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elysepopplewell:

--- Quote from: MC Latte on February 20, 2016, 09:33:44 pm ---Thanks heaps for this offer! Would greatly appreciate someone having a look at my discovery story. Of particular concern for me at the moment is how to end it fittingly and emphatically so as make an impact on the marker. I'm not sure if the current hair motif is good enough. Any general feedback of other things that could be improved would be awesome too haha.Thanks again! :D

Sure thing MC Latte!

Dust and Dreams

The desolate land surrounds him, the curvature of the dry earth clear. He drags his reluctant feet a few more metres, before stopping and leaning on the rusty shovel. I enjoy the personification of the feet here. Really good work.Drew can never truly rest. Not until he has found another water source. He glares across the barren moonscape, bereft of moisture. Bereft of life.

Empty wheezing is all his ears register over the insistent wind; it’s a painful melody.
“I really need to do something about this asthma.” The persistent thought echoes in his weary skull. He tightens his light jacket against his face, protection from the incoming gale. His tongue hangs lifelessly in his mouth like a dead fish from the dried riverbed, roasting in the relentless sun. He squints back at his quickly disappearing footprints in the ground, running his calloused fingers vigourously through his patchy grey hair.

The intense heat of the afternoon Charleville sun radiates off the spade, glaring into his tired eyes and bringing him slowly back to his present. A shovel and a hole un-dug. Water, precious water, lies in wait many metres below the rocky ground. He hopes.
“Might as well get on with it,” he mutters wearily.
Drew tightens his weathered grip on the spade and drives it into the dirt. Your imagery is great, ironically I think the next step to enhancing it is to minimalise it. Perhaps the "weathered" grip here is a bit too much and takes away from the starkness of the imagery. The solidity of the ground jolts through his already aching arms and back, yet he presses on. Another thrust, then another. He perseveres; motivated by the need for water, for the vitality he hopes is there.

It has to be there…

As the hours crawl by, he turns repeatedly in the direction of home, kilometres away. He is puzzled to notice that he can’t see as far back as he could before. The horizon seems to loom in, palming a hidden menace. Spirals of dust dance in the gale, increasingly thick and frenzied.
Finally exhausted, Drew pauses and inhales on his puffer, squinting under a darkening sky. The sun is merely an indistinct smudge on the western horizon. He strains on his tiptoes to peer out of the hole he has made, his eyes almost beaten shut by the amassing wind.

As a black cockatoo screeches loudly in the sky, he begins to contemplate the journey home. Yet, he feels completely drained…

In every sense of the word. This is a peculiar sentence. It sticks out to me and I can't work out if it is for the right or wrong reason. What are the other senses of the word? Do you mean dehydrated and emotionally drained? I'm curious. The more I think about it, the more I enjoy it. It is a very thought provoking sentence. The isolation, the simplicity, the mystery, it all works well.

He sighs deeply, pulling himself labouriously from the hole in the torrid earth. Drew surveys his work dismally. A parched two-metre crater in the dirt mocks him from below, as he staggers momentarily against the relentless wind. Absent-mindedly running his hand back and forth on his scalp, Drew decides that the water will have to wait until tomorrow.
“Not that the water’s going anywhere,” he smiles wryly, scratching away the itchy tuft of fallen hair on his wrist, “unless this wind picks up any more.” His smile fades as he feels his windpipe tighten again almost immediately.

He shakily removes his inhaler from his pocket, clumsily sucking on it as he realises how severely the dusty wind is affecting him. Feigning calmness, Drew settles on his safest option. He scuttles back into the hole to wait for the wind to dissipate. However, it soon becomes clear that it is worsening. A feeling of dread slithers up his tense spine like an angry taipan.

The asthmatic’s worst nightmare. A dust storm.

Just breathe Drew.

In the hole with his jacket on his face and puffer in hand, he might be safe. Might be.

