What’s Your WIP? Writing Tag

Would you look at that, I’ve started something! A Retelling of Swan Lake is . . . well, it’s self-explanatory, but I’ve embarked on a journey of crafting this well-known ballet/romance to explore the depths of the charactersโ€”some of which are Siegfried, Odette, and Von Rothbartโ€”whilst adding my own and some flavor.
Will this be good? Probably not, but have mercy, please; this is my first attempt at a novel/novella. This post will include where I got my inspiration, a snippet, a blurb, and some extra stuff to get to know my WIP.

I stole this from Rebekah @Books And Hooks, and below are the posts in which she did the tag. Thanks for allowing me to snurch this, Rebekah!

Rules:

  • Thank the person who tagged you & link to their blog.
  • Link back to the creator, Katja @ Little Blossoms for Jesus, & add the tag graphic. 
  • List the rules. 
  • Answer the questions. 
  • Feel free to add snippets!
  • Tag as many or as few people as you wish & let them know they’re tagged. 
  • Add a clean copy of the questions at the end of your post for the “tagged.”

Has your WIP a working title? If so, tell us! If not, have you any idea of what it might be?

A Retelling of Swan Lake. It’s straightforward, cut to the chase, and incredibly uncreative. It’s perfect, and I’m too lazy to change it, so that’s that.

Have you a synopsis for your WIP? If so, give it to us! If not, can you give us a blurb on what your WIP is about?

I haven’t got one down officially (if anything related to this can be counted as official), but I’ll have a go at it. This isn’t polished and will change, so forgive me.

But before that, let me ask an AI to give a synopsis of the Swan Lake ballet.

“Swan Lake is a ballet that tells the story of a young prince, Siegfried, who falls in love with a swan princess, Odette. Odette has been cursed by an evil sorcerer, Von Rothbart, and can only take her human form at night. During the day, she is a swan and can only be saved if a man swears to love her forever. Siegfried promises to do so and invites Odette to a ball to present her as his bride.

At the ball, Von Rothbart arrives with his daughter, Odile, who looks just like Odette. Siegfried mistakes her for Odette and swears his love to her instead. Odette, heartbroken, runs away, and Siegfried realizes his mistake and goes after her. In the end, Siegfried and Odette jump into the lake, breaking Von Rothbart’s curse and living happily ever after. Swan Lake is a timeless classic and one of the most popular ballets.”

So, those are the original happenings. I played with it, adding some changes, but you can expect a similar gist.

Being a royal was never an easy role. Prince Siegfried’s been running away from this fact since his chilhood, before he even met the posh princess. But without his father by his side as he turns twenty-one, he has to brave the title that’s been staring at his face all these years. King. Maybe, hopefully, not alone, but that depends on if he can save his betrothed from the hands of the Shapeshifting Monster.

OoooOoOoOoOoooh, mysterious. I don’t think I captured the main plot, really, but that’s okay.

That’ll be changing from time to time. Do you find the story interesting? I might just post regular updates on it if so.

Have you a working/mock cover for your WIP? If so, show us! If not, have you an idea in mind?

Mock cover? Goodness, no. Not when I spent hours working on this:

So what if it looks unprofessional.

I really like the upper half. I slaved on that gradient background and the shadowy text. Even that little crown at the top. The bottom looks a tad too cartoonish, but oh, well.

How did you get the idea for this story?

My sister played Odette in my ballet school’s most recent production. She danced her heart out that recital day with much grace. It was magical. If you’d have seen it, you would’ve agreed.

But behind the scenes were hard work, diligence, perseverance, and sacrifice. I witnessed the sweat and tears (who said pointes were ever easy?), which greatly inspired me.

Tchaikovsky was a sucker for love stories, and I wanted to try it. I did some research, yada yada, and now we’re here.

How long do you think it will be? Is it longer or shorter than you thought it would be?

Longer than I’m comfortable with. I have this toxic trait where I start a captivating storyโ€”or I’d like to thinkโ€”only to drop it at a point where there’s “closure, but not really” because…fear of commitment, maybe? I’m not sure. This is stepping out of my comfort zone. Oh, but did I mention I may or may not have forgotten I had this for a month? If not, then I did.

Whats your favorite memory related to this WIP?

The typing.

Any special person(s) who helped create it?

Aside from the sister mentioned earlier, no one, really.

Whats your favorite scene so far (if you can tell about it without spoilers!)?

