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Struggled to get through that first paragraph purely because of the jumping in time. Let's analyze it sentence by sentence.Tonsured posted:Frank Thatcher stood before the forge. present
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Mar 21, 2013 07:24
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Tonsured posted:Spontaneous unfinished Fantasy thing
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Mar 21, 2013 22:36
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I've realised that I'm getting good at critiquing from a technical perspective, but when I actually went to a writing group the other week, everyone had great and constructive things to say about emotions and suspense and what the story is rather than how it's told. So, I'm going to give that a go.Sid Vicious posted:Just for the record, I have no education in creative writing, its just something I enjoy doing sometimes. With that in mind here is my short story Shirt Bot. Its mostly stream of consciousness that I just decided to put down on paper, so I apologize if the ending feels abrubt. I'm also not very good at staying in tense/perspective so I hope I did alright this time around. Would love some critique and opinions on it, thanks everyone. It was hard for me to ignore all the technical fouls, but I think you know that. Just take a second pass at stuff before it goes up, and there'll be much less in the way of enjoying what is, actually, a really nice idea.
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Mar 24, 2013 20:39
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As nothing much is moving here, here's another twitching corpse for the pile. I've started writing stuff that is rooted in the world, presented as fact, but is totally made up. Not really sure where it's going or what it's for, but I really like writing it. What would you do with it? I'll take "burn it" for an answer. THOUSAND THOUSAND A white triangle, on an orange rectangle. And the words, “Thousand Thousand. A Club.” On a poster, under a bridge, over and over. Everyone was talking about it. Come to the club, you really must come to the club! It’s the newest club, the coolest club, the club all clubs want to be. Jamie XX wishes he could play there. Rustie tried to get in once, but he was wearing trainers. The people from Boiler Room can’t find it. We have to go. Drop your plans. Those people that made it their business to make judgements said it was like a place out of time. They said that morals and ideas and genders didn’t mean anything when you were in there. That all the best drugs were not just dealt, but invented there, on the floor because everyone was so creative. Everyone was funny and clever and told the best stories, but also knew when telling stories wasn’t cool and you should just shut up and dance, as they say. So cool, they said. Someone had collected all the magical and unrepeatable moments from Glastonburys and Szigets and Burning Mans and condensed them into a festival of manufactured serendipity, just for you but just for everyone, anyone who could get in. The doorman was Polish, but not in a scary way and he always had witty and urbane stories of life in the Eastern Bloc. The newest thing. The oldest thing. People said that the triangle meant it was founded by the Illumnati as a method of mind control, or the Knights Templar as an expression of the ultimate revelation of the Holy Trinity. A man from The Guardian advanced the theory that it was the creation of a circle of Hapsburg investors. A woman from The Observer said that the Papacy was behind it, and that it almost made up for all the rotten business with children. It was under a disused archway in Brixton. Or, it was sandwiched between two meat-wagons in Dalston. Or, it was in the back of a coffee shop that had the furniture, livery and menu of a Starbucks but was not actually a Starbucks. Nobody was sure. Everybody knew someone who knew someone who had been to Thousand Thousand, but nobody had actually been. They all meant to go soon, they said. Vice Magazine tried to go for a feature, but they didn’t find it and so they took some homeless people to Claridge’s and wrote about that instead. The only real person who had visited Thousand Thousand was a nineteen year-old London School of Economics student called Eloise who had been looking for the Walkabout because she was going to celebrate her best friend’s birthday. She said it looked Quite Fun, but not the sort of thing they were looking for that evening.
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Mar 25, 2013 21:42
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Symptomless Coma posted:I've started writing stuff that is rooted in the world, presented as fact, but is totally made up. SpaceGodzilla fucked around with this message at 02:10 on Mar 26, 2013 |
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Mar 26, 2013 02:06
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Symptomless Coma posted:As nothing much is moving here, here's another twitching corpse for the pile. I've started writing stuff that is rooted in the world, presented as fact, but is totally made up. Not really sure where it's going or what it's for, but I really like writing it. What would you do with it? You described an idea for 500 words, and it wasn't even a very good one. A cool club? Ok? You came close in the last paragraph and then oh wait no who cares. Is this supposed to be awful ad copy? A story? Do I not get it or something? Am I not cool enough? I'd say actually write something worth reading. Maybe with a plot. Maybe with something that goes somewhere, and doesn't keep describing the same thing over and over and over again like it's an infomercial.
