|The oddity of this is its longevity. This is the sort of scene,|
with different hairstyles, that I remember from my own school
experience. It's a powerful thing that, look at the gender identity
in the clothing.
|So, seriously, not the logo of the writing club at my school. We|
only had three members, so I doubt we warranted a logo.
Most of my useless screed and novelisation attempts I shared openly with my family. It was usually the same sort of progress. I'd write some rather poor prose, my mother would read it with thinly veiled incomprehension, tell me all the spelling mistakes and grammar errors before pronouncing that it wasn't really to her taste (in fairness I would push her on this, to get a comment beyond proof-reading) and then it would be forgotten. If I showed a second draft then it would be dealt with in the same way along with protestations that I was showing her a piece I'd already shown her and what else could I expect? Anyway, the point is that despite these rather negative associations I would nevertheless show my work to my parents proudly each time. Regardless of topic, regardless of how long it had taken I was a whore for commentary on my work and the only people I could really guilt into reading it were my parents. My father usually took three or four weeks to read anything, it still takes him a while to read stuff, and so I usually plumbed for my mother who could at least read at something approaching a pace. I always showed her what I'd written. But not this story, not 'Boy to Girl'. I showed it to my Dad, once, but never my Mum. And I did not ask my Dad what he thought about it. I simply asked him to read it. He read it. I then took it back and hid it in my wardrobe. Dad made some kindly remarks about the way it was written and then I simply... left it alone. I knew it was there, burning away like some dark secret, but I never did anything with it.
|The cover of the copy I bought had|
a red head in a red corset. She was
clearly older than she wanted to be.
And that's a pretty big bombshell (thank you Clarkson) to end with.