The Word Cloud

Note: We are still in beta, so there may be some glitches, but, if you follow the following guidelines, you should be able to post your work.

1. It is best to save a version of your work in .txt format, using this to post.
2. Copy and paste your work from your favourite word processor.
3. Please post no more than roughly 3,000 words in a single post.
4. Set out your paras with a line space (letter style) instead of indented (book style).
5. Avoid fancy formatting, to keep the discussion board software happy.

If you have any problems, please let us know, by sending a message to The Word Cloud.

Could anyone tell me where to post my story? I didn't want to blog or join a group. I did manage to find others storys and sent some comments, but can't seem to do that now.
Tony K

Hello Tony

If you go into critique and then into new post (or something like that) that should do the trick.

Happy posting

nettie

Thanks very much Steve,
I might also try this when posting in blogs which, unlike 'Discussions', renders anything I write invisible to everyone but me.

Pimlicokid

There is a simpler way, Steve, if you just want to get rid of all the (hidden) formatting in a Word document. It doesn't have the advantage(?) of permanently changing your Word settings, though.

You need to 'Save as' and in the bottom box of the pop-up window, 'Select as type:' scroll down to 'Plain text' and select this before saving. If you now close and reopen your document it will be in plain text. Just add an extra line space between paras and you're done, ready to paste into WordCloud. You still have your original formatted document saved as NAME.doc; only now you have a second version called NAME.txt as well.
(If you're interrested, you can check the 'Properties' of each version of your document. You'll find that the Plain Text version is probably about 15% - 20% the size of the .doc version.)
Write on.

Tony,

That's utterly brilliant. I am so dim. I spent ages looking for a quicker root, as I knew there must be one - I was just looking in all the wrong places. I should have thought of that.

Thanks heaps for posting the tip (and so quick) - I'll get everyone pointed to it,
Steve.

Hello. I have been creeping around this site long enough and i guess i had better put some of my work up. Only thing, im not sure where!
I have been writeing a novel, [for too long now] and i feel its pretty well done. I know it will need some editing etc. It's just that im not sure of where i should post it. Reason been, it has some adult undertones in it that could upset some eyes on the site. Could someone point me in the right direction. cheers joe

Create a new topic here, jojoy. Just put a warning at the beginning to say it has some adult content.

try this again contains adult content. One green bottle. pa

Chapter One

Matte grey daylight falls through the angular skylights of the busy station. The last hope for sunshine arrives, late as usual. Sudden fingers of energy stream through the filthy glass, waking the pigeons roosting on the rusted beams. The pure sunlight bleeds down on the grateful grey figures of the commuters.

Laila frowns as the warm caress of the divine fingers from above finds her. Her present mental state finds the energizing sunbeams irritating. She is glad when the clouds return to put an end to them. She sits alone on a graffiti butchered bench next to a boarding bus. She watches as it fills with a blur of faces, ages and languages.

Her image comes across free of authority. In her mid twenties she dresses according to the fashion of the times, 1969 to be exact. Her tired eyes shift around the station for a glimpse of him through a passing mass of swaying briefcases and hopping umbrellas. She watches with a frown for split second images of his black silhouette through the etched glass window of the station pub. “Back on the bloody booze again, drunken bastard!” she whispered.

She held a disliked of alcohol including the people who drank it. She could justify the use of marijuana, of which she took on a daily basis. But booze was a no-no. Once she caught a certain person drinking or worse drunk. She added them to a mental black- list entitled ‘shit bags’. Compiled of five character traits that flustered her, drinkers were number five. One to four was always somewhere close by. Like today in this particular station.

Characters on the shit bag list constantly changed with her immediate environment. The traits, however, did not. She spent years observing each trait before rewarding it a ranking on the shit list, once on the list, always on the list.

Drunks were low on her list at number five, but only because her step-father was one. Still, even after 20 plus strenuous years as a milkman, the soft-spoken Welshman had been in her eyes a ‘shit bag’. She was often tempted to move drinkers into the top three. However, right up until his played-out death, she found the ease of exploiting the common drunk made the unfortunate souls more of a tool than a threat.