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Mar 26, 2013 02:47
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SpaceGodzilla posted:I don't think that the "presented as fact" part is any truer here than it is for any other fiction, though. Maybe there's something I'm missing. I think that if you did want to go for that angle though, you should consider an epistolary approach. It's so nice finding out there's a name for something. I suppose I'm thinking about The Hitchhiker's Guide as a thing that uses structure to cheat its way through showing and telling. Telling is what this is, it's true. Maybe that's no good. I Am Hydrogen posted:Is this supposed to be awful ad copy? A story? Do I not get it or something? Am I not cool enough? I didn't say there was anything to get. I'm really, honestly not trying to be outre. I'm going to have another think about this. All I know is that I don't want to write another story. Thanks for the input guys. Symptomless Coma fucked around with this message at 23:26 on Mar 26, 2013 |
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Mar 26, 2013 10:58
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Read Ficciones by Jorge Luis Borges if you haven't done so already. He often just makes up a book, essay, or article that he references throughout a work. He achieves the tone you are going for in a lot of his short fiction even when he's not using this method. quote:The composition of vast books is a laborious and impoverishing extravagance. To go on for five hundred pages developing an idea whose perfect oral exposition is possible in a few minutes! A better course of procedure is to pretend that these books already exist, and then to offer a resume, a commentary . . . More reasonable, more inept, more indolent, I have preferred to write notes upon imaginary books.
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Apr 1, 2013 13:51
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Here is a short story I wrote guys. Please tear it to pieces. I want to improve as a writer. Romance in Kelowna John’s upper cheek dripped with sweat; salty tracks formed on his face as liquid bubbled from his forehead, expelled downwards by gravity, his face distorted by stress. It was a log-cabin on the outskirts of Kelowna, Ontario. An aching desert of snow circled the cabin, tall Birch trees flickering alongside the clearings outer edge. The trees drowned the sun. The cabin stuck out in the uneven clearing like mold on a peach, the exterior fenced by violently swaying trees. He was waiting for them. His demons, his pursuers, his, his… John’s mind went blank. Constant stress left him exhausted; his perception of time had gone on vacation and the sky was constant grey. Existence was probable and reality shaky—he couldn’t remember the last time he saw the sun. Everything was a dirty shade of grey. His wife, Maggie, had left to see an old friend in town. She left him behind. They had been fighting. Their winter vacation to her parent’s remote cabin was supposed to bring them closer together. It didn’t. The remoteness and silence of the location drove him mad. The rustle of her clothing (against the cabins wooden floors) made his cheeks twitch like a sputtering sausage on a grill—hot balls of grease splatting cross his temple. Her every motion was driving him insane. John hated her. She asked him if she could visit an old childhood friend in town. John gave her a contorted smile and agreed. She was too involved in her thoughts to see the flash of relief accompanied with the dilation of John’s pupils to sense anything was wrong. She was excited to see her friend and left in a hurry. And left the door slightly ajar. Upon seeing the crack of light billow from the door and the nibbling twinge of icy breath on his arm, John snapped. Hate congealed into murderous thoughts. The combination of events sent his mind to murder. His rationality gone; it joined his love for her in the godforsaken pit of his stomach. She would be back at nightfall. The grey was streaked with blood red dashes of colour. She would be home soon. With binoculars in hand, John went to his work bench. It was a roughly hewn mess—he was practising woodworking as a new hobby. To pass the time he was whittling a stool leg. It lay on the table next to an open guide book with wood working tools in front of it. With his free hand he absentmindedly picked up a spool of twine as he looked at the road outside. She should be home soon. Time to prepare, you can’t murder someone and not be ready. That’s like showing up late to your own wedding. It’s just not done. John examined their carving knife, too dull. His axe; too small. Camping rope? Too personal. His eyes racked in on to a material stacked by the door. Firewood. He could bludgeon her to death with a log. Perfect. Burnable evidence, a dead wife, and a roaring fire. Perhaps there is hot chocolate as well. Could be something to look forward to. With the delightful kernel of a thought crackling in his mind, he sat by the window with his binoculars and waited. She should be home soon. The red sky glinted through the windows gently and splattered on the walls. Yellow suddenly accompanied them. She was returning home, their car slowly appearing around the bend and entering the clearing. John smiled for the first time that year.