My favorite scene might be the part where Siegfried [insert questionable thing here] in Chapter 2. It showed he isn’t a heartless prankster, even if his whole plan backfires. But I haven’t got all my ideas down on parchment, so most of what I have to offer are ideas of where the scene may go. I have a plot down but not much more.

Perhaps my favorite scene will be where Siegfried and Odette have that one… ballroom thing. I plan to share the completed thing here one day, so I don’t want to spoil it completely.

Can you give us a snippet? 

Prologue

Ah, Swan Lake. A tale of two loversโ€”one a princess beneath her feathers, the other a conflicted princeโ€”destined to love and fated to die. A tragic romance that illustrates what most would call the idiocy of love. The lovers would tell you otherwiseโ€”the true idiocy would be never loving at all. It also, when examined closely, gives insight on the consequences of tinkering with the Forbidden Magic, which, by the way, is always a helpful lesson.

But is that really how it went, you might ask? Perhaps this tale is just what it professes to beโ€”a tale. I wouldnโ€™t blame you. Tall tales, folk tales, fairytalesโ€”all of them, one might argue, are to entertain children and to keep them from asking deeper, darker questions that no one has answers to. 

But many forget the credibility of a tale. Sure, they seem unbelievable now, but they always started somewhere, stemming from a reality to something entirely different. One element that remains unchanged is the magic that surrounds itโ€”whether or not you believe in magic.

The real question now is: where did the tale originate? Lucky for you, I have the answer. How can I be trusted? 

Believe it or not, I personally knew this taleโ€™s protagonists. In the most modest tone I can render, I was quite involved in their story. One might say it wouldโ€™ve turned out entirely different had I not helped. And I can say with full confidence that they are worthy of your admiration, even those of you who detest romance of all kinds.

You can judge for yourself. I present a tale of friendship, compassion, duty, title, power, and love. A retelling of Swan Lake.

sWaN lAkE (A Docs File)

To be edited.

Is the story still what you thought it would be, or has it thrown you a couple curveballs?

It’s still what I thought, and think, it will be, but I wouldn’t be surprised if…if it surprised me soon enough.

Is there a Bible verse, poem, hymn, picture, or quote that helped shape this story?

Oh, man, it would be really cool if one did. But my response to that is a reluctant “no.”

When and where have you done most of the writing so far?

The Prologue, and I know, I know, I shouldn’t have. But it was just so much fun. It wasn’t even writing, really. It was just editing.

Where do you get inspiration for this story?

Tchaikovsky’s story. Shocker, right? Many events are merely the original plot but modified. Not the majority because I’d be lying to your face if I said that. Speaking of which, I altered it. A lot.

Also, watching my sister practice this with her partner was a terrific catalyst for idea generation. It felt no less than 20 minutes, but it was probably 5. Either way, it was beneficial.

Are you a plotter or a pantser?

I used to think I was a plotter, but some inserts randomly popped up when I wrote the scene. I heard writers rave about it, but I never thought it would happen to me. So, I believe I’m both.

Do you have a little ritual before you start writing?

No, I don’t think I do.

Are you thinking of publishing this story?

Let’s see where God leads.

What things have you learned while writing this story?

Remember all those authors saying writing is not easy? Yeah, they were right.

I didn’t expect to experience the thrill of nurturing and creating a story, but it was certainly rewarding. I pity my future self who’ll edit this, though. Sorry, me.


Thank you for reading!

Docs is better than Word. Debate with me in the comments.

I Stole An Unofficial Prompt From That Discord Server of the Same Name.

And tardy, too.

All the people who share their works skip an intro or put it in the message referring to their Google Docs, but Iโ€™m a sucker for doing things in a novel way, so here we are! *finger guns* (I am dead inside-)

Feel free to skip this lengthy beginning to something supposedly short. I know your time is valuable. Homeschoolers, am I right?

(Faithful followers reading this post, feel free to interact in the comment section. This is pretty much an ordinaryโ€ฆthing, and I still appreciate…likes and comments if you have any to offer! Not to guilt trip you guys into doing that or-or anything. Heh, ahem. Moving on.)

Sharing the prompt at the start would spoil a lot, so you must brave my write-up to see it. Or just scroll down. Because you can.

โ€ฆIโ€™m embarrassing myself.

Anyway, onto what you came here for. Feedback is appreciated! Sorry if it’s a smidge too long. Remember, and this is extremely important, that I am an amateur.


