Author has written 12 stories for Inuyasha, and Twilight.
Breaking news, my darlings, because I failed at updating earlier. I have an outtake of Roses (Chapter 41) done for Fandom4LLS and an outtake from Roses (Chapter 71) done for Fandom4OK
Finally, after who knows how many years, I'm posting a little bit about myself. Funny thing is, I thought I already had.
I am WhisperingWolf, also known simply as 'Wolf'. I am a woman who enjoys writing and intimate conversations with friends more than just about anything else. I have intellectual interests and, if I were able, would spend my life as an eternal student and obtain as many degrees as possible. Aside from writing, I don't know exactly what I want to do with my life, my interests are simply to widely varied to narrow down, but if I to choose, I would say anthropologist, archaeologist, and historian are my top three picks. Below are a collection of literary works that have had a profound and lasting affect on me.
For those of you with Twitter, you can find me there
Books (I highly recommend reading them all):
Where the Red Fern Grows; The Republic of Plato; The Twilight Saga; Until Tuesday; and The Last True Story I'll Ever Tell
Emily Dickison's 'Death'
Because I could not stop for Death,
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
We passed the school, where children strove
Or rather, he passed us;
We paused before a house that seemed
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
- To be, or not to be (from Hamlet 3/1)
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?
To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. -
Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
Special Note: For those of you who have read my non-Twilight works, you will find them gone now. My writing is a reflection of myself and until I am happy with those stories, they will not be reposted. I am grateful to each and every one of my fans, but it is important to me that I like what I choose to share with the world.
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