1) I don't really care about your relatives and their achievements. Don't think anybody here does, actually...
2) Why bring Christianity into this? Another of your irrelevant little segues?
3) Are you telling me, and others currently attempting it, how to succeed in the HSC? I don't need your advice and I certainly don't want arrogant instructions from a kid who hasn't even begun it!
You seem to think you're God's gift to everybody and an expert on everything.
Completely wrong, you pathetic little boy.
EDIT: I read your short story about Whitlam...and you claim to be writing a novel. If I was you I'd focus my talents on something I was good at.
I got 17/20 for the story about Whitlam. It was a school story. I don't believe it's a good indication of my writing style as I typed up the draft in an hour and barely modified it afterwards. It was a rushed job designed to get me some easy marks so that I could go well in the joke that is Year 9 English.
I most certainly am not God's gift to everybody. To assume for a mere 200 odd words what a person's personality is like is not only ignorant, but makes you very misinformed. The president doesn't go, "Osama is a horrible man, he sent me a rude text message", he bases his judgement on the man's actions. Of course this is a rather ridiculous example, but if we're going to have a debate heck why not make it entertaining.
I think perhaps I should post my novel introduction so you can see that despite being far from perfect it is, in fact, not absolutely abysmal.
Could we please focus, from here on in, on the topic of the thread. I don't want to carry on defending myself and I won't. I will ignore any further insults from you and if you are persistent I will have the police trace the post to your computer and file a police report. Look, I know that is extreme, but I do not like cyber bullying; having done it myself I know the damage it brings, whether the harm is caused deliberately or accidentally; it's irrelevant.
Anyway, seeing as I am apparently arrogant and in need of a desperate reality check, and should not be attempting to give you advice (I actually intended to help you after you insulted me, and you somehow took offence to this - I admit that I have not done the HSC but for goodness' sake it's a Cert III, not a bloody Ph.D!)... here is the introduction of my novel.
© James Robert Schofield, 2009
He was supposed to be home by Christmas. Daddy had described to me what he anticipated would be his experience of war in Europe.
“Honey, don’t be scared. Daddy is going to France to fight the Germans. I am going to shoot some bad guys and I will be home by Christmas, I promise. I will have really exciting tales to tell you and Mummy! I bet you will be very impressed by my bravery, baby. So chin up, Elisabeth, Daddy will be fine – remember that Britain have the greatest navy in the world and a very strong army, and they are on our side. I love you, baby. I will see you before Christmas, Lucille and Lizzy. I love you both. Goodbye.”
Daddy stuck his right hand under Mummy's shirt and rubbed her stomach in a circular motion, while she looked down, giggled softly and smiled widely. The smile did not last long, though. Dad removed his hand from her stomach, adjusted her shirt quickly, cupped her left cheek in his right hand and gave her a peck on the lips. They hugged each other, then Daddy hugged me, and said one last time, "Goodbye Elisabeth, goodbye Lucille!"
Mummy's lip curled into a wide, wide frown. Tears slid down her face and her nose began to run, snot pouring out thick and fast. She rubbed her eyes coarsely and sniffed the gooey mucus into her nose, wiping away that which had drenched her lips. Mummy, unable to stand seeing Daddy depart, turned her back while I watched the ship slowly move out of sight, considering the faces of the departing soldiers. Some regretful, some thoughtful, some happy, some ecstatic –my father’s face was a mixture of mild sadness and excitement – it was an unusual sight.
As he waved to me, I yelled out, “Good luck!” He nodded, put his thumbs up at me and gradually his expression resumed its excited state that had been present that morning. Soon enough the ship was out of sight, so I patted Mummy’s back. She and I, with the relatives of other departing Anzac soldiers ambled through the paved streets, finding our way home.
A year later, Daddy was still fighting overseas and Mummy had given birth to my brothers Alexander and Henry, who were four months old. Daddy would only have heard of their existence through mail, if he had actually received it. He had seemed to intuitively realise that Mummy had a bun (or two) in the oven, but maybe I had simply been reading too much into his actions.
Daddy did not write very much. Actually, he wrote once, a week after his arrival in the green fields of France, and then he never wrote to us again.
Mummy got very lonely, fast. She did not have many friends – only three close friends. Two of her friends had gone overseas to help with the war effort – they were nurses. Her only friend in Sydney, Agnes, was bedridden – the doctor said she had the plague, which was a rarer occurrence that it had been at the turn of the century, although not completely unheard of. She was in horrible pain – she was always scratching herself. Mummy and I visited her in hospital often. We had to stand outside the room and talk to her through the glass. Mummy cried after every visit.
I longed to be able to comfort my mother, and I would gently pat her back, give her shoulder massages to try and ease her tension. It worked for a little while, and she was grateful for me trying to help her remain strong, but she missed Daddy and she was very scared about the possibilities of the war.
It was 1915, and the war was only just beginning, someone we knew after the soldiers did not come home by Christmas that this was bigger, this would last longer. It was, of course, Archduke Franz Ferdinand's assasination that had caused the tension to break and war to result. All because Archduke Franz Ferdinand's chaffeur took a wrong turn.
I wish he hadn't.
Bye!
James