‘-Shit Bags-’ {based entirely on Helen’s first impression of the few who crossed her path-} had taken nearly ten years to compile. Qualifications’- for making ‘the list’ unjustly based, on her mood at that moment. Its twisted creation planted and nurtured deep in her young mind, - by her own neglectful, middle-eastern mother. And if you were unfortunate enough to make her list, you would be the last to know it.

She had slept only twenty minutes last night, alone for the first time in eighteen months. Thirty-six hours had passed since she had slept with him. Lack of sleep caused the rare neglect in her appearance. It was two full days since she had combed her long thick raven hair and longer since she had drawn fresh eyeliner around her chilling blue eyes. This evening the black lines around her eyes were smudged. Her skin usually clear and fresh was now haggard, oily and pale. Her psychedelic figure was dressed in worn tasselled suede jacket, patched-up mini skirt; multi colour strings of plastic beads and wrinkled tie-died cheesecloth. She was quite aware that her personal hygiene had been neglected. She could smell her own body odour every so often whilst sitting on the bench. She had noticed it during the day whilst following him around London. Her own scent; usually after she removed her jacket and pulled up her skirt behind the stalls of the public toilets. However, she quiet enjoyed her own smell; and having no immediate plan for any sexual activity she enjoyed the odour and feeling of her neglect even more. Her appearance attracted lots of attention. She sat oblivious to the attention. She nursed a paper cup of piping hot tea close to her lips, sipping, and blowing the hot liquid whilst studying his silhouette.

A steady line of backpackers tossed, flagged and charmed backpacks into the dark underbelly of the bus. All were eager to start the non-stop three-day trip across Europe. Laila looked like she had just completed such a trip.

A colourful figure materializes from the dullness surrounding her. It squeezes out of the constant, dark stream of human forms and faces. It’s the multi colour life form of a hippy. His long thin hair, rose-colored glasses and wild beard make it impossible to tell his age. He stands next to her, a tall wiry frame of a man, wearing a rainbow scarf and oversized white Afghan coat. His presence soon neutralizes the scent around her. His own personnel blend of hemp oils and incense overwhelms. He reveals a battered ukulele from under his huge coat and tosses a black velvet lined cap to the dirty station pavement. He thumbs his pockets for a few coins, tossing them in. Laila rolls her eyes and frowns at the busker. She slides her backside to the far edge of the warn bench, trying her best not to spill the hot tea.

A small silver crucifix sways from one of the tarnished tuning keys and the longhaired friend of Jesus, falls into a song: “Kombya my lord, kombya.” The street-performing hippy sings his melody loud and clear.

Religious folks ranked at number four on her shit bag list. This particular prejudice embedded in her young mind during her first visit to a British roman catholic church. It was Christmas morning and Laila sat amidst the full pews between her step-father and mother. Laila scanned its ancient interior with the wonderment only a pure child could experience. As the milkman dropped a shilling into her small hand ‘for the plate’ and her mother clutched a bible, the young girl followed the flowing words under a nicotine-stained finger. Magical words and places ‘Donkeys, stables, Bethlehem the bright star up in the heavens, the little lord Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothing laying in a manger, three wise men and the wonderful gifts, filled her with joy and fascination. The young girl eagerly absorbed the festive feeling, of togetherness. However, young Lailas joy was short lived. Her mother updated in whispers into her ear the sordid intimate details of why those prayed for forgiveness around them. She told the tragic evil secrets of the people around them, which included the filthy habits of the priest. Her mother of course did not explain why they were there in the first place. She did not tell young Helen that the ‘shit bag’ that sat next to her was trying desperately to stop drinking. Moreover, that he had brought them to church in a desperate attempt to start this family on a good foot. He promised to himself to do this yesterday, after his milk round. Standing at the Christmas lit bar during a drunken hour, his drinking partners talked of wonderful get-togethers planed for the following days. Milky wondered if a trip to church could cure his interracial relationship with diana, Her mother also kept quiet about how this would be the last time and place them would sit together as a functional family again.

