Zero to hero day 6- write to your dream reader. I was rubbing my head all day as to what I who I was going to write to and more importantly, and perhaps more scary for me, what new elements to add to my style of writing. It should be said that I am not even sure if I even have a writing style. What I decided was to settle on a piece I actually have started working on. A piece of fiction that was written for the purpose of novel I guess. I am not sure if this fulfills the requirements for the assignment but I do know that for many years, as an avid novel reader, I’ve always wished I could, at the very least, try to write in that capacity. So here is just a small piece of it. Nervously hoping someone likes it. Enjoy. 🙂 Oh I almost forgot, my dream reader is my dad, John who passed away some time ago and if I were ever to publish anything whatsoever he is who I would take it to to read first. He was the kind of man who inspired greatness, he made you want to be better than your best but that’s a good story for another post.
The story is about a young girls life growing up on a thriving piece of land, a manor if you will, with meadows and is considered one of the most beautiful and bountiful lands in the English country. However this is no ordinary little girl and there are extraordinary things occurring within her family behind the walls of their Lavish white stone manor. There is something odd about the land too.
There was a little girl once, who was not actually little in any sense of the word. She was a waif of a thing. Often overlooked because she was so small for her ten years. But there were so many things about her that were indeed large to the eye that was actually looking. Her very presence disturbed so many when actually noticed. For her eyes burned a brown not often seen. A sort of rich sienna blanketed by a ring of chocolate-brown around the iris. Most chose not to make direct eye contact as her eyes were something of a strange sight to most. If that wasn’t odd enough about the girl, her ability to stand tall before you and stare into you as if she knew something you did not was unsettling at best. Often she did but very rarely did she bother to voice such things as it would be unfitting for a child. Knowing her place was one of the very important lessons her mother had taught her. When she was capable that is. Now her mother laid in bed for most of the day and evening and only was ever coherent enough for dinner functions required from someone of her station. Being the wife of an affluent business man who kept both a home in the city, where all things lavish and proper existed and a home in the country, which was expected of such an individual, was hard at staying awake at said functions.
Mother always said “Beatrice, you must find your love of choice and then always seem as though you prefer your second”. No one I am sure knew what that meant as most often I smiled at any words that came from my mother’s mouth, as it was always surprising for her to speak at all in a manner that was fitting a woman of her station. My name is Isobel. But mother often calls me Lucy. I guess it’s my nickname although father often screws the sides of his mouth up in a very irritated fashion when he hears my mother say so. It would be nice one day if my mother didn’t choose such odd ways to show her affection for me but then, how can one complain of a mother who not only has a pet name for their one and only daughter but an entirely different name at that. Indeed I often feel special when mother uses in out own private company. She even will ask me to sit with her in the parlour room, hours before we are to have a dinner or social event in our home and will allow me to sit right beside her to read her some texts from books. Only this year did I realize they were medical books. Strange stories to want to hear. But then again mother is usually not of a sound mind to really distinguish the difference. When she is like that I generally am relieved as I can pull one of the books about travel and exploration that father says I am not to read. Mother will nod off and I always begin to read at a lower volume. She never knows the difference. “Isobel, you must rehearse your violin, and your painting and your stitchery, as is expected of what is to become a proper refined girl of your station.” – Father would say.