Question by Sam: Would this do good for the first chapter of a story?
This was written by my twelve year-old niece. I thought it was lovely. My niece is trying to come up with her very first “novel”. this is her first chapter

PENELOPE’S FACE WAS INCHES away from the glass and her deep blue eyes gazed upon the cute little furball sleeping soundly in the velveteen basket. How come children her age could curl up in bed hugging one and she couldn’t? It just wasn’t fair, was it? She had known Rhonda Byrne’s ‘the secret’ for years now and had been hoping for a little furball since she was five.
Seven years later…
Well, maybe the secret doesn’t work for everyone. Because it certainly hadn’t worked for her. Three years ago she wished upon a star for this book called “The Great Gatsby”. Not all people can get whatever they want whenever they want. Life is unfair.
For this girl, a wish list is something that contains things, both things you can touch and things you can’t, like happiness. Only, these things she kept wishing for, in her mind, were nothing but a fantasy she could start thinking of on a hot summer day, or pauses between schoolwork and schoolwork.

She went back and suddenly felt her mother’s warm hands wrap around her’s.
“Well, Dr. Trent said you were allergic.”
Penelope suddenly felt that familiar sentiment of repeating discouragement. “Yeah I know, shut up already, okay?” she thought.
Let’s just say Penelope was raised in a different sort of way. In a way that she must never be a rebel but at the same time loving and submissive.
You’re probably wondering how that goes and I’ll give you a clue: it has something to do with a beating.
She learned to think before she spoke when she was seven. She learned to never say the “s” word, the “f” word, that three letter word, that female dog word, that “b” word that reminds her of mustard…
And she must be reminded every other day that the internet is an enemy. Is it?

“Mom, I learned that they’re selling hypoallergenic cats online,” Penelope said in front of her parents on the dinner table.
“Mind your manners,” muttered her very business-minded father. Penelope took a moment to realize what it was now. She shut her mouth and chewed her food.
“I’m sorry, Da–”
“Father,”he corrected. “And always remember that ‘apologize’ is a better word.”
“Very well, I apologize, Father.” He nodded with pleasure.
The conversation ended and was followed by a long silence. It was deathly quiet, except for the clatter of forks and knives against the china plates.
“I just found out that the company’s holding a piano concert in one of the theaters within the vicinity of our home. And it’s for charity, wouldn’t that be wonderful, dear?” Penelope’s mother suddenly spoke.
“Yes, yes, yes yes…”

Her father took a bottle of his finest white wine from the center of the table, next to the weaved fruit basket that had the reddest Washington apples.
He poured a tiny fraction into his wine glass and sipped. He smacked his lips in pleasure.
“Penny, how old are you?”
“I’m twelve.”
“Good. You must start training your tongue by the time you reach this age if you want a critic’s tongue by the time you are twenty winters old.”

Penny raised her eyebrows. It had always bothered her how her father couldn’t talk to her like any dad would talk to his daughter.
She felt like a student he was stuck with for the rest of his life. Her father had dyed dark hair, except for the shiny gray ones that grew from their roots. You could easily judge him as someone’s grandfather. He had married in his fifties.

She shifted her eyes from the bottle of wine to her glass, which was lying face down on her wicker place mat.
He lifted the glass before she could mutter an “um” and poured a spoonful of white wine.
“You ought to start with that amount and I’ll teach you how to savor the wine.”
He poured another small fraction into his glass and rocked the glass slowly and gently in a circular motion. Penny followed, doing the same with her glass, with the spoonful she had been given.
“Choose the glasses that have a wide diameter. This makes the scent spread much easier. Remember to have a whiff.”
She did as he did and stared at the white liquid before her eyes. “Now, take a sip.”
Penelope scrunched her eyes. It wasn’t that bad. She just wasn’t used to it.
“You’ll move to red wine once you’re thirteen and a half. Remember, no more than a spoonfull.”
Penny nodded stood up as her father waved his right hand, indicating that the session was over.
He stood and gazed at the stunning Swarovski chandelier hanging high above him.
“One more thing Penny,” he said before walking away. “You must never sell this heirloom, when I pass away.”
It was a rather strange thing for him to say, after teaching his daughter the basics of drinking wine. Never mind, he always said what was on his mind anyway.

That night Penny crept into her room, after fixing the dishes. She changed into her satin night gown after taking a bath and brushing her teeth. She settled down on
heyyyy

it didn’t paste it all after all

I think she writes better than stephenie meyer and that crap she likes writing about.
heyyyy

it didn’t paste it all after all

I think she writes better than stephenie meyer and that crap she likes writing about.
her chair and propped a book on the walnut desk in front of her.
“Have you heard of platform nine and three-quarters? Well I can think of something else with the exact same measurements–” Penny abruptly stopped the instant she heard the tunes of a beautiful Chopin sonata.
She just couldn’t resist her favorite sound. Penny went closer to the window and pushed it open. The wind blew her hair, whisking it behind her. She hummed quietly, it was one of her favorite songs.
She watched from her window, a pianist’s hands glide across the keys, his back crouched over his hands in deep concentration. He often played this song every other night. Obviously it was one of his favorites as much as it was one of hers.

How she wished she could play the piano. It was one of her dreams and she sighed whenever she imagined that she would someday have hands that would glide across the keys of a baby grand piano.
But that was far from reality and being a pianist was nothing but a silly dream. She had never even managed to get her hands on a piano. There were far more things in life she had to think of, than things that were nothing but dreams. Dreams that were far from her reach, far from coming true.

Best answer:

Answer by Maria E
A 12 year old wrote this?!

A little elaboration, but wow – coming from a 12 year old. Looks promising to me. Don’t push her! It’s there, let her wring it out herself. It should be good.

What do you think? Answer below!

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