You’re going to love me. Then loathe me. Then rethink what you’ve done to yourself and might back down from even publishing me.
You’re thinking, why? Liv, you’re amazing, you have guts and say things like outlandish and lovely. You’re the teenager who’s sweet with a twinge of bitterness. You’re fresh off the presses. The people will adore you–fans will line up for your award-winning stories.
Hold on. Just…wait a second. You don’t even know me yet–you cannot say anything until you know me.
I’ll let you in on a couple things, just so you know what you’re getting into.
1.) I have rage issues. I get really loud and start throwing ‘things.’ I will probably scream a couple times, rant a few, and maybe throw a large but heavy object at your face.
2.) I’m really in love with my work. It’s part of me, it’s the reason I’m still alive. So if you decide to just ‘tweak it’ but then change the whole plot. I might be inclined to cry, weep, sob, bawl, and whatever other words you can conjure up to describe my despair.
3.) Sometimes…I find myself really hurt from life so I just watch romantic/killing everyone movies and write depressing poems. If you ask me to write then, I might just give you all my depressing poems, and simply cannot go and publish those. For example,
They drive their knives further,
I’m already screaming out in pain,
Are they immune to cries of the hurt?
Surely they are, for I scream the loudest of the slain.
Blood pours out of me as I stumble around,
My castles lay in ashes, smoldering and burning in their fire.
I fall to my knees praying, the tears streaming like my blood.
The crackling fire laughs and mocks my desire.
That cannot be published. That is just horrible.