Not signed in (Sign In)

Categories

Vanilla 1.1.8 is a product of Lussumo. More Information: Documentation, Community Support.

Welcome Guest!
Want to take part in these discussions? If you have an account, sign in now.
If you don't have an account, apply for one now.
    •  
      CommentAuthorDiamonte
    • CommentTimeJun 17th 2009
     

    Hey fellow Imps! I was digging through old files, and found some of the stuff I’ve written in the past. It was an interesting read to see how my writing style has changed, and I thought I’d share it with you guys. I am by no standards a great writer, but I like to think that I’ve been improving. I included the dates and my age of when these were written. All of them are stories related to hunting and fishing, and all were submitted to a newspaper contest. The one from 2004 got an honorable mention, and the one from 2006 won the contest.

    The first one is filled with way too many adverbs, the second is overly verbose, and the third one also has some problems. But it’s interesting to see how my style has changed. If any of you wish to share your own little timeline in this thread, feel free.

    - 2004 –
    11 years old

    It was an early May night at dusk that I stood on the Flambeau River with my brother Jeff and Dad. I shivered, as the coldness settled in, and pleadingly looked at my Dad. He saw me and smiled, telling me that soon would be the rush of fish. Smiling, I eagerly watched my bobber, waiting for a fish to pull it under, hopefully, a sleek long walleye. As my bobber drifted down the eddy, my eyes opened wide with surprise and excitement as my bobber disappeared from the surface. Clutching the reel, I began to reel, but it was harder than I ever imagined. Fighting the fish that I so desperately wanting to get it in to prove I was old enough to go on the Flambeau, I couldn’t hold on much longer. My Dad just smiled, and when I asked for help he told me to pull harder. Jeff then laughed and told me to toughen up. Helpless as I was, after about 5 minutes the fish got away, and with almost relief I reeled in the bobber. The hook was severely bent, then Jeff and Dad realized that it wasn’t a small fish, and they would believe me next time.

    I sadly wished the fish would come back, knowing it was a once in a lifetime experience. Waiting for another fish seemed to take hours, but only about 15 minutes went by before my bobber went under again, a fish had pounded it again! My heart began racing, and still my full strength had not returned, but enough to give it a 3 or 4 minute fight before handing the pole over to my brother. He quickly grabbed it, in all his excitement, and fought it out well. My hope began rising, and I wistfully dreamed it was the one I had on before. In anticipation, my Dad waded out a little ways, getting ready for the moment the fish was in sight and he could make sure it was properly landed. As the magnificent fish swam into view after a tiresome fight that had gone on for 20 or more minutes, I knew it was the same fish, for otherwise the fight could have gone on for hours. Looking at the prehistoric looking fish, I asked what kind it was. My Dad was surprised and answered that it was a Sturgeon. Getting it on shore, he went to the truck and grabbed our camera, and my brother and I proudly held up our Sturgeon together.

    After the pictures, my brother lightly laid the fish on the ground and my dad measured it. Carefully using the 18-inch ruler, he moved along, and at the tail I grabbed it and gently squeezed the end. Standing up, he announced that our fish was 49 inches long. I was so excited; it was by far the biggest fish I ever caught, even bigger than any my Dad caught. My Dad and brother lifted the fish up and put it in the water. Holding its tail, the fish was kept as motionless as possible so it would be strong enough to swim away. After a few minutes, it began flopping around and our grasp on the mighty Sturgeon was let go. It effortlessly glided away, back into the depths of the river.

    As I watched the Sturgeon fade from view, I wished that it were legal to have kept the fish. But even if I couldn’t keep my Sturgeon, I still would remember the beauty and power of it, and I hoped I would never forget any little detail of the fish, like the odd look of its mouth, or how hard it could pull, or how my brother helped me out and fought the Sturgeon, as this will probably be the most exciting fishing time in my life.

