of words created and fashioned together to form sentences. From these sentences, came a contract, which every man must sign if they wish to write a piece of literature such as this one. This is how the contract reads:
"The writer of this book (hencetoforth referred to as ‘I', ‘myself') solemnly swear on oath of [insert preferred religious deity here] to write an article of ink and paper. Not just that, but it must also contain fictitious characters, a plot line, and some kind of setting might be useful too. I shall protect the secret hidden behind the writing of this book, unless I am an English teacher, in which case it is completely allowed to tell as many people as possible and is in fact encouraged. It will help them write better. I shall try not to make the book too long, nor too short. For it must be of average length. Too long, and the dear reader loses interest, too short and it is over too quickly. I swear not to write myself into a corner, only to use a denouement at the end. I swear to read this contract and not just skim over it like I know you are doing right now. I swear to apologise for being so rude to the writer of this book, as he has put a lot of effort into it, and demands attention. It helps. A lot. And most importantly of all, I solemnly swear never, ever, not to be funny. Being funny, witty, and ridiculous is the course of such literature, and as such is a keystone of the genre. If this crucial part is missed out, everything falls apart. And this would not be good. It would become a mere thriller, or adventure novel. Think of the awkward silences the characters are having! Oh, wait, I have rambled on a bit haven't I?"
And so it reads. When I signed this contract, I didn't actually read it. Being honest, right now, did you? I bet you're reading it over now though. Just so you can say "I read your silly contract, now give me my money back" to me. Well, first rule of writing: If you want to say something offencive (none of which happens in this book), then use a pseudonym. Luckily, I don't need to, but keep that in mind if a new writer with exactly the same writing style seems to hit the shelves quite soon after the apparent death of a Mr. David McLaughlin.
You're really meant to talk about your influences and memories of childhood and all that junk. Well, I may as well. I am actually sixteen when writing this, so not much reminiscing going on here. But I do remember writing a story - the title of which shall not be recounted in public ears, not because it's offencive, but because it's a stupid word - that my brother decided to destroy. But before that, I wrote another. Thinking back, actually, I remember with childhood glee, sitting down at my computer (yes, I had them in my childhood. Kids these days...) and writing a story. Nine chapters and nineteen pages. Or was it the other way around? Either way, it's not the best work of literary genius. But since then I've been trying to write a story. A good one, mind. Every time I try, I either get put down or I give up myself. This is mostly because my family disapprove of the whole writing malarkey. If you haven't heard that word before, it means stupidity, try it out on your parents, it's fun. All in all I've written 5 stories, and just as many pages. Not seriously, but that's certainly what it feels like! I've written two for English, both of which my teacher disapproved of. He said they were "mysteriously well written, David. Still have no idea what it's about, but you do create a sense of atmosphere and tension." Now if those words don't put you down, I don't know what will. I think it was because I didn't tell him up-front what the storyline was. I left him to work it out. And he doesn't enjoy his brain functioning in any capacity other than talking constantly for an hour and a half straight!
Sorry, lost myself there.
So I was writing a story, and the joy I gained out of that was immense. I've been trying to recapture it ever since... Yes, and I wrote another one, not as good mind, but it was all right. Well, in my opinion, which doesn't really count for much, but certainly beats throwing it in the trash as soon as it's finished.
I love reading. Some people will get that, others won't. If this is your first delving into literature, try something a bit better. Like a classic novel. If you're like me, this will be the umpteenbillionth book you've read and you're hoping it will surprise you in some way.
No? Didn't work?
I have always loved science fiction. In general, it got me thinking about how we would feel about technology in the future. Or how future generations will look upon the tools of our present. Thus, I got deeply involved in time travel at a very early age (roughly seven). I started creating paradoxes, then finding ways out of them. And the dream. Oh, the dream. But that's for another time.
We have reached the length of the essay I did for English about addiction to the Internet and how it is affecting our society. Not bad eh? Yes, it is.
I tried writing serious stories, like the ones I thought I was writing way back when. It never really worked out. They made it to a page, then it was either bin it or make a joke. I tried so hard to be a serious writer, and the more I tried, the more my bin filled up. Eventually, I gave up attempting to write and just settled down. Then my English teacher came along and asked us to write a story. Childhood memories welled up. There were the elevation of writing, and the downfall of writing badly. So I was determined to write an excellent story, to impress the teacher, and myself. I did in fact achieve this goal, and it's now hanging on the front of my bedroom wall for all to see as they walk in. I'm proud of myself, although others may not be. I have an active imagination that needs to be expressed somehow. Writing is the only form that almost everyone on the planet has easy access to. People keep diaries, memoirs, and they write short stories, novels, epics (for long trips only), poems (for English teachers only - trust me), and all sorts of different genres. Everyone has a story to tell, all novelists do is type it up.
We have now reached the length of the story which helped create this one, and gain the respect of my teacher. This landmark, this milestone, I have never ventured beyond, to the open pastures of novels. Where writers graze on the grass of imagination and freely discuss ideas among themselves. And now that I have gone beyond, I understand.
What is the sense in writing if you don't tell the world? Why keep a public event to yourself? Why stop writing if you have a story to tell, a historical event to capture on paper with ink before it is erased by the sands of time? Why not?
We have now reached the word limit imposed by my teacher. "No writing beyond 1300 words." Well guess what, Mr. Daly? 1334 and counting!
I won't do anything though.