Later at home, lying on the floor in front of the television, Laila concentrated on coloring-in a picture of the nativity that the priest handed out to all the excited children going home to open there own wonderful gifts. The sheet of paper with stark black lines {Lailas only Christmas gift} was just beginning to come to life, when she heard a repeat of the magical word Bethlehem come from the television. She looked up at the screen and called out to her mother. “It’s on the telly! Where Jesus was born, come quick!’ But instead of an image of the peaceful picture in front of her, the television showed the concrete blandness of ugly streets. Bandana covered youths pitched rocks and petrol bombs at angry soldiers. “Yeah, that’s right love-Bethlehem!” confirmed her mother. Laila watched on in horror. She looked for the stable, but the images moved faster than see could absorb. Then it was over and the man on the television talked about football. “Yeah that’s Bethlehem alright.” Her mother repeated. Laila folded her half-colored picture and dropped it in to the rubbish bin. “Good girl, put in the bin. Deceiving, Religious-trickery” She put her coat on and paused at the door. “Well I’m off. Get yourself to bed love. See ya in the morning.” She was opening the door as the drunken form of the milkman staggered in. Neither spoke as they crossed paths. Laila put herself to bed.

The born-again yelled his bellowing song. Her mind drifts off on a mental study of the cream and yellow bus. Until now, her mystical lifestyle caused her to spend her waking hours acknowledging common objects from a different plane with a critical eye, denying her these silent human observations. She notices that the coach is trimmed and highlighted in heavy chrome from bumper to brilliant bumper. As she opens her mind, she receives and replaces emotional senses long buried. Sorrow, loneliness, and personal anger slowly return to her. She notices with concern that the coach’s round image and style resembles that of her kitchen radio. It resembles the juke Box at her local café. The resent over use of her feminine emotions overworks her spirit.

She sits exhausted but deep in thought. Her eyes become more alert. She turns her attention to him. She waits for occasional gaps in the endless stream of domestic commuters. She concentrates on his frosted image behind the station pub window.

A young woman appears from inside the pub. Helen recognizes her pretty face immediately. Her sudden appearance pushes her into a silent rage.

“Pretty people” came in at number four on the list. The bitterness towards more beautiful faces than her own stemmed from a self-hatred once again attributed to her upbringing. Her loving mother once told her that her face resembled the back of a bus—not much to look at. Lailas mother told the pubescent twelve -year-old that she was going to be “overlooked” in life, “left behind” so to speak, because unlike herself, she was “plain to look at.” This did little for her self-esteem.

Not blessed with one of Mother Nature’s rare gifts of beauty, Laila brooded with jealous hatred of anyone who was. To hide and sooth her jealousies, the frustrated teenager surrounded herself with as many pretty school friends as possible. Then one by one, as the handsome girls became too much for her to bear, she would pick them off, instigating any weak reason to justify a savage attack on them. The bewildered and horrified victims often took brutal face-scratching from Helen’s pointed fingernails—causing the most damage possible. Laila would deliberately scratch at the filthy school bathroom floors prior to the attack. Then one by one she made her ugly mark on them. She temporally deformed six pretty faces before one of her intended victims struck back. When Laila took her now predicable swipe at this particular girls face, she moved back and kicked Laila in the crutch. Laila however, managed to imbed her filthy fingernails into her arm. Soon after the attack, Laila became the school outcast and eventually, expelled.

The station’s countless hanging florescent tubes start blinking into cold life, replacing the dying daylight. The coach’s engine roars to life. It spews diesel fumes into the damp station air and into the lungs of Laila and all who pass. The change in air quality does not prevent her from seeking glimpses of the artistically lettered Guinness design etched on the pub window.

