I've been feeling really crappy lately. And I have an explanation for that. Yesterday, my cycle restarted. It's now time to put away all of my white pants that I cannot wear at this time of the month. If you're a girl, you know that probably the worst thing about being a girl is, in fact, your period. It's nothing to be ashamed of, but let's just say that PMS-ing is not the funnest thing in the world. Enough about my period now.
Seriously, enough about my period now.
I need everybody's help! I'm going to post the prologue of a novel I've recently started writing, and I'm asking you guys to read it, and let me know a suitable title for it. It's sort of a mystery book. But not quite, if that makes any sense. I was thinking about naming it 'The Book With No Title', but I found that was a bit too cliché for my first novel. I want it to be a title that catches your eye, that makes you want to buy and read the book.
Let's turn this into a little contest. You can submit as many titles for the book as you want, and I'll leave the deadline to... May 20th, 2012. That gives you plenty of time to think up some good titles. The person who writes the title that I like the most, will get mentioned in my book when it gets published, and will get a shoutout on my blog. If you're wondering how I'm going to mention you in my book, I will probably write something like this: 'The author of this book would like to thank 'YOURNAMEHERE' for the great help 'HE/SHE' has been in helping choose the title of this novel.' If you submit a title here, in the comments, you give me full right to use it in my book. Just had to get the legal crap over with.
Since this is my first blog post, I'm hoping this is a good way to kick off my blogging life. So I'll post the Prologue now.
Prologue
As I walked across the room, the fresh
smell of bread, cupcakes, and odd little pastries filled Myriam’s Bakery; the
place I had no choice to work at ever since I was struggling with money, when
my parents left me behind in the royal kingdom. In other words, that would mean
for a little more than two full years now. I don’t know how I managed to do it,
but somehow, I managed to pull through. My name is Nora Ellen. I am twenty-two
years old, and I am quite tall, probably the height of the average Canadian
woman. I have eyes the colour of the big blue sea, and lip naturally the colour
of the reddest apples in the orchard. I have luxurious blonde hair the colour
of the golden sun you see in the summer when you’re sitting on the porch
sipping orange juice. I am slim, but that’s only because I simply cannot afford
to buy anything very good-tasting. Sometimes, Myriam Wade, the shop owner,
gives me the batch that burnt in the oven to take home. I’d thank her, and walk
away. I spend my days working at Myriam’s Bakery, and writing in the comfort of
my small apartment building located in the West-end of the country. I was born
to a wealthy family, the Ellen family. My father passed away of sudden illness,
and when I was only at the tender age of seven years old, my Mother left on a
day trip with her friends, and never came back. Still, to this day, I have no
idea what happened to her. She might even still be alive, but I doubt she’d
recognize me. I take comfort in thinking that she’s dead, in the hands of God, instead
of being out on the streets suffering like I am. After the loss of my parents, I
was placed in a foster family since I was too young to take over the kingdom,
as my parents had written in their wills. Of course, they didn’t expect to die
that early. They thought they would grow old together, live a happy life, and
then die of old age together, and give me the kingdom so that I could raise my
own family and direct the country. But obviously, it didn’t work out that way.
I wish I could’ve gone back to the kingdom when I was old enough, but the rules
are that once a member of the royal family decides to quit their royal duties,
they cannot come back. The saddest part of this is that I didn’t decide to
leave… I was forced to. The mother of the foster family I was in let me leave
to my own apartment when I was as young as eighteen, she taught me to read and
write, which she thought was all I needed to know. I wanted to stay with the
foster family, but even though I cried and cried, the mother of the foster
family explained that they needed to make more room for the other orphans that
needed a loving home. Sometimes I wonder if she actually cared about me. I know
that the others did, as they were devastated when I left, but the Mother, she
just stared at me and waved with a huge smile on her face, probably wondering
who their next foster child would be. I loved reading, but what I loved the
most out of the two was writing. I think my writing talents come from my
Grandmother. She has written books, poems, everything. And most of them have
gotten published. In my life, I have two goals. The first one would be to find
my Grandmother, Rose Ellen, who I misplaced and lost contact with during my
move to the foster family, and second would be to have at least one of my books
published. Meaning that if you are reading this, and it has a nice cover and
all the legal stuff written on the side inside covers of the book, my writing
dream probably came true. Speaking of writing, a couple years ago, I started
keeping a journal of my experiences with life, loss and love. And some pretty
out-of-the-ordinary people. I read it from time to time, as it brings back
memories. That is the journal you are
about to read. This is that journal.
Hope you adore it!
TTYL,
Caroline
