Question by Julie*Julia: Do you find this at all captivating?
A very rough draft.
The morning was pale, as I looked out my bedroom window. The dawn’s rays were muted entirely by thick white clouds. I stretched at the edge of my bed, feeling uneasy and achingly tired. Bustlingly traffic roared at the streets below, penetrating the walls of my shabby apartment. Normally I liked it here, but not today. Not this morning. Today I longed for the country. I missed the scent of pine, the breath of the forest breeze. I didn’t feel like waking to the sound of trucks honking, nor the smell of subway fumes. But I was here, in Manhattan, at six o’clock in the morning, waking for my first day on a new set.
After years of struggle and determination, I had finally learned how to balance my depression and career. Today was the dawn of the rest of my life. And I felt sick with nausea as I sat there, still propped unsteadily at the edge of my bed. The wood floor seemed fragile as I made my way to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my steaming cheeks. Today was the day that I would meet him. Unless I was cunning enough to evade the star of the movie I was assisting to create. In my role as a script supervisor, I doubted my presence would go completely unnoticed by the leading actors. With one in particular being my main concern. Pierson Sage, in particular: the man I fell infatuated with from a far, nearly a year ago, at a concert. He had never met me, of course.
For the grace of my sanity, I avoided this man at all costs. Unfortunately, sometimes the world gets much smaller in the world of filmmaking. Everything is about connections and making more of them. Over the past year, I noticed my connections reaching out to his every now and then. Although I’d fought to keep our worlds separate, I’d somehow found myself in the most inescapable situation imaginable. Working on the same movie with the object of my obsessions. I was the “script supervisor” or “script girl” as the term used to go. I was in charge of keeping an unwavering eye on the film in production, keeping record of every film, slate, time, duration, screen direction, everything. I would have to watch this man all day, every day. And keep record of it, no less. This had disaster written all over it. And I was sweating at the thought of it.
Rushing back to the bathroom, I drenched my face with cold water again. I felt dizzy. Laying my head against the stone counter, I counted aloud. Willing the panic to dissipate. It didn’t. But the dizziness did subside and I was at least balanced. With a coffee mug in hand, I left my lonely apartment, lingering in the doorway. Wondering in what manner I would return through the wooden threshold. The door creaked as I left, a whining plea, begging me to stay home forever. But I couldn’t allow the past to haunt me any longer. I had to live my life as productively as possible if I intended to die a sane old woman. I knew I’d die old. I wanted death too desperately for it to come easily. I would have to wait. And wait in vain I would.
Answer by Apollyon
The syntax of your first sentence is nauseating.
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