She sits waiting with little hope, waiting to see if he really means what he said. She sits watching the pub door; wishing he would just emerge. She sits imagining him swimming through the cold shades of movement between them, embracing her, forgiving her and most importantly forgetting, forgetting just for now, forgetting until a later time when he would be ready to share her dark secret.

She tries to forget the many hard hours since the cat was out of the bag. This hour she hopes to forget most of all, as it ran out on her last attempt to turn the cat into a fragment of his imagination. She knows from their last cold spin of words her only hope of getting her hooks back into him is to act visually sad, alone, and defenceless. She hopes he will fall for it.

“Someone’s crying lord Kombya, Someone’s crying lord kombya, oh lord kombya” Apart from the busker’s planted sixpences, the black velvet cap remains empty!

His name is Ian Reilly. He can see the blurred silhouette of her head and shoulders through the etched glass window of the station pub. Every once in a while, mostly between double whiskeys, he peeks through the clear top corner of the window; looking at the passing flow of commuters, at her and the magic bus that will take him away from it all. rt of chap one.

Jojoy
Too many brilliant phrases and images to comment on. The voice is excellent; engaging and, for me, original. I would, however, consider the flicking from present tense/past tense as it inturupts the flow slightly.

There are a few phrases that, perhaps, could do with a bit of polishing. I only say this because the overall quality of the voice is brilliant and therefore some of the 'relatively weaker' phrases stand out. In particular the 1969 bit sounds out of keeping with the style - I mean that it seems dropped in.

You have set a high standard for yourself, but it's worth maintaing it. I'm a snob in my reading habits and often drop books even near the end, but I feel that if you polish this up I would read the whole shooting match. Pop some more up. I'm hooked.

Staz

Staz, thanks for your imput, it helps me a lot. Please forgive me for reposting it again. I will also re-post the rest in chunks. cheers jojoy.

THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT.

One green bottle part one of Chapter One by Jojoy

Matte grey daylight falls through the angular skylights of the busy station. The last hope for sunshine arrives, late as usual. Sudden fingers of energy beam through the filthy glass, waking the pigeons roosting on the rusted beams. The pure sunlight bleeds down on the grateful grey figures of the commuters.

Laila frowns as the warm caress of the divine fingers from above finds her. Her present mental state finds the energizing sunbeams irritating. She is glad when the clouds return to put an end to them. She sits alone on a graffiti butchered bench next to a boarding bus. She watches as it fills with a blur of faces, ages and languages.

Her image comes across free of authority. In her mid twenties she dresses according to the fashion of the times, 1969 to be exact. Her tired eyes shift around the station for a glimpse of him through a passing mass of swaying briefcases and hopping umbrellas. She watches with a frown for split second images of his black silhouette through the etched glass window of the station pub. “Back on the bloody booze again, drunken bastard!” she whispered.

-------

She held a disliked of alcohol including the people who drank it. She could justify the use of marijuana, of which she took on a daily basis. But booze was a no-no. Once she caught a certain person drinking or worse drunk. She added them to a mental black- list entitled ‘shit bags’. Compiled of five character traits that flustered her, drinkers were number five. One to four was always somewhere close by. Like today in this particular station.

Characters on the shit bag list constantly changed with her immediate environment. The traits, however, did not. She spent years observing each trait before rewarding it a ranking on the shit list, once on the list, always on the list.

Drunks were low on her list at number five, but only because her step-father was one. Still, even after 20 plus strenuous years as a milkman, the soft-spoken Welshman had been in her eyes a ‘shit bag’. She was often tempted to move drinkers into the top three. However, right up until his played-out death, she found the ease of exploiting the common drunk made the unfortunate souls more of a tool than a threat.

‘-Shit Bags-’ {based entirely on Helen’s first impression of the few who crossed her path-} had taken nearly ten years to compile. Qualifications’- for making ‘the list’ unjustly based, on her mood at that moment. Its twisted creation planted and nurtured deep in her young mind, - by her own neglectful, middle-eastern mother. And if you were unfortunate enough to make her list, you would be the last to know it.

