I just became aware of the site I write like and instantly plugged in two different types of my writing- fiction and non fiction.
The fiction piece I submitted was:
“As if losing my hair wasn’t enough, I was beginning to lose my memory. What day was it? Trash littered the floor and the calendar had long been forgotten. Sometimes, when my body was cooperating and I could find the courage to, I’d sit out on the porch but at the first sight of a human I would scurry back into my cave. Why my mind must be tortured with thoughts of paranoia and anxiety, I don’t know but it was tearing me apart.
Food was a distant thought. My stomach surely has shrunk to less than half its normal size and with meals no longer a necessity, I could find no logical reason to interact with others. One would think that I’d have at least one distant relative or fairly close acquaintance but sadly I have no one but myself. I believe I cannot be saved.”
And I was taken to this
!!! I love Stephen King, as some of my other posts hint to, and his style of writing has been an inspiration.
The nonfiction piece I submitted was:
“I come to these keys in an attempt to avoid a potential hell. My eyes may very well be sunken into my skull for I feel I have no human qualities that could distinguish me from a corpse. Normally, I would be ecstatic for the liquid stored away in the vicinities of my freezer however the drunken happiness that I will be incapable of remembering is not sufficient for the main fact that my emotions will exponentially grow and foolish antics will begin, antics I do not wish to make myself vulnerable to.
The peak will leave me content for the hour, but the sole reason for not consuming the liquid is the never ending downfall that will leave me incapacitated.
I feel as though I have already fallen down the pit.”
Yes, quite depressing, and I was quickly told I write like…
David Foster Wallace, a deceased author I recently gained knowledge about during my creative non fiction class. The man wrote amazingly and he gave speeches on sustaining happiness in ones life, yet he committed suicide. Many were angered that he was not capable of taking his own advice, but for anyone who’s fallen into the darkest corridors of depression, you know that sometimes you can’t take your own advice anymore, even if you’ve been desperately trying for years. It’s bittersweet that my writing style was compared to his.
Well, I don’t know how the website reaches these conclusions, but I found it beyond entertaining and wish to send the information onto my teacher.