The storm, the moaning and coughing, the rocky ground and the taste of sandy defeat assault his senses for hours. Drew focuses on calming his rasping breaths, whilst unconsciously tugging at his hair for comfort. As he does this, his aching legs scrape back and forth on the ground in front of him, wearing two deepening grooves into the earth. The darkness of evening settles in, until Drew can no longer see his trembling hands before him.

Just breathe.

This is how he spends a few perturbed hours in the pitch black, before finally shutting down into a disturbed doze.

*                    *                    *
Silence.

Drew slowly drifts back into his painful reality; cramped, dehydrated and disoriented. Carefully, he unfolds his complaining body and sits with his back leaning on the wall. He tilts his neck deliberately into the bright morning, to see that the horrors of last night seem to have passed.
Next, Drew methodically brings himself to a standing position, stretching uncomfortably. His eyes eventually come to rest on the shovel, lying on the ground beneath his feet.
“Well that explains why I’m so damn sore,” he coughs. “I gotta get out of here…” The small remark causes him to grab at his throat, massaging the sharp blades within. If he's alone, is he really speaking out loud? It is possible, of course. It does seem odd to me.
At this point, Drew cautiously pokes his head out into the open. Despite the dust-blanketed landscape, the air is fresh. He slowly removes the jacket from his face and pockets his puffer, releasing the aching stiffness of his fingers around it.

Drew purposefully raises the shovel high into the air, feeling sweet oxygen slowly filling his deflated lungs. He releases a clear, deep breath and plunges the shovel into the soil with refreshed vigour. Ready to pull himself from the earth, Drew positions his hands around the rim of the hole.

Suddenly, a strange bubbling noise spurts from below. He feels his socks moisten, relief spilling in through the top of his filthy boots. In sodden disbelief, Drew casts his gaze downwards.

A shout of delight emanates from his parched lips, as precious water swells around his ankles. Drew sinks to his knees, cupping the water in desiccated palms and tossing handfuls jubilantly over his brow. The liquid continues to rise in the hole as he splashes joyfully, baptised anew by the gushing ground. I love the last part of this sentence - it highlights the discovery as being transformative.

And for the first time in a while for Drew, his hair remained comfortably atop his elated head.

--- End quote ---

Okay, so your story is great. I mean, considering it is a story where there is no progress until the end, I was never bored or waiting for something. I enjoyed it the whole way through so brownie points for you! As for the hair motif ... not strong enough for me. I wouldn't have noticed it except that it ended your story, and then I felt like I needed to go back to pay more careful attention to it. For me, the idea of being drained was so much more powerful. I think that is because of that isolated sentence of being drained in two senses. If I were you, I'd develop the drained notion a little more. The reason being, when you talk about being mentally drained, it heightens the discovery. You physically discover water, your symbolically baptised, and with a little tweaking,t he discovery becomes emotional. Don't forget that you can add a spiritual discovery to this, just by adding towards the end that his spirits had changed, he felt encouraged.

Great job. You've set yourself up to a lot of discovery options here. I will propose, what would happen if your stimulus required you to talk about rediscovering? Would you make it so that he has discovered water before and is now finally touching it again? What if your stimulus said that the discovery was evoked by curiosity and wonder? I'm only throwing these your way so that you can prepare for what you would do, if it would happen. Your story alone is already versatile to the stimulus, you've done a stellar job.

elysepopplewell:

--- Quote from: therealqwerty on February 22, 2016, 05:52:35 am ---I don't know if the discovery is too simple.

--- End quote ---

Hey therealqwerty, I'm dying over your username, I love it.

Here is your story, unedited:
Spoiler10:46 am
You sit there in maths, your eyes stare at the board. In the background of your teachers mumbling jargon the tick tick ticking of the clock catches your attention and reminds you that in fourteen minutes it's recess and that none of this matters. What your teacher is saying is probably important, however no matter how hard you try you don't understand. As you look in front of you, the old textbook with yellow pages lays open accumulating the surrounding dust. The torn and folded, yet thick pages are full of carefully typed questions a diagrams which have fades slightly over the past 40 years they have been used. To you this makes less sense than the jargon your teacher speaks.

