This is a Christmas present for my dad. He has everything, but he hasn't really seen my writing in awhile. This an introduction to a volume of work. I would love critiques or any comments on this, please.
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Introduction
Aha! So you have just torn off the wrapping paper, expecting something absolutely brilliant (or more chocolate cherries) and now you’re disappointed. Why? Maybe it’s the fact that it’s a book. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s written by me. Maybe it’s the fact that it doesn’t contain chocolate. Whatever the reason is, I hope you’ll forgive me soon enough, as I am immensely proud of this book.
So, what is it?
This is a collection my work spanning from ten years, consisting of several short stories, poems, and even a play. I will be frank; some of the writing is terrible. Other times, it is somewhat decent. Either way, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.
I don’t know how much you know how much of an inspiration you’ve been to me throughout the years, especially for writing. From my small childhood, I remember you telling stories. Oral ones, yes, but what stories! Though we only seem to dwell on Black Beauty, I remember others. The one that pops into mind right now is one you told us creepos on Bald Mountain. We were restless and you were busy. Even so, you were trapped with us. (How could you stand us!) We were reciting Animaniacs dialogue, and I believe we were driving you crazy. But instead of yelling at us, you put on your storyteller voice and then whispered a scary story about the true reason it was called Bald Mountain…
It turns out that the real story was that there were three obnoxious kids running around. And they talked a lot, driving everybody crazy. So, late one night while they were sleeping, an evil man came out and shaved their heads. Eep!
And who can forget that time when email was young? I was with Grandma Rose and Papa George, and I got an email! I read eagerly. It was by you, I remember. You began by talking about the lovely roses… and then something weird happened. The computer was hijacked by some crazy guy, who told me that if I oinked three times, my pigs would disappear! How horrible!
Well… I did oink three times. Not by accident either. You can imagine my surprise when I suddenly found you in my bedroom, a big garbage bag in your hands, scooping my precious pigs away!
If you were just a storyteller, that would be one thing, but you were so much more than just that. You were never content with simple fiction, creating your own nonfiction stories. And you let us share them with you.
You are the main reason I am a writer. I remember when we first went into homeschooling, I remember writing a paper for you every single day. In the evenings, you would always look them over, laughing as you pointed out every spelling and grammar mistake, and milking it for all it was worth. I loved it, and that critiquing became my favorite part of the evening.
Once, I wrote a simple story, using the vocabulary I had just learned in a spelling list. I remember your face. It was serious as you read the sloppily written paper, turning the pages with a heavy rustle. Then you looked at me. Your face wasn’t full of the usual laughter, which surprised me. “You can be a great writer, Karina,” you said. And, to be honest, for the first time, my stomach sank, but not so much in fear and more of a shivering excitement instead.
I could be something.
Many people told me that before you, it’s true. Teachers would frequently talk me up, with their ever-handy supply of compliments. But you, Dad! My harshest critic, the greatest storyteller, the world-famous adventurer? It seemed impossible. I can scarcely believe it, even now.
Shortly after reading that story, you stopped reading our stories. Which, I suppose, was a good thing. After all, I started writing novels by that time, and you would have hardly had the patience to waddle through the constant edits.
I was never really fond of short stories or poems. Though, every year, I write an average of a thousand pages, I barely write any short stories or poems. Even so, the short stories and poetry I do have are little time capsules of what was.
I have put them in as close as a chronological order as I can.
Enjoy…