โ€œA lot of junk here, huh?โ€ Eloise sifted through the yellowed and thinned parchments in her hands.

โ€œUseful junk,โ€ Harper corrected. She placed a lock of hair behind her ear as she rummaged further through a trunk by the wall. โ€œOne hundred and twenty years,โ€ Harper said with an awestruck shake of her head, โ€œGrandmother lived a hundred and twenty years, El. Thatโ€™s something truly remarkable if you asked me.โ€

Eloise tossed the parchments to a nearby table, a cloud of dust poofing into the air as she did, and shoved her hands in her dress pockets. โ€œA considerable amount of that time in this mess of a house, and yet she never spent any time cleaning it.โ€

Harperโ€™s hand hovered mid-air. She leaned back on her knees. โ€œI think Grandmother had her reasons. She may not be here to defend herself,โ€ she reminded carefully, โ€œbut it doesnโ€™t mean we can assume things beyond our knowledge.โ€

Her sister stepped over a pile of books to look outside the window, blazing red bun bobbing.

Harper cleared her throat as she dusted off a few emblems and odd things that glowed in the trunk. She picked up one of the latterโ€”a dazzling emerald hueโ€”to observe it in the sunโ€™s light. โ€œWhat do you think about the tales of enchantresses?โ€

โ€œThe witches?โ€ Eloise made no effort to hide the sting in her tone. โ€œThe one people accuse our deceased grandmother of being one of?โ€

Harper winced, pursing her lips. โ€œI donโ€™t-โ€œ

โ€œThe claims are either completely unfounded or,โ€ Eloise turned her head to her sister and paused for dramatic effect, โ€œweโ€™re currently in the attic of a spell-casting sorceress.โ€

She blinked. Then she creased her forehead. “You’re being ridiculous, El. Grandmother was not a powerful enchantress.”

“Witch.”

“No, I won’t believe it. Mind you, this is the same woman who needed help turning on the kettle because she didn’t like the noise it made!”

Eloise shrugged. “Prove it.”

“What?”

She bent over to pick a book from a pile, undoubtedly having scanned it before. She plopped the book in front of her sister. “Prove it. Do a spell or whatchamadoo to prove that our grandmother was just a wacko who kept spellbooks, nothing more.”

Harper looked from the book to her sister. She sighed and then adjusted her position. Eloise sat pretzel-legged across her, a serious look plastered on.

Harper ran a hand through the cover. The simple words Spell Book scribbled on the exterior. She took her time, unlatching it with a click to find…

…empty pages. Browned at the edges but void of any text. She flipped through the book, one by one and then by the bulk. Nothing. How anticlimactic.

She turned the page backward just to see if she’d missed something. Huh, she had. A page with a mirror illustration in the top left corner and shiny text looked back at her. How did she miss that?

Eloise furrowed her brows. “What does it say?”

Harper squinted at the page. “Something about putting two mirrors face-to-face…but there’s a part missing. Maybe the outcome?” She looked up at her sister to find she had already stood, looking for the mirrors, perhaps.

Why was she suddenly so eager about this?

“Do you think this will do?” Eloise reemerged with a mirror a tad larger than herself. She placed it down and went back for the other.

Harper saw herself in the reflection and noted an odd purple tint if it was tipped at just the right angle. “How are you lifting it? Isn’t it heavy?”

“Not at all,” Eloise replied, a little shocked herself. She placed down the second mirror, one with a light yellow tint. Now the two mirrors were side-by-side. She looked at her sister expectantly. “Now what?”

Harper glanced back at the spell on her lap. “Nothing. Just clear some space, they said.”

Eloise nodded, and Harper stood to help her sister adjust the mystery mirrors. Once all set reflection-to-reflection, they held their breaths, watching. Waiting.

And nothing happened. For five minutes straight. But it looked cool.

Harper’s shoulders fell, and Eloise placed her hands on her hips. “Well, I guess that settles it, then.”

They didn’t know what they expected, but they couldn’t deny the settling disappointment in their chests. Harper went to help her sisters stow the mirrors away, but before they could start, her eye caught something in the mirror. Something, someone inside it.

She tapped her sister’s shoulder, and they looked together at a blurry figure of an approaching creature and a wood-ish backdrop.

Eloise cocked her head to the side. “It almost looks like it’s coming toward us.” That’s when they heard a muffled voice.