-------

She had slept only twenty minutes last night, alone for the first time in eighteen months. Thirty-six hours had passed since she had slept with him. Lack of sleep caused the rare neglect in her appearance. It was two full days since she had combed her long thick raven hair and longer since she had drawn fresh eyeliner around her chilling blue eyes. This evening the black lines around her eyes were smudged. Her skin usually clear and fresh was now haggard, oily and pale. Her psychedelic figure was dressed in worn tasselled suede jacket, patched-up mini skirt; multi colour strings of plastic beads and wrinkled tie-died cheesecloth. She was quite aware that her personal hygiene had been neglected. She could smell her own body odour every so often whilst sitting on the bench. She had noticed it during the day whilst following him around London. Her own scent; usually after she removed her jacket and pulled up her skirt behind the stalls of the public toilets. However, she quiet enjoyed her own smell; and having no immediate plan for any sexual activity she enjoyed the odour and feeling of her neglect even more. Her appearance attracted lots of attention. She sat oblivious to the attention. She nursed a paper cup of piping hot tea close to her lips, sipping, and blowing the hot liquid whilst studying his silhouette.

A steady line of backpackers tossed, flagged and charmed backpacks into the dark underbelly of the bus. All were eager to start the non-stop three-day trip across Europe. Laila looked like she had just completed such a trip.

A colourful figure materializes from the dullness surrounding her. It squeezes out of the constant, dark stream of human forms and faces. It’s the multi colour life form of a hippy. His long thin hair, rose-colored glasses and wild beard make it impossible to tell his age. He stands next to her, a tall wiry frame of a man, wearing a rainbow scarf and oversized white Afghan coat. His presence soon neutralizes the scent around her. His own personnel blend of hemp oils and incense overwhelms. He reveals a battered ukulele from under his huge coat and tosses a black velvet lined cap to the dirty station pavement. He thumbs his pockets for a few coins, tossing them in. Laila rolls her eyes and frowns at the busker. She slides her backside to the far edge of the warn bench, trying her best not to spill the hot tea.

A small silver crucifix sways from one of the tarnished tuning keys and the longhaired friend of Jesus, falls into a song: “Kombya my lord, kombya.” The street-performing hippy sings his melody loud and clear.

-------

Religious folks ranked at number four on her shit bag list. This particular prejudice embedded in her young mind during her first visit to a British roman catholic church. It was Christmas morning and Laila sat amidst the full pews between her step-father and mother. Laila scanned its ancient interior with the wonderment only a pure child could experience. As the milkman dropped a shilling into her small hand ‘for the plate’ and her mother clutched a bible, the young girl followed the flowing words under a nicotine-stained finger. Magical words and places ‘Donkeys, stables, Bethlehem the bright star up in the heavens, the little lord Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothing laying in a manger, three wise men and the wonderful gifts, filled her with joy and fascination. The young girl eagerly absorbed the festive feeling, of togetherness. However, young Lailas joy was short lived. Her mother updated in whispers into her ear the sordid intimate details of why those prayed for forgiveness around them. She told the tragic evil secrets of the people around them, which included the filthy habits of the priest. Her mother of course did not explain why they were there in the first place. She did not tell young Helen that the ‘shit bag’ that sat next to her was trying desperately to stop drinking. Moreover, that he had brought them to church in a desperate attempt to start this family on a good foot. He promised to himself to do this yesterday, after his milk round. Standing at the Christmas lit bar during a drunken hour, his drinking partners talked of wonderful get-togethers planed for the following days. Milky wondered if a trip to church could cure his interracial relationship with Diana, Her mother also kept quiet about how this would be the last time and place them would sit together as a functional family again.