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Apr 10, 2013 07:01
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This is horrible in more ways than the English language has to describe it. And you can't write for poo poo. Please go away and never come back. Edit: Mike Works correctly called me on this. You've been given some excellent detailed crits below, so I'll be more general - why should the reader care? I mean you can write a story about stuff, but that doesn't make it a story. There are a bunch of ways you can approach it, but the central choice you make with every sentence is telling people something they expect or something they don't expect. That's it. There's nothing else. So brushing aside the terrible purple prose (and you should brand every single one of the excellenct critiques below on your soul before you write another word) your central problem is that you're just giving people what they expect. It's a story about a guy who's gonna kill his wife, who plans to kill his wife, and then the story ends with him about to kill his wife. Why should we care about that? It's just what we expect. If I was rewriting it, I'd take the situation and think about how I could twist it. Which sentence could you take and change so it's unexpected? The most obvious way of doing this is a twist ending (she's actually in the closet! she actually poisoned him before she left! someone else kills her first, and it's the murderer in the car!). None of those are good, but they at least add some point to the story. A better way is to give people something unexpected by making the reader feel something they didn't expect to feel. Sympathy is the obvious one - though that's a hard task with a psychotic wife murderer, but that's the story you've written. Maybe you could swap to her perspective, creating suspense? There are dozens of ways you could improve the actual writing, but none of them will improve what you're writing unless you address the expectations of the reader and try to make them, eventually, pleased they spent some of their time reading your story. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 22:05 on Apr 10, 2013 |
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Apr 10, 2013 11:13
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GiveUpNed posted:A story I'm sure what seb was trying to say in his own kind-hearted fashion was that: 1) Not every description needs to be the most contrived bullshit simile. 2) The story is trying so hard to be dramatic and edgy that you can see the tryhard from outer space. Look at how often you use those terrible cliché clipped sentences. You aren't writing a comic book. 3) The premise is done to death (hah.), you have ridiculous description in some places and then totally lack it in others, there is no noticeable characterisation, the grammar is shaky. Here are some choice excerpts for you to mull over: His demons, his pursuers, his, his… - Not only is this dumb as hell, it completely destroys any 'descent into madness' vibe you might once have dreamed of creating. The rustle of her clothing (against the cabins wooden floors) made his cheeks twitch like a sputtering sausage on a grill—hot balls of grease splatting cross his temple. - Can anything even be said about this? And man you are just not ready for parentheses. She was too involved in her thoughts to see the flash of relief accompanied with the dilation of John’s pupils to sense anything was wrong. - I too often look into people's eyes and see whether they dilate as in indication of MURDEROUS INTENT. His rationality gone; it joined his love for her in the godforsaken pit of his stomach. - Barf. What is godforsaken about it? Did he eat too many sputtering sausages? Time to prepare, you can’t murder someone and not be ready. That’s like showing up late to your own wedding. It’s just not done. - This is what should not be done. John examined their carving knife, too dull. His axe; too small. - THIS KNIFE? TOO DULL. THIS AXE? TOO SMALL. THIS LOG? JUUUUUUST RIGHT! No it isn't idiot, a log is a dumb weapon and axe's aren't small unless they are hatchets and even still that is a better murder weapon. Not only that but you have this whole misleading spiel about a table leg which is clearly leading into being the murder weapon then you just loving forget about it or something. What the hell. The red sky glinted through the windows gently and splattered on the walls. Yellow suddenly accompanied them. - Keats eat your heart out. Firewood. He could bludgeon her to death with a log. Perfect. Burnable evidence, a dead wife, and a roaring fire. Perhaps there is hot chocolate as well. - Amazing.
