Rejoignez la communauté FRstudy.me et obtenez les réponses dont vous avez besoin. Rejoignez notre plateforme interactive de questions-réponses et obtenez des réponses précises et rapides de professionnels dans divers domaines.
Sagot :
Hello. My job today is to tell you how I realized one of my dream : make my own book.
I wrote since I'm six years old. Stories about dragons, charming princes, fairies and everything. I used to told to myself I didn't have any talent. I thought it was just for fun, and everyone did that in their room like I do. So I wrote. Again, again and again, I couldn't stop myself anymore. I created my own world. And one day, I decided to create my own story, one which is not based on my favourite cartoons or movies, no. My story, a thing which belongs to me. Then, I started writing a story about a girl who have to survive in a post-apocalyptic world with fantastics creatures. This girl was like me, I wanted to. I spend my time to write a new chapter about it. I couldn't go outside with friends, I had to work. In the evening, I came back from school, I did my homework quickly and I lay myself in my bed and thought about my character. I imagined I was her, surviving in woods, riding unicorns. I took my little diary and I used to create advenures about her. My mother didn't know at all I was doing this. My father does. But he just didn't care about. Because he's a hardworker. And sometimes, he asked me what I were doing. "Nothing" I told him. Until a friend of my mother came from Ireland and find my diary. He took it, had a look, and drop it. He called my mother immediatly and they talked two hours long. I was worried. And, with chance, I publish my book because that's friend was actually a novel writer. You want to know the consequence ? So look at me, and read my novel.
I wrote since I'm six years old. Stories about dragons, charming princes, fairies and everything. I used to told to myself I didn't have any talent. I thought it was just for fun, and everyone did that in their room like I do. So I wrote. Again, again and again, I couldn't stop myself anymore. I created my own world. And one day, I decided to create my own story, one which is not based on my favourite cartoons or movies, no. My story, a thing which belongs to me. Then, I started writing a story about a girl who have to survive in a post-apocalyptic world with fantastics creatures. This girl was like me, I wanted to. I spend my time to write a new chapter about it. I couldn't go outside with friends, I had to work. In the evening, I came back from school, I did my homework quickly and I lay myself in my bed and thought about my character. I imagined I was her, surviving in woods, riding unicorns. I took my little diary and I used to create advenures about her. My mother didn't know at all I was doing this. My father does. But he just didn't care about. Because he's a hardworker. And sometimes, he asked me what I were doing. "Nothing" I told him. Until a friend of my mother came from Ireland and find my diary. He took it, had a look, and drop it. He called my mother immediatly and they talked two hours long. I was worried. And, with chance, I publish my book because that's friend was actually a novel writer. You want to know the consequence ? So look at me, and read my novel.
Votre participation nous est précieuse. Continuez à partager des informations et des solutions. Cette communauté se développe grâce aux contributions incroyables de membres comme vous. Chaque question trouve sa réponse sur FRstudy.me. Merci et à très bientôt pour d'autres solutions.