    - 2006 –
    13 years old

    The moonlight lit our pathway through the forest, as the last remnants of frost began to evaporate. This was the first weekend in October, the beginning of the youth hunt. The leaves rustled beneath my feet as I tried patiently to walk soundlessly through the woods beside my dad. We approached the tree stands we would be hunting out of, and I scurried up the ladder as my dad took my gun.

    My dad followed after me, cautiously climbing while carrying the gun. When he reached me, I gingerly took my 20-gauge from him and he helped me load in the shells. Relaxing, I rested my gun across the bars of the stand, keeping a light hold on it. Then I began to study the many trails in front of me. I listened to the chattering of the squirrels, and the gentle rustling of the leaves. Each time I heard the sounds from a new direction, my heart gave a little jump in hopes that it was a deer.

    Behind us the first rays of sunlight stretched over the trees, and I heard the crackling sound of leaves in front of me. By the dim light, I could see a black silhouette that was feeding on the acorns and various mast that littered the ground. The massive deer bounded off towards the river, where it gave an enormous splash and leapt into the water.

    The morning passed quickly, with the noise of crackling leaves surrounding me. It was almost time to leave the stand, and so I surveyed the forest one more time before we would depart. I gave a little gasp as I spotted a six point buck on my far left, standing upon a small ridge.

    The magnificent buck stared intently at me. He could clearly sense something was wrong, but he could not figure out what. I tried to inconspicuously lift up my gun; this was my chance at a deer. The buck gave a little jolt and trotted directly in front of our stand. At this, my dad spotted him and gave a few grunts. The deer paused and looked back upon us, a perfect shot except for the branches that blocked my way. I gave a sigh. Although the buck was gone, I wouldn’t forget him. I gave a large excited smile to my dad, but I doubted my decision to not take a shot. Giving a glance to where he stood, I now was thinking that the brush wasn’t that thick, there was an opening in it…

    Later that day, we were back in the same stand, watching the trails once more. The sun streaked out in shadows across the earth, and for parts of our hunt I was temporarily blinded by it. As the hours went by, I finally heard the noise of a deer, dashing into the water. Through the trees, I could see the ripples around it.

    Finally the doe emerged and came across the trail daintily, attentive to her surroundings and wary of prey. She gave a mighty shake and beads of water splattered everywhere, her tawny coat was drenched with water. The doe stopped and began foraging the ground. She stood right behind a large tree, and as my heart pounded, I tried desperately to move my gun and get a shot, but it was of no use. She kept feeding there.

    The seconds became minutes, and still she continued, only raising her head and giving a quick glance every few minutes. I became frustrated and excited, yet calm and ready for the shot when it would appear. With the excitement of the hunt, I wasn’t afraid to shoot the gun. Every so often, she would lean casually to one side or another, but still not enough to get a shot off of. I questioned this waiting, and saw a small area where I could get a shot off of, though it would be a very hard one, and I would rather have her escape than for me to injure her. I decided to wait and so I continued watching her.

    Finally the young deer stepped to the right, her head still intent upon the ground. After twenty-five minutes of waiting, this was it – a perfect shot. I slipped on the ear muffs and positioned my gun. Just as my dad had taught me, I took a deep breath and aimed just behind the shoulder. Giving the trigger a slow squeeze, a bullet erupted from the barrel, directly towards the doe. With a double lung shot, the beautiful doe dropped instantly. Waiting for her to stop moving, I gave a heartfelt smile to my dad.

    We then climbed out of the tree, and I anxiously walked to my deer. When we reached her, I stroked her russet coat as my dad helped me tag her. This was an absolutely perfect hunt – full of beautiful wildlife, wonderful weather, and my first deer harvested.

    - 2008 –
    15 years old

    It was the morning of the November 1st, the day of the Sandhill Wildlife Area Youth Hunt. A ringing alarm had woken me at 3:30 in the morning, and I wiggled into my long underwear and blaze orange overalls. For several hours, my dad and I waited in the car until 6:00 AM, when the gate to the southeastern compartment was opened. My legs stiffened and I twisted in the seat to watch the stars up ahead, glancing at the clock every few minutes. Our car rumbled over the dirt path. I held a flashlight over a map, tracing the road that we would follow to the hunting spot.