10:48 am
Tick tick, twelve minutes, time seems to go on for ever. Your teacher walks up to the board with a coloured marker in her hand. The board slowly changes from a vast array of whiteness to having colourful numbers and letters, which appear to swim like little fish across the board. The board once resembled your mind, however this new coloured nonsense has changed this. Still you look at the board trying to make something out of this nonsense.

10:49 am
You stare blankly at the board. Pens all around you reach the paper and scribble something that is a wonderful masterpiece for some. The more you stare at these carefully arranged numbers and letter the more your brain blanks out. Still your fingers curl around the pen in such a way that you pick it up and place it to this white paper with carefully ruled faint blue line. Your hand slowly moves neatly copping the colour of the board. Then nothing. Your mind can't produce anything, no masterpiece, only the tick tick ticking of the clock. Eleven minutes to go. Nothing else magically appears on your page. While all the class have their heads down and their pens run across the page you sit there with nothing.

10:52am
The colourful nonsense was erased into a vast white board still representative of your thoughts. However this didn't last long before again the marker made an irritating screeking noise as it moved across the board adding new numbers and letters for the class to solve. You Pen touches the pages to neatly copy down what's on the board at the top of your page. You place your pen down and your eyelids touch and squeeze tightly close. You then open them hoping for a renewed perspective on the colour which fills the board, however, nothing comes to you. Your mind is still blank so you sit there helpless your mind focused on the ticking of the clock, only 8 minutes left of class.

10:53 am
Your teacher comes over to you, interrupting your minds focus on the clock. She appears to notice your blank mind from the outside.  "May I help you? Is there any thing I can help with?" She quires. You realise that it is the blank page in front of you which is just as blank as mind. You nod with uncertainty, un sure if that nod was a good decision. Your teacher walks over each step one at a time, point at letters and numbers.

10:55 am
As your teacher leaves you table having explained the colour of the board your eyes are fixed to your page which has the neatly copied down question at the top of your page. Just like the twenty four other students in your class your pen races across your page it's ink leaving behind the solution.  You are no longer clueless, and your mind is no long fixed on the tick tick ticking of the clock which tells your there is five minutes left. You mind is now fixed finding the solution.
10:59 am
You finally finish the problem. Everyone around you seems to have finished earlier, however The tick tick ticking of the clock grabs your attention again, you realise it's one minute before the bell. With much relief of finally understanding the solution to the problem you shut the dusty old textbook close with a slam.

11:00am
The beep of the bell causes a loud slam of textbooks closing in unison, before a stampede of students race out the door for recess. This was what you had been waiting for however the understanding maths as a pleasant surprise.





I don't know if the discovery is too simple
Here is your story with some annotations:

Spoiler10:46 am
You sit there in maths, your eyes stare at the board. In the background of your teachers mumbling jargon the tick tick ticking of the clock catches your attention and reminds you that in fourteen minutes it's recess and that none of this matters. What your teacher is saying is probably important, however no matter how hard you try you don't understand. As you look in front of you, the old textbook with yellow pages lays open accumulating the surrounding dust. The torn and folded, yet thick pages are full of carefully typed questions a diagrams which have fades slightly over the past 40 years they have been used. To you this makes less sense than the jargon your teacher speaks. There are some areas here that are waiting for enhanced imagery. Instead of yellow pages, what about "worn pages with a jaundiced tinge"? I'm curious about what level of maths I'm in.

10:48 am
Tick tick, twelve minutes, time seems to go on for ever. Your teacher walks up to the board with a coloured marker in her hand. The board slowly changes from a vast array of whiteness to having colourful numbers and letters, which appear to swim like little fish across the board. The board once resembled your mind, however this new coloured nonsense has changed this. Still you look at the board trying to make something out of this nonsense.  The vast array of whiteness doesn't do it for me here. An array is a range/display. So if there is a range of whiteness on the whiteboard, I'm confused about what this white board really is. How about you go for a metaphor here? Perhaps take a creative metaphor, suggest that it is a canvas and what the teacher writes is some kind of abstract art.