They looked at each other, confusion painted in both their round eyes. Eloise jerked her sister aside just as the thing emerged from their mirror.

“What took you so long? I was waiting for goodness knows-” the creature started. He examined the horror-struck sisters under bushy brows. “You’re not the Sorceress.”

The girls screamed. The half-man screamed. It was a great disturbance in the otherwise peaceful woodlands. It lasted half a minute.

Eloise acted first. She grabbed a nearby candelabrum and brandished it against the queer creature. His torso and face looked like that of a middle-aged man, excluding the tiny horns take poked through each side of his head, but his lower body was covered in stark black fur. Harper stared on. A satyr, perhaps?

“Who are you?” Eloise demanded.

His beady eyes seemed just as terrified as the two girls. “I’m Erkyr of the Minolar tribe. Who by the crown of the King are you?!”


The prompt: “One day, you decide to put two mirrors in front of each to find out what that looks like; it was cool at first, but then you notice SOMETHING in the reflection, and it looks like it’s coming right towards you…”

Yet again, the original prompt was altered. Sorry about that, but what’s done is done.

Stuff like this is fun because you can stretch your writing muscles AND make characters and plots you never return to. Remember when I said I hate it when authors leave us dangling on a cliffhanger? Well, too bad, cuz writing it is so gosh darn fun!

(I just realized how similar this is to the Prompt to Paper tag Miss Texan and I made. Huh.)


Thanks for reading!

What do you think about the story? Was it an eyesore, or did it leave you intrigued? Share your constructive criticism below! Or elsewhere, heh. Yeah.

7-word Story Tag

I carry in tow another snurchment. Consistency, achieved!โ€ฆdismissing the fact that Iโ€™ll likely relapse once my school year starts next month. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

This is an itty-bitty mini post because life is hectic.

Rules:

Thank the person who tagged you, write your seven-word story, and tag 3 people.

I canโ€™t settle among these four:

  • This was what brought about your grief?
  • He shrugged in nonchalance. “She’s gone now.”
  • The stone hovered over his calloused hand.
  • “So, you’re saying we’re all gonna die?”

Iโ€™m pretty sure majority of the people I follow have done this already, so I wonโ€™t burden them with the idea of repeating it. But, personally, I think the idea is something I would enjoy going back to every once in a while. (Thanks, Maggie!)

Take it or leave it.


Thanks for reading!

See, I wasnโ€™t kidding when I said this post would be short.

I might post something tomorrow. Donโ€™t miss me too much.

Prompt to Paper: A Double Tag for Writers (3 of 3 part Collab w/ The Texas Lass)

Good day, aliens. You’ll never believe it, but Miss Texan and I have started a tag! This might wreck Miss Texan’s snurching reputation but worry not. Our snurching days are far from over.

In complete honesty, the idea of the tag and other people participating in it seemed attractive, but upon having to do it myself, the temptation to drop it was great. Sometimes, however, you have to face your fears, brave the embarrassment, and whatnot. I did that, so I don’t know why I expected anything more than what resulted.

I’m not proud of it. Not yet, at least. But that’s the point of this practiceโ€”getting out of your slump, leaving your comfort zone, and formulating terribly crafted stories. Your future self will look back and cringe but will be incredibly thankful. After all, they’d never get anywhere had you not taken a step forward first.

Enough of that. Let’s see me fail.

Tag Rules

  1. Link back to the blogs of the creators, Natalie and Breanna.
  2. Thank whoever nominated you or brought this tag to your attention. (Snurching is most certainly allowed.)
  3. Nominate a fellow writer who may or may not be a blogger to do this with you.
  4. Pick one from the following categories for your partner’s story: sci-fi, fantasy, historical, mystery, adventure, or horrorโ€”preferably one you know they’ve never dipped their foot in. Choose a prompt for your partner from the 1800 writing prompts provided by Reedsy. (Make sure the prompt aligns with the genre!) Your partner should do the same for you.
  5. You have 3-4 days to finalize your story. Daunting, we know, but very much possible. It doesn’t need to be perfect and feel free to develop what you’ve begun. 
  6. Share your work! The goal is 1,000 words or more. 
  7. Tag as many or as few people to try this out as your heart desires.

Brace yourself, dear reader, for the atrocity that is my historical story. (Miss Texan was incredibly kind not to choose horror.) These are two of the five scenes, so I apologize if it lacks closure. Just wait for it. (Coming this Saturday, probably, May 6. Oh, right. Happy May, everyone!)