Later at home, lying on the floor in front of the television, Laila concentrated on coloring-in a picture of the nativity that the priest handed out to all the excited children going home to open there own wonderful gifts. The sheet of paper with stark black lines {Lailas only Christmas gift} was just beginning to come to life, when she heard a repeat of the magical word Bethlehem come from the television. She looked up at the screen and called out to her mother. “It’s on the telly! Where Jesus was born, come quick!’ But instead of an image of the peaceful picture in front of her, the television showed the concrete blandness of ugly streets. Bandana covered youths pitched rocks and petrol bombs at angry soldiers. “Yeah, that’s right love-Bethlehem!” confirmed her mother. Laila watched on in horror. She looked for the stable, but the images moved faster than see could absorb. Then it was over and the man on the television talked about football. “Yeah that’s Bethlehem alright.” Her mother repeated. Laila folded her half-colored picture and dropped it in to the rubbish bin. “Good girl, put in the bin. Deceiving, Religious-trickery” She put her coat on and paused at the door. “Well I’m off. Get yourself to bed love. See ya in the morning.” She was opening the door as the drunken form of the milkman staggered in. Neither spoke as they crossed paths. Laila put herself to bed.

-------

The born-again yelled his bellowing song. Her mind drifts off on a mental study of the cream and yellow bus. Until now, her mystical lifestyle caused her to spend her waking hours acknowledging common objects from a different plane with a critical eye, denying her these silent human observations. She notices that the coach is trimmed and highlighted in heavy chrome from bumper to brilliant bumper. As she opens her mind, she receives and replaces emotional senses long buried. Sorrow, loneliness, and personal anger slowly return to her. She notices with concern that the coach’s round image and style resembles that of her kitchen radio. It resembles the juke Box at her local café. The resent over use of her feminine emotions overworks her spirit.

She sits exhausted but deep in thought. Her eyes become more alert. She turns her attention to him. She waits for occasional gaps in the endless stream of domestic commuters. She concentrates on his frosted image behind the station pub window.

A young woman appears from inside the pub. Helen recognizes her pretty face immediately. Her sudden appearance pushes her into a silent rage.

-------

“Pretty people” came in at number four on the list. The bitterness towards more beautiful faces than her own stemmed from a self-hatred once again attributed to her upbringing. Her loving mother once told her that her face resembled the back of a bus—not much to look at. Lailas mother told the pubescent twelve -year-old that she was going to be “overlooked” in life, “left behind” so to speak, because unlike herself, she was “plain to look at.” This did little for her self-esteem. Not blessed with one of Mother Nature’s rare gifts of beauty, Laila brooded with jealous hatred of anyone who was. To hide and sooth her jealousies, the frustrated teenager surrounded herself with as many pretty school friends as possible. Then one by one, as the handsome girls became too much for her to bear, she would pick them off, instigating any weak reason to justify a savage attack on them. The bewildered and horrified victims often took brutal face-scratching from Helen’s pointed fingernails—causing the most damage possible. Laila would deliberately scratch at the filthy school bathroom floors prior to the attack. Then one by one she made her ugly mark on them. She temporally deformed six pretty faces before one of her intended victims struck back. When Laila took her now predicable swipe at this particular girls face, she moved back and kicked Laila in the crutch. Laila however, managed to imbed her filthy fingernails into her arm. Soon after the attack, Laila became the school outcast and eventually, removed from the school.

-------

The station’s countless hanging florescent tubes start blinking into cold life, replacing the dying daylight. The coach’s engine roars to life. It spews diesel fumes into the damp station air and into the lungs of Laila and all who pass. The change in air quality does not prevent her from seeking glimpses of the artistically lettered Guinness design etched on the pub window.

She sits waiting with little hope, waiting to see if he really means what he said. She sits watching the pub door; wishing he would just emerge. She sits imagining him swimming through the cold shades of movement between them, embracing her, forgiving her and most importantly forgetting, forgetting just for now, forgetting until a later time when he would be ready to share her dark secret.

She tries to forget the many hard hours since the cat was out of the bag. This hour she hopes to forget most of all, as it ran out on her last attempt to turn the cat into a fragment of his imagination. She knows from their last cold spin of words her only hope of getting her hooks back into him is to act visually sad, alone, and defenceless. She hopes he will fall for it.

