Cinnamon. That was what I smelled when I entered the shop. Spicy and exotic, the scent always took me back to my childhood.
My father was a merchant in the spice trade and he had warehouses filled with the aromatic packages. As a young girl I loved to go into these places. I would lift a small brown paper item to my nose and tell my father what I thought it contained. Then he would tell me a story about the place where it came from, or the journey taken to get to that place, or a person he had met there. I never found out whether all of them were true, but they were all fascinating and he always had a new one to enthrall my young self.
Cinnamon was always my favorite spice, but my father never told me stories about it. I once asked him why and he smiled a secretive smile. I never asked again. I didn't like seeing evidence that my father had secrets from me.
Since my father wouldn't tell me stories about it, I decided to make up my own. Sometimes I whispered them to my little sister when we lay in bed at nights. She promised she'd never tell. Sometimes I wrote them down instead, and I didn't tell my sister, or anyone else, about these. I kept a neat little sheaf of papers tied with a ribbon at the bottom of one of my bureau drawers. Yet, at times I thought my father suspected.
At random moments someone might be talking to me and I would suddenly get a wonderful idea that I had to get on paper. I'd plop down right where I was, take a quill pen and paper from a bag I always kept with me, and, heedless of the other person's exclamations apart from a vague aside that I'd just remembered something, I'd start scratching away. Occasionally when I did this, I'd look up to see my father looking over at me, a twinkle in his eye. If I looked up again, he would be studiously bent to whatever task he had at hand.
As I grew older I expanded my writing topics and grew ever more secretive as well. I took my cinnamon stories and revised some of them to be more factually accurate, and all of them to be sounder, and, simply, improved.
I wrote down in my own words some of the stories that my father used to tell me, as far as I could remember them, and I made up more of my own.
Spices had always been my prompt in writing, and they were still, except that now they gave me a greater variety of ideas than merely the adventures you could have in seeking to obtain them from a foreign land. One of the stories I wrote was about a girl whose job it was to sample all the food before it went to the king's table, to make sure that it wasn't poisoned. Once she ate a dish with ginger in it (a spice which had never been used before), which, it just so happened, she was allergic to. When she started to cough and weeze, and her lips to swell, everyone assumed that the dish had been poisoned. She became an instant heroine; she was taken under the queen's wing as a lady in waiting and eventually went on to marry the prince and become queen herself, all this because of a simple allergy. I finished the story by saying that, as queen, she always took care that the food taster was someone who was allergic to ginger. It was a silly story, humorous and light, and one of my favorites. Some of my stories were bleaker, but I saw to it that each one had a happy ending.
So I grew up. In my 17'th year my father started to give me lessons in figures, geography, history, economics, and other things related to the business he operated, although my mother disapproved. I wasn't sure what to think of it. He couldn't possibly be training me, a female, to take over his company, could he? Yet why else would he be teaching me such things? Despite my confusion in the matter, I did enjoy the lessons. Becoming better informed, I was sure, could do nothing but improve my writing, and by now I had my heart set on remaining a writer for the rest of my life. It was the one thing that rescued me from what otherwise would have been as monotonous a life as a female in the seventeenth century could expect. I felt more myself, more honest, more passionate, and happier when I wrote than at any other time.
But writing also scared me. That was why I'd never shown my work to my family: I was afraid that they would say it was unfitting for a young woman, or impossible for a young woman to pursue. Worse, they could say that I wasn't even a good writer. If they did, I could never have that which I wanted more than anything in the world.
Of course, neither could I have what I wanted if I persisted in hiding my work. I would have to take a risk. I knew that one day I would have to brace myself for my family's reaction. I put it off as long as I could, but eventually I had to admit, no time like the present.
I entered my room and went to the drawer which had kept my secret for so long. I gathered up my favorite stories and my cinnamon stories—they had started this; what could be more fitting than them accompanying me through the climax?—I walked out of the house and down to a print shop in the center of town. The owner ran a newspaper, a bookshop, and he was a publisher, apart from running the print shop.
I took a breath, shoved the door open, and caught the scent of cinnamon on the air.
Now I am pacing through the few shelves of books inside, trying to gather the courage to take my bundle up to the counter. Trying to avoid my lurking thoughts of self-consciousness and deficiency, I concentrate on the memory of the moment when I realized that it wasn't just for me that I wrote. I want other people to read my work. Read it, fall in lot with it, with my writing self. I want my scenes to come alive for people and take them away from their world, but also to teach them things about their world. I want for them to pick up one of my stories and not be able to put it down; but when they have to, at the end, for them to be a different person from the one who picked it up.
With these thoughts to bolster my resolve, I walk up to the counter, place my packet of papers upon it, and utter the breathless words I'd rehearsed:
"Mr. Swift, I wonder if you wouldn't mind looking at these."
