Post by account_disabled on Dec 13, 2023 0:27:14 GMT -5
When we write, are we really sure that our work is important to our readers? Should the writer write for himself or for the reader? He certainly for the reader, but he must also write what he loves. When we write, we must stimulate the reader's interest: we must not write in such a way as to be involved ourselves – our involvement is implicit in the work itself – but write in such a way as to involve the reader. If the reader understands that what we have written is important to him, we will have been successful.He continued on the road as quickly as possible, but the darkness was gathering in the surrounding countryside, until the dirt road became a shapeless pale strip that opened up the night like a never-healed wound.
The man walked trying to resist the temptation to turn towards the old man's house, but he knew that it would be impossible to win that battle. His eyes didn't seem to respond to commands, they Phone Number Data were as if animated by their own will and now they were looking. They looked at the house shrouded in darkness, while their minds retraced the stories that people were whispering, retrieving from the crevices of memory some tragic episodes that had occurred over the years in the areas adjacent to the town, episodes that the man believed he had forgotten. Now, with the fear that that house instilled in him, those memories had come back to life, sudden and sudden, cold as needles of ice that pierced his conscience. *** The little one is afraid and the man knows it.
He knows he son of him. The strap in his hand terrifies the child, because that leather will leave deep marks on his buttocks and his father's hand will continue to whip the pink skin until it tears into bloody wounds. And that punishment must take place in silence, not a scream or a cry must come out of the child, bent double on the bed with his trousers and panties pulled down to his mid-thigh. The sharp crack of the belt and nothing else the man wants to hear. The voice of punishment, which speaks to the child in a toneless and lacerating sound, reminding him of the shortcomings, the disobedience, the guilt of which he has been guilty. One, two, three and one more and another and another, like the tolling of a bell that marks the condemned man's last hour.
The man walked trying to resist the temptation to turn towards the old man's house, but he knew that it would be impossible to win that battle. His eyes didn't seem to respond to commands, they Phone Number Data were as if animated by their own will and now they were looking. They looked at the house shrouded in darkness, while their minds retraced the stories that people were whispering, retrieving from the crevices of memory some tragic episodes that had occurred over the years in the areas adjacent to the town, episodes that the man believed he had forgotten. Now, with the fear that that house instilled in him, those memories had come back to life, sudden and sudden, cold as needles of ice that pierced his conscience. *** The little one is afraid and the man knows it.
He knows he son of him. The strap in his hand terrifies the child, because that leather will leave deep marks on his buttocks and his father's hand will continue to whip the pink skin until it tears into bloody wounds. And that punishment must take place in silence, not a scream or a cry must come out of the child, bent double on the bed with his trousers and panties pulled down to his mid-thigh. The sharp crack of the belt and nothing else the man wants to hear. The voice of punishment, which speaks to the child in a toneless and lacerating sound, reminding him of the shortcomings, the disobedience, the guilt of which he has been guilty. One, two, three and one more and another and another, like the tolling of a bell that marks the condemned man's last hour.