10:49 am
You stare blankly at the board. Pens all around you reach the paper and scribble something that is a wonderful masterpiece for some.This works well with an art metaphor. The more you stare at these carefully arranged numbers and letterS the more your brain blanks out. Still your fingers curl around the pen in such a way that you pick it up and place it to this white paper with carefully ruled faint blue line. Your hand slowly moves neatly copping the colour of the board. Then nothing. Your mind can't produce anything, no masterpiece, only the tick tick ticking of the clock. Eleven minutes to go. Nothing else magically appears on your page. While all the class have their heads down and their pens run across the page you sit there with nothing.

10:52am
The colourful nonsense was erased into a vast white board still representative of your thoughts. However this didn't last long before again the marker made an irritating screeking noise as it moved across the board adding new numbers and letters for the class to solve. You Pen touches the pages to neatly copy down what's on the board at the top of your page. You place your pen down and your eyelids touch and squeeze tightly close. You then open them hoping for a renewed perspective on the colour which fills the board, however, nothing comes to you. Your mind is still blank so you sit there helpless your mind focused on the ticking of the clock, only 8 minutes left of class.

10:53 am
Your teacher comes over to you, interrupting your minds focus on the clock. She appears to notice your blank mind from the outside.  "May I help you? Is there any thing I can help with?" She quires. You realise that it is the blank page in front of you which is just as blank as mind. You nod with uncertainty, un sure if that nod was a good decision. Your teacher walks over each step one at a time, point at letters and numbers.

10:55 am
As your teacher leaves you table having explained the colour of the board your eyes are fixed to your page which has the neatly copied down question at the top of your page. Just like the twenty four other students in your class your pen races across your page it's ink leaving behind the solution.  You are no longer clueless, and your mind is no long fixed on the tick tick ticking of the clock which tells your there is five minutes left. You mind is now fixed finding the solution.
10:59 am
You finally finish the problem. Everyone around you seems to have finished earlier, however The tick tick ticking of the clock grabs your attention again, you realise it's one minute before the bell. With much relief of finally understanding the solution to the problem you shut the dusty old textbook close with a slam.

11:00am
The beep of the bell causes a loud slam of textbooks closing in unison, before a stampede of students race out the door for recess. This was what you had been waiting for however the understanding maths as a pleasant surprise.





I don't know if the discovery is too simple
You're not wrong in saying that the discovery is simple. There is nothing wrong with this for various parts of the rubric. There is something wrong with this when you get a stimulus that you simply can't relate too. However, you have a good skeleton basis for an enhanced story. This is the route I would take. I suggest you compare mathematics and visual arts. I've already suggested the place for a metaphor up there. The idea would be that you can't see the two as being comparable at all and you prefer art. Then when you start treating the maths equation like an artwork, you finally can see the answer and it no longer seems so distant and bizarre. This is an idea that I'm presenting to you because it makes your story more complex but also adds new elements of discovery that the original story didn't hold. Keep on keeping on!

MC Latte:
Thank you very much Elyse! Yeh I was thinking of changing the hair motif and thanks for the suggestion of expanding the drained feeling. I'll try and come up with a better way of ending it too with that idea in mind.
And with that sentence it is meant to mainly mean drained as in devoid of water but also the connotation of being emotionally spent as well. Thanks heaps for your time!

elysepopplewell:

--- Quote from: MC Latte on February 22, 2016, 12:35:45 pm ---Thank you very much Elyse! Yeh I was thinking of changing the hair motif and thanks for the suggestion of expanding the drained feeling. I'll try and come up with a better way of ending it too with that idea in mind.
And with that sentence it is meant to mainly mean drained as in devoid of water but also the connotation of being emotionally spent as well. Thanks heaps for your time!