He looks down at them and gives me an encouraging smile, though to me it appears slightly condescending. I straighten my shoulders and give him a breezily confident, cold smile of my own, turn away, and dart out the door, a weight visibly stolen from my shoulders despite Mr. Swift's manner. I would prove him wrong. I've now taken my first step towards fulfilling my dream.
A week has now gone by since that day. Earlier this morning I received a letter from Mr. Swift, and I have only just gotten an opportunity to be alone. I rip the envelope and pull out and peel apart the sheets inside. Sheets? Did he find so much ill to say of my stories?
I scan the first page, go back and read it carefully, then let all of them drop from my quaking hands. I collapse into a chair, but in a second I jump back to my feet.
"Father!" I yell, snatching the letter from the floor and running from my room out onto the landing where I run straight into my father.
"Father!" I gasp, and shove a sheet into one of his large hands. He casts me one bemused look and turns his attention to the paper. I let him read for perhaps three seconds before I exclaim,
"He wants to publish me! Me! He's going to put them together in a book with my name on it! He said he loved them—"
My father still hasn't looked up. There is a slight furrow between his bushy brows and it only occurs to me now to be anxious. If he doesn't approve...
But now he's looking at me... and smiling.
"I always knew you could do it," he tells me, his blue eyes mirthful.
So he had known all this time.
He takes my face between calloused fingers and looks me straight in the eyes as he whispers, "And I am so proud of you."
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140,653 Literary Works • 673,582 Reviews
This is good but I think it lacks atmosphere to some extent. The whole piece is centered around cinnamon, yes? And yet you make little attempt to describe it, to describe the smell of it, the texture, the colour, the taste. I think you need to add that in somewhere. And also your settings. What does her room look like? How wealthy is her family - is the house large or is it small? Does the older her still share a room with her sister?
And what does the bookshop look like? Is it large or small? How high are the shelves, what books does it hold? More description would help your reader recognise the period with more ease and it would help us visualise the scenes you've created. How does your persona look? Is she beautiful or plain? How does she dress? What else interests her?
You need to add personality to the piece! The father you have portrayed well and the relationship between him and the persona is established reasonably well but make the character of your persona clearer. She is brave for a woman of her time and she is clearly intelligent but you need to show that. You need more dialogue, more character interaction.
At the moment, the piece is a story within a story. You need to either extend the piece as a whole or maybe shorten the reflection a little. It's generally well written though and the plot is pleasant.
Here's a few small suggestions -
My father was a merchant in the spice trade and he had warehouses filled with the aromatic [Is this a better word? not sure I like it] packages. [I like aromatic, it's a lovely word and it fits well here.]
When she started to have a reaction [Do you think I should add a description of the reaction?], everyone assumed that the dish had been poisoned. [I think you should not say she had a reaction, describe it instead. You've said she had the allergy so the reader will understand if you say something like 'When she started to cough, her chest wheezing as her throat contracted and her lips began to swell, everyone assumed...']
It was a silly story, humorous and light, and one of my favorites.
I put it off as long as I could, but eventually I had to admit, [s]not[/s] no time like the present.
I [s]went in[/s] entered my room and went to the drawer which had kept my secret for so long.
I want for them to pick up one of my stories and not be able to put it down; but when they have to, at the end, for them to be a different person from the one who picked it up.
He looks down at them and gives me an encouraging smile. [s]though to[/s] To me it appears slightly condescending.
____________________
In general, I think there could be more conflict to hold your reader's interest but it's good. Add a little more description and stmosphere and it will be even better. Hope this helps a little,
Heather xx
Very, very cool idea. I have to ask, have you ever seen the movie Chocolat? Because this, especially the beginning paragraphs, reminded me of it very much.
Anyways, talking nitty-gritty stuff, I thought you were trying a little too hard. I could feel the wheels turning in your head while you wrote this. (Not that thinking and writing are a bad thing *chuckles*) But it took away from the story feeling like it was real.
Also this line:
Sounds strange to me. I think I know what you mean, but it's a bit confusing. :/
Anyways, at the end, I loved it. Great job.
Hello!
Don't spear me, please...but I like the old one better. *hides*
Okay, this is still a great piece because you are a great writer but I have some connection with old one more so than the new one. As a writer you always have the final say of what happens to your story, critiques are just helpful suggestions that you can help you improve your story. You don't have to change it completely to please us.
This piece did have some parts that I preferred over the original piece, but I think you should read both of them separately and then decide what you should give or take only using critiques as an example.
So the only other thing I could point out is...the scene with Mr. Swift, I don't think it fits to have it in a present tone when the majority of the story is in the past. I think you should just keep it in the past, but that's just my opinion completely.
I just edited this a lot. Better think you?