The setting is Manila, Philippines, where the sun scorching your skin is the norm. And if you’ve never eaten turon (google it), your life has no purpose. (Again! Not serious! But try turon. Deliciousness embodied.)


Thomas took the freshly fried turons from the street vendor. He flashed her a smile, which she returned, and headed back for his mother and sister, who stood on the sidewalk. 

The sunโ€™s rays beat down on him tirelessly. Sweat doused his shirt as he handed the banana fritters to his sister and then his mom he noticed from the dampness of their hairlines that the sun was no kinder to him than it was to them, even in the shade.

He blew on his caramelized treat before taking a crunchy bite of the outer wrap. He winced as the treat burnt his fingers and shifted it from one hand to another. It was a minor issue compared to the delicious cooked banana. The softness of the fruit combined with the crunch of the wrapper was heaven, he decided. Peak cuisine.

โ€œSo, where are we going next?โ€ Annabelle asked their mother.

โ€œOooh, could we go to an arcade, Mom?โ€ Thomas requested. โ€œI saw us pass one on the way.โ€

Annabelle scrunched her nose in disgust. โ€œDonโ€™t talk with your mouth full, Thomas. Itโ€™s revolting.โ€

He made sure to flaunt his half-chewed food in her face. 

โ€œDonโ€™t chew with your mouth open, either!โ€ She covered her eyes. โ€œMom! Mom, Thomas is being disgus- Ew, donโ€™t shove that in my face!โ€

โ€œStop it, kids,โ€ Mother ordered. They stopped it. They had enough self-control to heed their motherโ€™s instructions with her tone colored with exasperation like that. โ€œYour father brought us here for a reason. Oh, look, there he is.โ€

Motherโ€™s eagle eyes didnโ€™t fail. Dad popped in, looking exhilarated and oddly childlike. โ€œGuess where weโ€™re going next.โ€

Thomasโ€™s shoulders drooped. โ€œOh no.โ€ Dad always got like that when he was excited. Not excited about just anything, though. The reason was always-

โ€œI donโ€™t know, where?โ€ Annabelle answered before taking another bite of her turon.

-history.

โ€œIntramuros!โ€ Dad announced with gusto. โ€œOh, is that turon? Did you get some for me?โ€

โ€œWhatโ€™s Intramuros?โ€ Thomas asked, attempting not to let the dread seep through to his voice.

โ€œIntramuros means โ€˜walled city,โ€™ and thatโ€™s exactly what it is. Oh, hot.โ€ Dad transferred his turon to his left hand before continuing, โ€œInside this city are a lot of significant historical sites. It dates back to the Spanish colonization of the Philippines. Iโ€™ll tell you more once weโ€™re inside. We should get going.โ€

โ€œWhatโ€™s the rush?โ€ Mama didnโ€™t like the idea of hurrying.

โ€œI closed a deal with a karisela driverโ€”a really good one. We should be meeting him by now.โ€

Dad grabbed Momโ€™s wrist with one hand, stuffed the turon in his mouth, and gripped Annabelleโ€™s wrist with the other.

Before he could take a step, Annabelleโ€”the smartypantsโ€”retorted, โ€œShouldnโ€™t we eat first? They might not let us in with food.โ€

Dad made a disappointed noise resembling a five-year-old. The three munched their three-fourths-eaten turon in peace. Dad soon regained vigor and finished his snack at the same time as the rest. 

โ€œReady to go?โ€ Dad asked chirpily with a twinkle in his eye.


The water sloshed as the soldiers trudged in the beating rain. The sky was gray and the weather uninviting and Don wondered if it were by some divine joke that the day would parallel his situation so closely.

Seeing an American and Filipino soldier in their khaki uniforms with their respective sun helmets in shackles and a pair of Japanese soldiers brandishing Type 99 rifles, one could safely assume the four friends werenโ€™t going out for a stroll. 

A few passersby sent the captives sympathetic glances; others dared not spare a look. Either way, the twoโ€™s freedom was just as ensnared as their cuffed and aching wrists, and they could not be helped.

Don nudged his companion with his shoulder. โ€œHow you doinโ€™, Angelo?โ€

 Taking everything into account, Don himself knew the questions shouldnโ€™t have left his lips. But his concern for his young friend outweighed his common sense. Besides, heโ€™s faced more than a few angry Japs.

