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30 October 2012 03:10 (UTC)
There's a very good sort of pain, an ache in the tummy, that you get when a story is perfect, sad, tender, and
could be no other way.
This story gives me that lovely pain because in so few words you've told me nearly everything I need to know to care deeply, to
Sherlock's longing, to, as Verity said, to make me hold my breath.
What's funny is just as I began to read my husband asked if the music he was about to put on would bother me, and usually the answer is yes, but the moment I began the first sentence I was deaf to everything else.
Chocola, you have a gift. Read your own story again. And again. Do you feel the mood you've made? Do you see how elegant the imagery? This is just the beginning I hope, the start of a long, long writing career.
I read your LJ bio just before this, where you basically wax rhapsodic that the reason you are here is because of
I hope you continue to honor that and gift us with so much more fiction because if this is what you write when still full of doubt, good god what will you accomplish when you feel strong and bold and proud?
I can't wait to see.
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