--- End quote ---

I love your work MC Latte. Post back any time :)

elysepopplewell:

--- Quote from: simone.tsang1 on February 22, 2016, 09:09:26 pm ---Here goes...
Hey Elyse, please read my Creative. I'm in desperate need of help, so much so that I have finally found the confidence to post haha.
Thanks!

--- End quote ---

Yay! I'm so glad to see you here Simone.

Here is a copy of your story unedited:
Spoiler‘We regret to inform you that your application for graduate study was unsuccessful’. A single drop crept down my cheek as I read that line in my head over and over again, causing me to grip the letter even harder this time. The once smooth edges of the paper were now filled with small lines which branched out from the corners of the page, creating a delicate pattern that mimicked the handiwork of a patient artist. I sat there tracing them with my thumb, the repetitive movement mesmerising me and numbing the pain I felt; temporarily. The hustle and bustle of the waking city was not enough to distract me from my worries. Screeching car noises and the occasional sound of a siren could not fill the emptiness I felt as I sat on the cold pavement in front of my apartment, watching people begin their day whilst I speculated about the possibility of my non-existent future.

The swaying movement of a sleek, black briefcase caught my attention as my eyes scanned over a trench coat and finally making their way to put a face to the hurried individual. I was taken aback by how pompous he looked; with his head tilted downwards and walking in a sidestepped manner, as if avoiding the possibility of the Manhattan crowd stepping on his shiny Italian shoes. His booming, authoritative voice barked orders through his phone as he caught my stare for a few moments, long enough for me to look into his shallow eyes. Annoyance filled his face as he bumped shoulders with a homeless man, confirming his brash persona as he continued along the street crossing and finally, out of my sight. I found his behaviour intriguing, as I pondered upon how someone who seemingly had everything could behave in such a manner.

It was then that I decided to take a walk through the city, eager to forget about the letter and the strange businessman. I soon found myself in Central park and sat down on a park bench.  In front of me sat a man in his late fifties, wearing tattered clothes and a beanie. His hands were folded in front of him, his nails caked in dirt. My eyes slowly made their way to his face and what I saw left me dumbfounded. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollowed, yet the big smile he gave me reached his eyes, revealing two rows of yellowed teeth. He was the homeless man that bumped into the business man.

 I gave him a timid smile, embarrassed that he caught me staring. My mind began to wander off again when his raspy voice addressed me: “Hello, would you mind if I sat next to you?” I shuffled over to the end of the bench, creating a greater space between us than needed. “I promise I don’t bite” he chuckled. His chuckle slowly developed into an eruptive laughter, only to be cut short by a series of hoarse coughs. “I wasn’t always like this.” He confessed. Puzzled, I turned towards him. “A little over a year ago, I was managing the top financial firm in New York City.” He paused, placing a hand over his chest and began to take deep breaths, wincing with every breath. “Are you ok?” I asked as he closed his eyes. He spoke slower this time. “I had a stable job and a some-what loving family until I was diagnosed with lung cancer. My wife and son managed to undermine me while I was at my weakest and took over the company.” I was slightly dazed, not knowing how to react with the information he was voluntarily giving me. “People often ask how I manage to keep a smile on my face. I bet you’re wondering the same thing too.” I nodded, curious to know how anyone could come out of such an adverse situation with a smile. “Your career isn’t everything; at the end of the day, we carry nothing with us to the grave. All that money I used to have, bought me nothing but temporary happiness. Even with everything in the world, I felt like I had nothing. I now know that and live every day to help others because that’s the true meaning of life.” he said as he stared off into the distant city skyline, eyes filled sorrow and regret. He turned back to me and gestured toward my coat pocket. “I know that look on your face and I’m here to tell you that a rejection letter does not determine your personal worth. Choose to find true happiness” he said with a sympathetic look in his eyes and slowly got up, giving me a slight wave before filling the silence with the shuffling of his feet.

That night, I was at war with sleep; tossing and turning until I felt like a defeated wrestler. Pillows were sprawled everywhere, the once comforting sheets now tangled between my legs; holding me down. I shifted my weight to my hip, slowly sitting up amongst the mess that covered my bed. I inched closer to the window and began to escape into a reverie as I watched the busy streets of New York City.

