Courtesy of the cartoonist, Clangnuts
All authors want to be original. If someone even mentions that a writer's work reminds them of someone else's, the writer tenses up. "No, no, no, I'm nothing like him," he says swiftly. "I've never even read him."
"Yeah, but it's kinda like him," the reader persists, believing she is giving a compliment rather than an insult. "He's incredible, wewe should read him!"
The thing is-- it should be a compliment when a reader compares your work to...
He didn’t want money au fancy cars; all he wanted was to be loved kwa someone, any one at all. He needed someone to care about him, not his wealth, not his ties to the rich and famous, someone that actually cared about him, the boy with bright blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight, curly raven black hair and a boyish grin permanently plastered on his face hiding the pain of being alone. Yet no one did, all they saw was the heir to the Jeffrey Empire, the boy that was going to inherited it all. The boy, who was the prefect son living up to the Jeffrey name. They never saw the boy’s who’s arms were covered in cuts, the kisu against his skin, the blood dripping down staining the carpet, his eyes closing never to open again. No one read the note tucked into his pocket cause no one cared.