    My hands clasped the metal thermos, little coils of steam spiraling above the hot chocolate. I sipped at the warm liquid, nestling into the fleece blanket. The chair, placed between the ground blind that was constructed of fallen trees and branches, creaked. I shifted my weight, curling my numb toes that tingled from the cold. My eyes darted around the woods, looking for the slightest movement that might betray a waiting deer.

    Suddenly, a mighty buck crashed through the thick undergrowth, his head lowered to the ground. His thickly muscled neck was taut, stretching to follow the scent of does. Swamp grass swayed, their thin stems wilting as the buck’s antlers plowed the trail. My heartbeat quickened, my quivering hands reaching for the black earmuffs. My dad lifted a grunt call to his lips. The challenge echoed through the silence of the chilly November morning. The deer’s ears swiveled, registering the challenge.

    “Toss me the can,” my dad whispered urgently.

    My eyes were still focused on the mighty buck. My trembling fingers brushed against the brittle leaves, and I felt the smooth surface of the plastic doe bleat. I tossed the small can to my dad, who was crouched on a small five-gallon bucket just behind me. Pressing his fingers against the can, he flipped it several times, the urgent cry of an anxious doe whining from the small container. The deer excitedly turned, picking up the speed of its proud prance. I reached for my rifle, pressing the stock of the gun into my shoulder, and squinting as I anxiously searched through the scope. The buck scented the trail of another doe, who had passed by our ground blind only twenty minutes earlier. He switched his direction again, his path curling around our gentle bluff. I traced the trail by watching for his shoulders, swerving among the brush. As my dad used the grunt call again, curving the plastic accordion grunt tube towards the buck, the deer hesitated. I focused on his shoulder, lining it up between the crosshairs of the sights. I squeezed the trigger, the bullet erupting and the gun jolted backwards. The mighty buck tumbled to the ground, his front legs buckling beneath his massive weight.

    I bounced to my feet, my arms wrapping around my dad in an excited hug. My hands shook as I unloaded the bullets from the rifle, the scent of gunpowder still strong in the air. My dad and I walked to the deer. I hiked through the brush, breaking out into a run when I saw its tawny coat. I reached out to stoke the buck’s coat, the small brown and black hairs still warm. Lifting up the antlers, I counted the eight points, and beamed a large grin back at my dad.

    • CommentAuthorSlyShy
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009 edited
     

    I’m impressed. Your writing was really good at eleven. And it’s gotten better since.

    •  
      CommentAuthorswenson
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Oh, I always like going back and reading my old writing… I keep an expanding file folder full of all my old papers and stories, and every once in a while I pull it out and go through it. It’s interesting to see how you’ve improved (or not improved…). And sometimes I can even get new ideas from my old writing, because I forgot about a story or something.

  1.  

    Blechh. I hate going through my old writing. It sucks. I can only write about as well as the 13-yr-old thing. Your writing is really really good. writhes in jealousy

    •  
      CommentAuthorPuppet
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     
    I’m impressed. Your writing was really good at eleven. And it’s gotten better since.

    Ditto. I couldn't write at all when I was 11. :{
  2.  
    Well, your writing at 11 is ten times better than mine was. I hate looking back at my old stories. I almost always say "Bleck, I wrote that?" Then I start to spork myself. :)
    •  
      CommentAuthorAmelie
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Haha, me too. I get really embarassed that I was ever proud of it or that I actually showed it to people. is sheepish

    • CommentAuthorCodeWizard
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    I deleted my past so hah.

    • CommentAuthorDrAlligator
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009 edited
     

    I deleted my past so hah.