I liked the title. And I also liked how you put it all together. I don't have anything particularly negative to say--just fix the grammar and punctuation errors, and make the time period a little more clear to the reader. Great job.
Hello! Here's what I have for you:
I loved the first sentence. It sort of...sent me there. I love the smell of cinnamon, and when I read it, I could definetely envision it. Always a good thing.
Am I correct in guessing that this takes place in the 1700-1800 time period? I thought so, with the clues about her wearing skirts and writing with a quill, but it wasn't very clear.
I had some other finicky grammar things to give you, but looking over everyone else's reviews they already have all of them. I came upon you too late.
Oh well. Very good story that just needs a little work.
I look forward to reading more of your work in the future.
I agree with stella on the confusion of the time period.
This also need more emotion to really capture a reader.
Otherwise, I really liked this story.
Write on,
Risa
(I also love your avatar, it's my friends' motto!)
Okay, so I'm back. Where did I leave off? Okay, let's go!
Um... so? I don't really care for your character, and I think this paragraph is an info-dump. Break it up, put in different parts, just, get rid of this big paragraph. And I would work on your charater more, because I really know almost nothing about her, and I don't care about her or what happens to her.
This is very simple. I think it might be your style that I don't like, but this last sentence just didn't draw me.
Hehe. Cinnamon. Just wondering, do you like cinnamon? Because if you didn't I doubt you'd write a story about it.
This is a very short scene. I would put more emotion in it, and extend it.
Tenses! You changed your tenses here. You need to fix it up!
The rest of it, I have no problem with.
Overall, I think it's a good story, I just find your writing very simple. And that's not your fault, it's just my taste. Don't go completely changing your style on my account, because you will find people who love how you write. I would like to see some poetry if you have any posted, because I think the simplicity of your writing would suit it.
You didn't have much showing, there wasn't much about your character and you didn't put much emotion in it. I would work on all of these things. DO that, and your story will be much better.
-choco.
maybe get rid of the "he" and for the second bit phrase it as
"warehouses filled with packages of the potent spice/substance/etc.
you didn't really specify "these", are they the warehouses?
I dunno, "brown paper item" sounds so neutral, how about "fragrant package" or something?
Then he would tell me a story about the place where it came from, or the journey taken to get to that place, or a person he had met there. I never found out whether all of them were true, but they were all fascinating and he always had a new one to enthrall my young self.
Cinnamon was always my favorite spice, but my father never told me stories about it. I once asked him why and he gave me a secretive smile. I never asked again. I didn't want to see again that smile which told me my father had secrets.
Since my father wouldn't tell me stories about it, I decided to make up my own. Sometimes I whispered them to my little sister when we lay in bed at nights. She promised she'd never tell. Sometimes I wrote them down instead, and I didn't tell my sister, or anyone else, about these. I kept a neat little sheaf of papers tied with a ribbon at the bottom of one of my bureau drawers. Yet at times I thought my father suspected.
Sometimes someone would be talking to me and I would suddenly get a wonderful idea that I had to get on paper. I'd plop down right where I was, take a quill pen and parchment from a bag I always kept with me, and, heedless of the other person's exclamations, I'd start scratching away, muttering to them that I 'just needed to remember something'. Occasionally when I did this, I'd look up to see my father looking over at me, a twinkle in his eye. If I looked up again, he would be studiously bent to whatever task he had at hand.
As I grew older I expanded my writing topics and grew ever more secretive as well. I took my cinnamon stories and revised some of them making them more factually accurate.
I wrote down in my own words some of the stories that my father used to tell me, and I made up more of my own. Spices had always been my prompt to write, and they were still, except now they gave me a greater variety of ideas than merely the adventures you could have in seeking to obtain them from a foreign land. One of the stories I wrote was about a girl whose job it was to sample all the food before it went to the king's table, to make sure that it wasn't poisoned. Once she ate a dish with ginger in it, which she was allergic to. When she started to have a reaction, everyone assumed the dish had been poisoned. She became an instant heroine, was taken under the queen's wing as a lady in waiting, and eventually went on to marry the prince and become queen herself, all this because of a simple allergy. I finished the story by saying that as queen she always made sure that the food taster was someone allergic to ginger.
It was silly story, humorous and light, and one of my favorites. Some of my stories were more serious, but they all had happy endings.
So, I grew up. My father started to teach me figures and other things related to the company he operated, although my mother disapproved. I wasn't sure what to think of it, myself. He couldn't possibly be training me, a female, to take over his company, could he? Yet why else would he be teaching me such things? To be sure, I wouldn't really mind were this the case... at least were it not for the writing. By now I had my heart set on being a writer. That was part of why I'd never shown my work to my family; I was afraid that they would say what I wanted was impossible, or worse, that I was no good at writing.
