Post by Avril Shahrizai (I) on Apr 22, 2010 17:27:48 GMT -5
There were ink stains all over my fingers, as well as splatters on the parchment I'd been writing on. And I simply couldn't make myself care. I was creating, an outpouring of the words and rhymes that always crowded my mind. And it made me happy.
I didn't care that I was still only learning how to write, I didn't care that my poems were probably still fairly rotten. I only cared about the inspiration I felt when I wrote.
I put the finishing touches on the verse I'd been writing, then blew on the ink to dry it faster. When it finally dried, I sat the paper back down on my desk, and once again took in my creation. I didn't think I would ever be a famous poet, but that didn't really matter. I didn't plan on very many people seeing my writing anyway, and as long as it was good enough for me, that's what mattered most.
I picked up the paper again, and stood, bracing a hand on my back to straighten the crook that was caused by hours of bending over a desk.
I smiled to myself as I left my room, in search of my mother, who had been the most supportive of my family, to show her what I'd done. Instead of my mother, however, I met my father, and couldn't help the big grin that crossed my face as I held the paper out to him.
It took him a few minutes, but he finally finished deciphering my scribbles- and I was sure they were scribbles- and handed me back the paper, a faint smile gracing his face. "Well, you're far from being the Court Poet, my dear, but I'm sure you'll get better." He leaned over and placed a kiss on my forehead. "You have a long way to go, though, so keep working at it." When he stepped back, a smile grew across my face, and I felt an upsurge of pride in myself. "Thank you, papa." I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then happily dashed back the way I'd come, returning to my room to create another work of 'art'.
I didn't care that I was still only learning how to write, I didn't care that my poems were probably still fairly rotten. I only cared about the inspiration I felt when I wrote.
I put the finishing touches on the verse I'd been writing, then blew on the ink to dry it faster. When it finally dried, I sat the paper back down on my desk, and once again took in my creation. I didn't think I would ever be a famous poet, but that didn't really matter. I didn't plan on very many people seeing my writing anyway, and as long as it was good enough for me, that's what mattered most.
I picked up the paper again, and stood, bracing a hand on my back to straighten the crook that was caused by hours of bending over a desk.
I smiled to myself as I left my room, in search of my mother, who had been the most supportive of my family, to show her what I'd done. Instead of my mother, however, I met my father, and couldn't help the big grin that crossed my face as I held the paper out to him.
It took him a few minutes, but he finally finished deciphering my scribbles- and I was sure they were scribbles- and handed me back the paper, a faint smile gracing his face. "Well, you're far from being the Court Poet, my dear, but I'm sure you'll get better." He leaned over and placed a kiss on my forehead. "You have a long way to go, though, so keep working at it." When he stepped back, a smile grew across my face, and I felt an upsurge of pride in myself. "Thank you, papa." I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then happily dashed back the way I'd come, returning to my room to create another work of 'art'.