“Someone’s crying lord Kombya, Someone’s crying lord kombya, oh lord kombya” Apart from the busker’s planted sixpences, the black velvet cap remains empty!

His name is Ian Reilly. He can see the blurred silhouette of her head and shoulders through the etched glass window of the station pub. Every once in a while, mostly between double whiskeys, he peeks through the clear top corner of the window; looking at the passing flow of commuters, at her and the magic bus that will take him away from it all.

Jojoy, Can I slit my throat now?
I enjoyed the writing the creative flow of images and ideas but it did wear me down a bit toward the end, I have a pretty bleak view of life and am glad I can write lighter suff. You have something to say and know how to say it.

Hello tony, Cheers for reading my gear. Im sorry to hear that you have a bleak view of life. I find my life to bright. Maybe if i wrote lighter stuff i would find life bleaker. Maybe not. Iwonder if the reason im happy with life has something to do with letting all my saddness out on to paper. Before it has time to bugger me up. Thanks once again for reading me stuff. Jojoy

Hi Jojoy. I could smell the diesel before you metioned it!
This is kind of like an urban ballad with all the "She" sentences and the "He" sentences and the list, and a relentless rhythm from most sentences being a similar length, and I'm curious to know whether / how soon this changes; whether it changes with another character's point of view or what... You have a distinctive style here and I guess it's a bit like marmite - it'll be too strong and salty for some! But I quite like the experimental flavour of it. Although I'm ready for a key change, like the 15th minute of Bolero.

Gilou. Thanks for spending your time reading 'me gear' You are indeed one of a few. One of a few willing to allow me try something different. Some writers on this board told me the past tence took the flow out of the station's present unfolding story. i took their advice and im currently re-writing it, and im cool with it. I hope not to change the short sharp sentances. Chapter two is set 10 years prior in the midst of a Greek Island invasion. So its right of key. Cheers Gilou. oh yeah, i love marmite, its hard to get where i live, and if i remember right, i loved it spread thick....ha ha

Wow, what a descriptive piece. I intended only to glance at your piece, but once I had read the first paragraph, I was totally sucked in. Your writing conjures up clear images and you want to know more about Laila's character. I am very new to writing, so I can't commment on structure etc. but I can tell you how I felt as a reader, and I was left wanting more.

I'm finding that I can not put spaces between paragraphs, I have tried pressing return three times (trys that now) but it does not seem to work? Does anyone know why this is?

No, I don't know why that should be.

I've just tried it in this response and it's fine. What Operating system are you using and what browser?

btw your Girls in the Tower post has disappeared (at least I can't see it any more) Did you see my reply that I wrote late last night?

No, I don't know why that should be.

I've just tried it in this response and it's fine. What Operating system are you using and what browser?

btw your Girls in the Tower post has disappeared (at least I can't see it any more) Did you see my reply that I wrote late last night?

Hi, yes thanks, I deleted it bcause I could not format it properly, it was def. unreadable as it was. When I went to edit it I could see 2 blank lines between each paragraph but I just couldn't seem to get them to stay! I am using microsoft internet explorer on vista. Oh well, I'll keep trying. Thanks for your help :)

A lot of people, myself included, have had trouble with IE. Most of the problems (though not always all of them) go if you change to a different browser. Many fine that Firefox works well. You can download it for free from:

http://www.mozilla-europe.org/en/firefox/

You don't have to make it your default browser if you don't want to, but just use it for WordCloud.

Thanks,

lets see if it works :)

It did! Thank you :)

Am coming to this a little late in the day, but can I suggest numbering paragraphs - if you want to comment on specific bits of drafting, it can be a useful way to identify them quickly.

Hey - she's not just a pretty face. Good idea, Vero! I shudder to think what the Cloud would make of Word's automatic paragraph numbering, though . It just might have to be manual.

Hi,
how do I dismantle a piece that enough people have commented on? Do I just mark all the text and press delete?

Hi,
how do I dismantle a piece that enough people have commented on? Do I just mark all the text and press delete?