It was a story I started when I was 14. I loved it back then, but I always had a problem. The character and I were too different. I loved poetry and flowery description back then. The character really didn't. She'd be at the mall, and I wanted her to tell what it was like. The sounds, the smells, the sights, the people. She then turned to me, raised an eyebrow, and flipped me off.
Seven years later, and I have through years of trial and error adapted a much simpler style of writing. More to-the-point and clear. I hoped that now she could cooperate with me. I started all over again. At ten thousand words, she stopped me to say, “this isn't working out. It's not you, it's me. I'm simply too awesome a character for you to write, and you're simply not skilled enough yet.”
I ran her over with a bus
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