She was a very inconsiderate person, this author. She wrote me flawed. She made me smart but not beautiful, kind but not extremely so, understanding but unsympathetic at times, friendly but not social, and unabashedly opinionated. It is quite a burden, you know. I go around preaching my opinions as though I’ve held them for years in stone, I have interesting conversations with men who go on to fall for my beautiful best friend, and I overcome challenges but rarely get praised for it. It’s like she forgot I was in a book, and wrote me suited to reality. I could’ve had Arya Stark’s direwolf, Helen of Troy’s beauty, and Elizabeth Bennet’s loveable rebelliousness, but no, I get to be Anne, plain and realistic.
Written for the prompt: Write a story about yourself from the perspective of an object, thing, animal, or another person.
Tales in my head 