Information
Tennyson
Legacy Name: Tennyson
The
Common ChelonOwner:
HistoriographyAge: 8 years, 2 months, 2 days
Born: February 17th, 2016
Adopted: 8 years, 2 months, 2 days ago
Adopted: February 17th, 2016
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 0
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Name: Alfred Tennyson
Age: 24
Occupation: Poet, author
The life of a writer is a hard one, to say the least. He had sent in numerous manuscripts to a number of different publishers, had beseeched and begged them to publish his works, but had been rejected every single time. He was beginning to lose hope, but he had heard the stories. He had heard of the person who had gotten rejected a hundred, two-hundred times and gotten accepted on that two-hundred and first time. He had heard of the person who had randomly bumped into someone on the subway, given that person their manuscript and discovered the person was a publisher.
He was determined that someday he would make it big. As a child he had spent the vast majority of his free time cooped up in his room writing. The shelves in his room back at his parents’ house was filled with notebooks, each filled up to the brim with stories, poems, observations about daily life that he just had to jot down.
He had told anyone that would listen as a kid that someday, someday he would become a writer. That he would make millions and become the next J.K. Rowling, the next George R.R. Martin, but so far none of the publishing companies had given him any hope. In fact, some did not even bother to give him a response. The few that did were littered with the same trite polite response of “we’re sorry, but we are unable to publish your work” non-sense.
Indeed, after the two-hundred some odd try he had mostly given up hope. Still, he plugged, publishing his work in small literary magazines that were willing to take almost anyone that had the ability to write. They were wiling to pay and well, he needed to pay rent. He was not broke by any means. He had a decent job during the day, but writing was his passion though. Writing was what he wanted to spend the rest of his life on, but it seemed the gods were not willing to give him that chance.
One day, however, while he was on his lunch break they did give him that very chance. He had brought his manuscript as he always did with him and was perusing it when a woman passed by. She had glanced at his work, inquired about it and then simply given him a business card saying that she was a publisher and that, if possible, he should send the work over to her personal office.
The publisher, as it turned out, ended up liking his work and now, he could legitimately claim he was a published author. The elation, and giddiness of having a published book was palpable, but the publisher had also signed him on to other books if his current book sold and amazingly, it had.
Now, six months after his last book had sold he was waiting and staring at a blank page, willing the words to leap from the blank page and imprint themselves on his brain. He had eight months before the deadline to his next book and he was planning to use that deadline to its utmost.