Anyway, I've been working on a modern-Jane-Eyre-idea of an aspiring author who goes to an organic farm far far away from the city to tutor the daughter of a single woman who works there. Her name is Nora Kensington and the story's written from her perspective.
CHAPTER ONE
Her square-toed boots (red, with fringe) hit the pavement as she exited the shop, her face pink with excitement, several fresh bags dangling from her fingertips. The black chiffon skirt she had on fluttered in the breeze, and- OH, FORGET IT.That settles it: I am officially unable to write without mentioning an outfit. I knew I should’ve taken something like, oh, I don’t know, fashion design, instead of literature. I knew I’d be much more of a high-flier, like my stupid lawyer older brother (who cares about law, anyway?), if I was the next Karl Lagerfeld, instead of the next J.K. Rowling. (I don’t even know enough Latin to make up spells.)
“Are you really sure about this, Nora dear?” my mother asks, fluttering nervously near my shoulder as I slit an envelope neatly with a letter-opener. A letter falls out: pink writing paper, neatly folded into a square. There’s only one person in the universe who writes on this, and there’s no way I’m going to read this letter now with my mother in such close proximity. “I mean, you’re only…”
“Twenty-four,” I say. I’ve heard this about a million times in a day. My mother thinks that if she can repeat my age often enough, I’m going to be convinced that I’m not fully matured yet and any major decision I make is going to turn out as a gigantic fluke the size of Antarctica (how big is it again?). Well, considering how I decided to take literature instead of fashion design… I have to be right about this, I have to.my work uses a lot more italics but when you copy and paste blogger doesn't take note of italics and such, so don't mind me :D