I must confess, I have a very difficult time writing Non-fiction. When I write, I write purely for the magic. The fairies, the monsters, the wizards, I love all of it. When you take that away from me, I am a shriviling husk of a writer. Sure, I have some great stories to tell, but what fun is telling them if they aren't greatly exagerated and containing magic and impossible things?
Sincerly,
A xx
MY ATEMPT AT A NON FICTION
Johnny Meyer grew up in Alaska, with six brothers. Their closest neighbors lived a few miles away, so they virtually stuck together. He happened to be the worst of the bunch; constantly causing problems and what not.
On his birthday, when he turned seven, he was given a brand new swiss army knife. "We had this old oak tree in our back yard, with a swing atached to it," he said, "My little brother Steve loved that swing. After getting my new knife, I went outside and climbed the tree, just waiting for him."
Sure enough, Steve went outside and began to swing back and forth and sure enough, Johnny started sawing away at the rope holding the swing to the tree. After sawing for a good two minutes, there was a snapping sound and a shreak, and sure enough you saw Steve flying over the yard, landing in a heap on the ground.
"My mom heard him yell and came outside," Said the Meyer brother, "She yelled my name and I climbed down the tree and handed over my knife without another word."
The swing incident wasn't the only exciting moment of Johnny Meyers life. He had too many stories to count.
No comments:
Post a Comment