The Writing Mafia

Bluebird             “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus,” I sang at the top of my lungs.             “Right down Santa Claus Lane!” Preston joined in.             It was the night of Christmas Eve and I was driving with Preston to his parents’ house. We were going to spend the night and exchange gifts in the morning. As we drove through the snow, Preston and I belted out our favorite Christmas carols.             I inhaled deeply, grinning as my favorite smells entered my nose. I could practically taste his mom’s gingerbread and apple pie. The other air freshener filled the car with the sharp scent of pine trees. Christmas was my favorite time of year.             “Here comes Santa Clau...

When writing, point of view is very important. The main character is the most liked one, so it's important to pick your main character. I've written a short story from 3 different perspectives to show you what I mean. Elizabelle's Point of View: I stood in front of Colton with tears in my eyes. It was time to say "I do." It was time to be pronounced "man and wife." It was time for our first kiss. This was the most important moment of my life and everything was perfect. "If anyone has a reason why these two should not be wed, speak now." I hear Pastor Phillips voice say. I waited for the moment to pass so we could finally be officially married. Then I hear "Please don't do this." I turn suddenly and see everyone staring horrified at a man in the back row. I squint at the man's face, then gasp. It was Kade. Kade and I had been best friends since we were 3 years old. We met on a playground when he helped me up on...

As a writer, it's very important to use colors to describe things. I've written a short story about a girl at her grandpapa's ranch. Notice how I use colors to make the images more vivid. This helps readers get a better picture. It also helps you get away with not using dialogue. I stepped into the hay field, longing to run my hands over the bristly heads. I wanted to run through the endless golden sea of hay. I wanted to leave my mark; my path; my trace. But that would ruin this beautiful sight. I pick a small, dying head and put it in the pouch Grandpapa gave me. It was soft, brown, and made with Indian leather. I moved along toward the pond. When I reached the pond's edge, I noticed a small thicket of blackberries slowly spreading around the side of the pond. As I reached out to pick a berry, I remembered my grandpapa laughing with my about these berries. He told me that was a silly name "blackberries" when they were really "purpleberries....