โ€œGood, sir.โ€ Angeloโ€™s voice was hushed, but Don was pleased to hear the sparky determination still present.

โ€œHowโ€™s your leg?โ€ 

The splattered blood on the lower half of Angeloโ€™s leg hadnโ€™t been washed out by the rain, and his gait was noticeably uneven.

Angelo swallowed. โ€œGood, sir.โ€ 

Their Japanese guides made them go up a curb. Don followed with ease, but Angelo tripped, pulling one of the Nips by instinct. The said Nip was furious, ugly swearing in Japanese. He swung his firearm to whack the fumbling soldier, but Don shoved him back before he could strike. The Nipโ€™s attention turned to Don; he aimed his rifle at the Americanโ€™s head.

Don froze. This was it. His mind flashed to his wife and his boy and the fear of leaving them, but there was nothing to do. It was his final moment. Brows set and jaw clenched, the reckless American soldier stretched his arms out wide, accepting fate.

The second Jap yanked the arm of his companion whose finger lay on the trigger. An abrupt, indecipherableโ€”on Donโ€™s partโ€”conversation was exchanged through harsh whispers. The Jap lowered his rifle, looking restrained but not subdued. 

Don couldnโ€™t believe it. His life was spared. Why? How? He wanted to grin, but an empty gut feeling warned him of something to come.

โ€œYou didnโ€™t have to save me, sir.โ€

Don disregarded his thoughts and sent his young friend an easy smile. In normal circumstances, he wouldโ€™ve slung an arm around his shoulders, but this didnโ€™t qualify as normal circumstances. โ€œIf anyoneโ€™s gonna survive this, itโ€™ll be you, kid. Iโ€™ll make sure of it.โ€

Angelo walked on, eyes glued to his battered shoes.

โ€œHey,โ€ Don reassured, โ€œI donโ€™t regret what I just did, and you shouldnโ€™t neither. Donโ€™t give me that sad look like I didnโ€™t just save your life. Maybe, oh, I dunno,โ€ Don shrugged, โ€œa โ€˜thank youโ€™ instead?โ€

Despite himself, Angelo chuckled. He lifted his gaze to Don, eyes shining with sincerityโ€”or just rain. โ€œThank you, sir.โ€

โ€œThat ought to do it.โ€

The two friends exchanged stifled laughs. Laughs in the face of their enemies, the cursed war, and being told theyโ€™d never make it to this point.

If they were asked what one good thing out of the strife the war brought, Angelo would say being placed under Donโ€™s rank, and Don would say having the privilege of working with such a diligent kid as Angelo. And they were happy enough with that.

They regained composure as they neared an ominous, looming wall.

โ€œIntramuros?โ€ Angelo couldnโ€™t believe it. The once inviting walled city he knew turned dark and gray, abandoned and transformed into torture groundsโ€”an image any sane person would flee from. Guess the war really did change some things.


The prompt: “Write a story that takes place in the same building, but in two very different time periods.” (I changed the building to a city with Miss Texan’s permission.)

How did I do? ๐Ÿ˜€


Tag, You’re It!

Deepthy @Paper Hearts (Not sure which blog you use for writing, Deepthy. Feel free to use whichever blog!)

Lily @The Introspective Introvert

Hannah @Hannah Gaudette – Author

And, of course, the reader of this post.

Thank you for reading!

Grammarly is going crazy with the corrections. How disheartening. How’d you like the story? I got stumped with the second scene, but, in the end, I liked it better. What do you think?

Keep your eyes peeled for Miss Texan’s story! (Aaaaand, of course, the story is spectacular! Find it here.)

Am I Overthinking It?

Preview:

Overthinking is making a big deal out of small stuff. I, for one, am a master at this art. This post is just my thoughts when navigating through the blogosphere put poetically.

I opened my laptop then WordPress I clicked.

My blog still has 0 followers, no readers whoโ€™d sticked1.

I press Search in Reader. I had no blogging presence.

No one knew much of my blog or of its essence.

Pressed one post, no two, and was intrigued by it.

An urge to like the post inside of me was lit.

Should I? I checked their likes, and debated if I should add or not.

Should I not? I was shy; why should I take that shot?

The latter side won, and I leave WordPress for now.

I made not a difference and still donโ€™t know how.


1 โ€” Grammatically wrong, I purposefully used โ€œstickedโ€ for poetic purposes.


Thank you for reading

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