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Guest rusticmonk86

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Guest rusticmonk86

This story is doing something to me . . . . I feel like I'm talking to myself most of the time here. Even though y'all are giving me awesome feedback. I just feel kind of adrift in the story. Which makes sense, I guess. I'm covering more charecters than I ever have before. (I've only written two or three third-person short stories.) But the constant hopelessness here. Maybe this is a pyschosemantic thing. Maybe I shouldn't have embarked on this morbid journey and explored the sordid tale of these poor, exploited people.

A lot of it has to do with things I've dealt with before. And more of those that I haven't. Do any of you fellow writers think this way? Have any of you gone down such a dark path in your writing?

There's a little of terrible truth here. Eve, Adam's mother is trying to clean the "wine stain" in the living on my word processor. God, she's in such denial. Will her husband ever come home? Macy wonders in chapter eight where Jack is. It's been five days since Adam hit the road and three since he called her and she can't get a hold of his family. She knows something's gone terribly wrong. But she's going mad with the attempts to find out what, exactly.

Adam has told someone else on the train his age. Who's been through abuse, too. But, how will he prove to be a friend or further this plot?

The sunshine is fading and only the shadows of approaching predators are being cast by the moon.

Only Adam, Cole and Jack (his father) have the full truth. But Jack is AWOL. And Cole, he was just someone that Adam met on the train. Macy's close and Eve is losing her mind. Meanwhile Adam . . . poor Adam is scared to death of telling Macy.

But everyday that passes, the truth gets harder to keep chained. And even harder to let loose.

[Long string of expletives here.] I just need a hug. I've given life to a situation that's too terrible to imagine, and too real to run away from.

Help!

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::hugs::

...and abject apologies that I haven't read the story yet. I hope to tonight.

I sent you an e-mail. Don't let the story -- or real life -- get you bummed out. Yeah, sometimes it's hard to remember life doesn't always suck. There appear to be periods of severe suckage, and periods of it's-all-good. Yeah, we could all do with less severe suckage. Sucking, however, is another matter entirely. :twisted: See? Perspective.

Laugh at life. It keeps life from laughing too much at you. Better yet, laugh *with* life, so it can laugh *with* you.

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[Long string of expletives here.] I just need a hug. I've given life to a situation that's too terrible to imagine, and too real to run away from.

Help!

Big fat hug! Anytime, you know that. The story is great, don't worry, I'm still thinking that maybe we're helping ourselves and each other when we write painful things, whether they touch on our pasts or just on our past hurts in general. Maybe we purge ourselves, maybe the writing is a psychic enema and we'll love the results even if not always the process.

Kisses...hugs and whatever you need, RM.

TR

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