Writing set me free. It was the truest part of me, the purest, rawest expression of my thoughts and feelings. But it wasn't just for me that I wrote. I wanted other people to read it. Read it, fall in love with it, with my writing self. I wanted my scenes to come alive for people and take them away from their world, but also to teach them things about their world. I wanted for them to pick up one of my stories and not be able to put it down; but when they did have to, at the end, for them to be a different person than when they picked it up.
I knew I could never have what I wanted, not if I kept hiding my work. I knew one day I would have to brace myself for my family's reaction. And one day, I decided the sooner the better.
I went to my room and went to the drawer which had kept my secret for so long. I gathered up my favorite stories and my cinnamon stories and I walked down to a print shop in the center of town. The owner ran a newspaper and a bookshop, and published books, apart from running the print shop.
I took a breath and shoved the door open and caught the scent of cinnamon on the air.
Now I'm walking up to the desk and I set down my packet of papers. I say,
"Mr. Swift, I wonder if you wouldn't mind looking at these." He looks down at them and I barely give him time to nod before I dash out the door.
A week has gone by since that day, and I can hardly believe what's happened. Yesterday I received a letter from Mr. Swift. I ripped the envelope and peeled open the sheets inside. Sheets? Was there so much ill to say of my stories?
I scanned the first page, read it a second time, then let all of them drop from my quaking hands. I collapsed into a chair but in seconds I jumped to my feet.
"Father!" I yelled, and I snatched the letter from the floor and ran from my room out onto the landing where I crashed into my father.
"Father!" I gasped, and shoved a sheet into one of his large hands. He cast me one bemused look and turned his attention to the paper. I let him read for all of three seconds before I exclaimed,
"He wants to publish me! He's going to put them together in a book with my name on it! He said he loved them—"
My father still hadn't looked up. There was a slight furrow between his bushy brows and it occurred to me then to be anxious. If he didn't approve...
Then he looked at me... and smiled.
"I always knew you could do it," he told me, his clear eyes mirthful.
So he had known all this time.
He took my face between calloused fingers and looked me straight in the eyes as he whispered, "And I am so proud of you."
So all corrections are above me and that means I don't have to correct anything YAY
Like the first person said, I'm confused about the time, as well as character description.
I want to be able to visualize everything. Detail!
That is all,
ST
Don't be so self-deprecating, adnamarine! It's a fine story with a wonderful concept.
A bold first story, well done.
The main problem with this is that there's too much telling. You use a lot of 'was/were' expressions, such as:
"[Writing] was the truest part of me."
Try:
"Finally, I had found the truest part of me; my rawest self."
Something like that. Notice how the sentence becomes much more direct; the narration is more immediate and pulls you right into the action. It SHOWS the reader what happened rather than flatly telling them about it.
Don't worry about this - it's a common problem for novices. Your writing shows promise; keep working at it and you'll sort this out!
6/10
I liked it. Even the ending, and I'm not a huge fan of happy endings. The only thing that really got to me that this was in a different font, and it made it really hard to read.
This was a good opening. Not particularly strong, but it made me want to keep reading. I think you should say, the scent, instead of this scent.
I'm not sure if potent is the word I'd use here. It always reminds me of something that smells horrible. But, it does seem to fit nicely. I'm not sure.
The ending. I would change it to, had a new one to entrall my young self.
Why? Wouldn't she just be more anxious to find out? And on that note, you only mention that this character is a girl once, and that much later on. I'd find some way of adding it at the beginning.
I count... three sometimes'. Now, three in that isn't bad, but I would change at least one of them, just to mix it up a bit. There are plenty of other words for sometimes.
Sounds like, um... I KNOW I've read a story sort of like this! But, interesting idea.
This is the only time you mention her at a girl.
I have to stop now because it's mornign and I've got to get ready for school, but I'll finish critiquing the story when I get home.
Gee...I liked this story. It's one of those light, bubbly stories I love to read. =D I just wanted to know about a few things and correct a few things:
The last sentence is repeating the first two. We as readers already know that she only tells her sister the stories sense she says "she promised she'd never tell". You just that no one knows about her written stories.
I found this to be a little weird sense she doesn't want anyone to know about her stories why is she so willing to write them in front of them?
Last part after the semi-colon isn't necessary sense we know she "revised some of them". Then you should take out the comma after them.
I liked this story. =D
You should use "three" rather than 3. The rule of thumb is use the word for the number if it isn't a date.
I liked your story quite a lot and I hope I helped you somewhat. =D
Sorry, I wasn't paying closenough attention to give you a full crit, I was reading the story too much...
I'm a little confused about what century this is in...? That's my only complaint...
Other than that, I really enjoyed it. Partly because I have this little baker's daughter called Summer in my head that's always telling me to write about her and she has the same thing about nutmeg...
So, yeah. Nice job! Sorry I can't be of more help...