infinitelyinfinite3

I was asked once how I felt about speeches. If I enjoyed doing them, for one thing, and if I liked writing them, for another. I replied, simply, with, "Do I like to write them, or am I good at writing them?" That is the question.

I have lived in constant fear of the word "beautiful." Exceptional, no, unique, never, but any word that has ever described the state of my face? Every. Single. Damn. Time. It's a consistent, damnable struggle.

The barracks were full of women. Tall, short, middle-aged down to teen and back up to seventy. Women, all dressed identically in long, thick tunics, black, white, or grey, depending on your rank.

The moment Jax woke up, her ears were awash with a loud buzzing—the buzz of voices, all around her. For a moment, she lay, frozen, immobile, until the reality of her situation converged on her, and she sat up, gasping her discomfort into the noise.

I've recently started a little thing. I hope I can get some feedback. I've already got another novel on my mind, but this one has really captured me, and I'm not nervous about the fact that I'd like to start it.