“Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was too. But better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.” – Katherine Mansfield
There’s a photo somewhere of me sitting on a booster seat and our old gray desktop Mac, typing away. I was a little shaky on the rules of plagiarism at the time, being only about four years old at the time. I wanted to write a book so I found my favorite copy of Cinderella and began typing it myself. After my parents explained that doing it that way didn’t count and was against the rules, I started stealing paper from the printer, folding it in half, and stapling it into a book of my own. I would write until I started running out of paper and hastily wrapped it up and started a new one.
I was about seven years old when I started my first story that could really be called a story. It was going to be a supernatural murder mystery. I still have the first few pages in a trunk with my school things from elementary school. It’s right on top of the orange and blue house made out of a milk carton where a petrified gingerbread man resides.
Next week I plan on playing with my old laptop until I can get a readable copy of the novel I wrote when I was fourteen. Until then, there are still two main chunks of the incomplete Rosewood Manor that I’ll be posting as well as some of the short stories I included as part of my thesis project. Here is Rosewood Manor – Chapter 4.
Excerpt from Rosewood Manor – Chapter 4
Elizabeth used the information Mrs. King had given her the day before to begin the tiresome search for her mother and sister. Rather than cause a scene and draw unwanted attention to herself, Elizabeth ventured out on foot. It was a pleasant walk to town, though the distance seemed longer on foot than from the comfort of a carriage. The rain of the previous afternoon had ceased during the night and the morning sun had worked at clearing the puddles. Through a series of disastrous misjudgments, Elizabeth quickly learned to keep t the center of the road when possible, away from the carriage-wheel induced ruts along the edge.
Once she arrived at the outskirts of the small town, Elizabeth found herself lost. In the few months she’d lived with Amelia and Anne at Mrs. King’s boarding house, she’d only ventured out unassisted a handful of times, and even on those occasions she rarely met with success. In an attempt to find the butcher, whose shop was on the road perpendicular to their own lodgings, Elizabeth had wandered into the Worthington store where she’d first met Charles. He had escorted her through the rest of her errands that day and returned her safely to the boarding house. When he would come to call they often went for drives in his carriage but she had paid little attention to her surroundings beyond the carriage’s interior.