Watching the ant like movement of people made me think about the strangeness of it all; how everyone in this city manages to live separate lives, in a ‘bubble’ if you will. Every individual walking past another, not glancing once to think about the person next to them yet both somehow managing to fit into this microcosm of the greater world to find the true meaning of life.  It’s an interesting phenomenon, really. Because now I know: your personal worth is not determined by your qualifications, or how much money you make, but rather how you find your true happiness and share it with others.
And here is a copy of your story which will be annotated as I make my first reading. Afterwards I'll write some endnotes. What you'll be reading here are my first reactions and opinions so that you can gain the insight of how someone who has never read your work feels.
Spoiler‘We regret to inform you that your application for graduate study was unsuccessful’.
^^This needs to be on its own line - it needs independence, isolation and a chance to resonate with the reader.^^
 A single drop crept down my cheek as I read that line in my head over and over again, causing me to grip the letter even harder this time. (The "single drop" or "bead of sweat" is a cliche in stories. Try some even deeper imagery, can you describe that stale ache behind your eyes just before you cry? Try use descriptions that no other student will. You want to stand out!)The once smooth edges of the paper were now filled with small lines which branched out from the corners of the page, creating a delicate pattern that mimicked the handiwork of a patient artist. I sat there tracing them with my thumb, the repetitive movement mesmerising me and numbing the pain I felt; temporarily. The hustle and bustle of the waking city was not enough to distract me from my worries. Screeching car noises and the occasional sound of a siren could not fill the emptiness I felt as I sat on the cold pavement in front of my apartment, watching people begin their day whilst I speculated about the possibility of my non-existent future. (I really like that you haven't gone overboard with imagery. It is very easy for me to see you sitting on the pavement because it isn't too crowded with descriptions of physicality. That's a very good merit to your work. However, I am confused by what the lines on the page are? They sound lovely - but logistically I am confused.)

The swaying movement of a sleek, black briefcase caught my attention as my eyes scanned over a trench coat and finally making their way to put a face to the hurried individual.(This is a small technical thing but you have switched tenses in your verbs. You've gone from "scanned" to "making." These are the small things that may stick out to a marker - easily fixed!" I was taken aback by how pompous he looked; with his head tilted downwards and walking in a sidestepped manner, as if avoiding the possibility of the Manhattan crowd stepping on his shiny Italian shoes. (The Italian part is very nice. A very nice touch).His booming, authoritative voice barked orders through his phone as he caught my stare for a few moments, long enough for me to look into his shallow eyes. Annoyance filled his face as he bumped shoulders with a homeless man, confirming his brash persona as he continued along the street crossing and finally, out of my sight. I found his behaviour intriguing, as I pondered upon how someone who seemingly had everything could behave in such a manner. If you want to talk about him having it all I'd throw some little extra things in there. Instead of "shiny italian shoes" I'd go for "rich italian shoes," and possibly add something about the phone he has or a big brass watch. Just because, at the moment what is standing out to me more is his brash persona than his wealth. So when you say to me that he seemingly had everything, I had to think "oh does he??" So it is just a small change and youll be fixed right up here.)

It was then that I decided to take a walk through the city, eager to forget about the letter and the strange businessman. I soon found myself in Central park and sat down on a park bench.  In front of me sat a man in his late fifties, wearing tattered clothes and a beanie. His hands were folded in front of him, his nails caked in dirt. The nails are a really nice touch!My eyes slowly made their way to his face and what I saw left me dumbfounded. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollowed, yet the big smile he gave me reached his eyes, revealing two rows of yellowed teeth. He was the homeless man that bumped into the business man.

