Anyone can write an interesting text? Well, at least anyone can try to learn it. Think of any good texts you like to read in the newspaper, online or in magazines. What is so special about them?
Clickworkers can use their writing skills in different ways. Obviously the text type depends on the Clickworker-project. Quite often clickworkers have to use keywords and stick to a certain text structure. As a matter of course it is important to read job instructions closely. This way any mistakes can be avoided easily.
If you are running out of inspiration, dont’t worry! On the Internet, there is a countless number of electronic gadgets available which can be great support when writing texts.
Kevin didn’t want to return to his studio apartment right away. The day seemed magical and he just wanted to drowse away the morning in a cozy little coffee shop. He didn’t want to think about Kari, but he did.Read more
Utter nothingness – not even blackness. No time. No Space.
However, . . . there is one “thing”: consciousness – pure, timeless consciousness; though it is not even aware of its own presence. And that’s all.
Then, for some reason, after an unimaginable aeon, it seems it is “time”. This consciousness simply chooses to become “something”. Maybe it is “bored” of its own loneliness, though it can’t possibly have any idea of boredom whatsoever. Or, perhaps, something even more incomprehensibly deeper within that consciousness already “knows” what it wants: it wants to live, to experience life. But this consciousness, with its will to become “alive”, isn’t yet aware that in order to live, it has to go through an unimaginably long process of evolution. It is unaware that with its wish for creating a world in order to be able to see the world, it has already set in motion a gigantic apparatus of pain and suffering, with occasional, but highly disproportionate moments of peace and joy.
The harried woman in the yellow sweatshirt passed up and down the rippling line of children and parents. “We can’t start the Easter egg hunt until all parents are behind the line, please.”
Bill Willoughby, was jostled by the retreating parents. His daughter Jennifer Anne, five years old, turned and waved to him, smiling. The green lawn of the park spread out before her, dotted with multi-colored eggs. She held his baseball cap in her hands to hold the eggs she would find, since Daddy had forgotten a basket.
Bill waved back and called out, “Good luck Jen.” The siren of the nearby fire engine sounded and the children surged forward, followed in a moment or two by the adults. Bill moved through the confusion, stepping over the occasional trampled egg and past the occasional bewildered child, too slow or too timid to have found anything.
Jennie stood on the path, a survivor, holding the laden baseball cap.
“How did you do, Jen?”
“Uh huh, I got seven. I got a number one too, see? Number sixteen”
“That’s my girl. That means you win a prize.”