    Same. I delete all my essays when I pass a subject and a while back I went back to Fanfiction.net for the first time in eons, logged into my account, and deleted all the stories there. I can, however, remember my writing styles – from, as an 11 year old, using ‘Then’ way too much as well as a host of other juvenile problems, to, as a 14 year old, being forcibly verbose when a more minimalistic approach would turn out to be much more natural for me, to now, where I’ve finally come to grips as to whatand how I enjoy to write.

    A year from now I’ll probably think today’s work is shit.

    •  
      CommentAuthorAmelie
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    A year from now I’ll probably think today’s work is shit.

    Isn’t that depressing?

    • CommentAuthorCodeWizard
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Not really.

  3.  

    The way I see it, the worse my old work looks to me, the more I’ve grown as a writer. Then I can go back, rewrite and implement my new-found wisdom.

    •  
      CommentAuthorswenson
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Well, it’ll mean you’ve improved a lot in that year, I suppose…

    •  
      CommentAuthorAmelie
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Yeah, that’s true. I just meant that when you know that you’re going to hate the work you do now at some point in the future, that’s not a lot of incentive to actually try. :(
    But even crap work is a step towards something better, I guess.

  4.  

    I don’t know I’ll dislike my work. There’s work I’ve written and still enjoy – mostly done in the last year or so. But a year from now I can reflect back and say, “This is how I wrote this, this is how I should have wrote it.” It’s an ongoing cycle of improvement, I can’t think of a better incentive than that.

    • CommentAuthorCodeWizard
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Winnar.

    The more challenging an obstacle, the more satisfying it is to overcome.

  5.  
    It is extremely painful for me to read stuff I wrote a few years ago. It's just so...bad. xD
    •  
      CommentAuthorSpanman
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Well, I wrote what I see now as pretty much a ripoff of Eragon when I was 12. I was, at least, smart enough to cut out the dragons and make my protagonist female. Beyond that, it was pretty awful.

  6.  

    I didn’t even start writing until I had everything figured out. Which is odd, because most of the time, I do stuff before I’m half-aquainted with it.

  7.  
    @Spanman - learning from the greats, huh? =P
    •  
      CommentAuthorSpanman
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Yes. No. Ummm. Is that a trick question?

  8.  

    Young people lack brians.

    • CommentAuthorCodeWizard
    • CommentTimeJun 18th 2009
     

    Old people lack strength.

  9.  
    @Spanman - maybe....-shifty eyes-
  10.  

    Wow, Dia, I’m impressed at your eleven year old writing skills. I had a fanfiction from when I was twelve, but I lost it. Too bad. I would have liked to see how I wrote at that age.

    But right now, my writing seems…I don’t know. I’m mainly focusing on getting a plot out there. But that’s what you’re supposed to do in the first draft, right? Later I guess I can make it better…I kind of wish I could write beautifully though.

    •  
      CommentAuthorPuppet
    • CommentTimeJun 21st 2009
     

    I still have my writing from when I was 10. Facepalm

  11.  

    I still have some of my writing from when I was twelve, somewhere… I’m a little afraid to look at it.

  12.  

    I kept almost none of my writing from when I was younger; it truly scares the hell out of me.

    •  
      CommentAuthorDiamonte
    • CommentTimeJun 22nd 2009
     

    My poetry scares me. I was lucky enough to come across someone who set me straight by saying that it was soppy and it dripped with the romantic notions of an immature writer, or something like that. Any poetry I have ever written has been hidden from the light of day, and will stay there.

  13.  

    @ DrAlligator: True. I lost mine several years ago. He never came back.

    @ Diamonte: I don’t write many poems. I do, however, write songs that nobody is ever going to see before I can tidy up the wording. I’ll be darned if I let anyone else clear up my mess and therefore deserve to be a co-writer :)

  14.  

    @ DrAlligator: True. I lost mine several years ago. He never came back.

    For a second there I had no clue what you were talking about. My first reaction was, “What, your virginity?”

    Brian’s a molester. :/

  15.  

    cracks up laughing I can see how that would be taken that way. :D