 I gave him a timid smile, embarrassed that he caught me staring. My mind began to wander off again when his raspy voice addressed me: “Hello, would you mind if I sat next to you?” I shuffled over to the end of the bench, creating a greater space between us than needed. “I promise I don’t bite” he chuckled. (You've got to use the correct speech conventions for a story. I know it is easy to want to embed them but you will need to make sure that when a new person speaks, it sits on a new line with an indent.)His chuckle slowly developed into an eruptive laughter, only to be cut short by a series of hoarse coughs. “I wasn’t always like this.” He confessed. Puzzled, I turned towards him. “A little over a year ago, I was managing the top financial firm in New York City.” He paused, placing a hand over his chest and began to take deep breaths, wincing with every breath. (Again, start the "Are you Okay?" on the next line. :)"“Are you ok?” I asked as he closed his eyes. He spoke slower this time. “I had a stable job and a some-what loving family until I was diagnosed with lung cancer. My wife and son managed to undermine me while I was at my weakest and took over the company.” I was slightly dazed, not knowing how to react with the information he was voluntarily giving me.(I have an idea for the sentence I just read. Instead of "voluntarily giving me" how about "uninvited/unexpected but very welcome words." Because it never crossed my mind that what he said wasn't voluntary. You don't need to say that." “People often ask how I manage to keep a smile on my face. I bet you’re wondering the same thing too.” I nodded, curious to know how anyone could come out of such an adverse situation with a smile. “Your career isn’t everything; at the end of the day, we carry nothing with us to the grave. All that money I used to have, bought me nothing but temporary happiness. Even with everything in the world, I felt like I had nothing. I now know that and live every day to help others because that’s the true meaning of life.” he said as he stared off into the distant city skyline, eyes filled sorrow and regret. He turned back to me and gestured toward my coat pocket. “I know that look on your face and I’m here to tell you that a rejection letter does not determine your personal worth. Choose to find true happiness” he said with a sympathetic look in his eyes and slowly got up, giving me a slight wave before filling the silence with the shuffling of his feet.

That night, I was at war with sleep; tossing and turning until I felt like a defeated wrestler. Pillows were sprawled everywhere, the once comforting sheets now tangled between my legs; holding me down. I shifted my weight to my hip, slowly sitting up amongst the mess that covered my bed. I inched closer to the window and began to escape into a reverie as I watched the busy streets of New York City.  (This here is a very nice paragraph. I loved every part of it!!!)

Watching the ant like movement of people made me think about the strangeness of it all; how everyone in this city manages to live separate lives, in a ‘bubble’ if you will. Every individual walking past another, not glancing once to think about the person next to them yet both somehow managing to fit into this microcosm of the greater world to find the true meaning of life.  It’s an interesting phenomenon, really. Because now I know: your personal worth is not determined by your qualifications, or how much money you make, but rather how you find your true happiness and share it with others.
End Notes:


Okay, so, I LOVE THIS!!!
What do I love about it?
-Do you follow Humans of New York on facebook or instagram? To me, I imagined it to be very much like the photos from Central Park. I love that.
-You don't struggle with words. In these early stages many people find that the more verbose their language is the better their story should be received. But that isn't the case at all. Right from the beginning I could see your delicate frankness of language which was truly admirable.
-The discovery element: It is there physically when he receives the letter. It is there spiritually when he changes his mind set. It is their emotionally. It is transformative of his perspective. Plus more! It ticks a lot of discovery options.

How to improve?
I've added some things throughout your story, just little tweaking things. But I also think you have the opportunity to enhance the story in terms of its plot, making it a little more complicated. You are in a position to do this because your language is just right at the moment, so you can look at improving it elsewhere. I can't tell you exactly how to do it because it is your story but I can propose a few things. I need to know a little more about this trench coat character. Maybe the homeless man knows about him? Does he know his stocks are about to fall or does he know that he made his way through fraud? It's just an idea and it is totally up to you what you want to add in because the story is great right now. But few students are at a stage this early in the year where they can play with plot, so if you think you are too, work with it. But there is nothing structurally wrong with your work right now. You've done an awesome job I'm very impressed!

Post back any time with any questions :)

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