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Apr 10, 2013 13:00
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Jeza posted:The story is trying so hard to be dramatic and edgy that you can see the tryhard from outer space. jezaquotes_2013.txt
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Apr 10, 2013 13:04
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sebmojo posted:This is horrible in more ways than the English language has to describe it. And you can't write for poo poo. Please go away and never come back. That's a bit cruel. What's happening here is you're writing what you think good stories ought to be like. If you went back to the stories you love, you'd notice that they're not like that at all. Specifically The Shining,. King's prose is more direct and workmanlike than yours, but it achieves the effect far better. He wrote a book called On Writing which says that writing is about communication more than any other thing. That is, the transfer of specific bits of information from your head to your reader's head. This isn't a bad way to parse your own drafts: what information needs to be communicated at this point, and is it coming across? Secondly, with every sentence your read back: is this sentence contributing to the pile of information the reader needs to decode the story properly? If it's not, it can probably go. So when your first para is devoted to re-explaining how sweating and gravity work, your focus is in the wrong place. These things plus the description of the cabin make it sound like you're reciting a film from memory. Think about all of the below phrases in terms of what they're communicating, and why. -Desert of snow is too clever. Especially when it's not true, since you then explain what surrounds it. And trees can't flicker. -If sky is grey, that's caused by cloud, not trees. -"His perception of time had gone on vacation" is too prosaic. Existence was probable is too outre. -"They had been fighting" is so very far away from a murder plot that it's comical. -Next para (drove him mad) - when is that happening? It's unclear. -The sausage simile is again, comical. When you write a simile, try to imagine it. If it looks instantly hilarious, think again. -All smiles are contorted. They are contortions of the face. It would, in fact, have more effect if he'd given a perfectly normal smile. -Again, his snapping at the door being open a bit is hilarious by virtue of being ridiculous. And here we hit on the problem - I don't give a poo poo about John. Why should I, just because he doesn't like snow and his girl wants some alone time? So would I. He's a dick. ...and so on. The point is this: in the end, effective pieces of writing (and you have put yourself in this category by saying it's a story) have an intention. A set of emotions they want someone to feel, and a set of statements (these are your sentences) that, when taken together, generate those emotions. They don't just spin out lots of "writerly" language until an arbitrary end. Though that's certainly where everyone starts. They proof-read, too. I hope that helps! Edit: The Finer Arts > Creative Convention > The Abattoir 2013 Symptomless Coma fucked around with this message at 13:24 on Apr 10, 2013 |
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Apr 10, 2013 13:21
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GiveUpNed posted:John’s upper cheek dripped with sweat; salty tracks formed on his face as liquid bubbled from his forehead, expelled downwards by gravity, his face distorted by stress. 
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Apr 10, 2013 13:27
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Jeza posted:I'm sure what seb was trying to say in his own kind-hearted fashion was that: Hi there. It's for an entrance porfolio for an advertising program. They provided an image and I'm supposed to write a story based on it. The reason it's contrived, is due to me being constrained by the photo.
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Apr 10, 2013 15:50
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GiveUpNed posted:Hi there. It's for an entrance porfolio for an advertising program. They provided an image and I'm supposed to write a story based on it. The reason it's contrived, is due to me being constrained by the photo. Is that a joke? Unless this photo is a picture of the words you wrote and you copied them down, then I fail to see how it is relevant. I didn't call your story contrived, although it is a typical 'log cabin in the woods' yarn, I called your descriptions contrived. Foreheads bubbling, Deserts aching, suns drowning, cabins like mold on peaches - this is beyond fanciful. It roars straight through the borders of poncy right into pretension county. If my comments made you feel defensive it is at least a sign you care, but at the same time don't loving bother giving excuses unless you've got good reason. You asked to get torn apart, and hey look, you did. I haven't given you a full and in-depth crit by any means, but that is because you are really not at the stage where a line by line crit would really do you any good. You need to take a day or two away from what you wrote, lose any attachment to it, come back and look at it in the cold light of day. Look at your words, especially the lines I highlighted. Do you read any author who writes like that? That is meant to be a rhetorical question, but if they answer is 'yes', then maybe go to The Book Barn and get some recommendations because, yeah, no.
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Apr 10, 2013 16:12
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So here's what that is: in high school, they teach you a certain style of creative writing that encourages students to think creatively with language and not be afraid to try weird and different things with their writing. It's good for practice but it has no bearing on what makes actual good writing whatsoever. First, you need to strip your language right the hell back: trim all the wacky metaphors/verbal fireworks, focus on the core characters and story.
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Apr 10, 2013 17:02
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GiveUpNed posted:Here is a short story I wrote guys. Please tear it to pieces. I want to improve as a writer. I'm not sure it's possible to improve on this. It's already a perfect example of "so bad it's good". GiveUpNed posted:John’s upper cheek dripped with sweat; salty tracks formed on his face as liquid bubbled from his forehead, expelled downwards by gravity, his face distorted by stress. This opening sentence in particular is a masterpiece. Liquid bubbled from his forehead. My god. GiveUpNed posted:It was a log-cabin on the outskirts of Kelowna, Ontario. An aching desert of snow circled the cabin, tall Birch trees flickering alongside the clearings outer edge. I also love how the trees are apparently on fire but it has no bearing on anything. That's great! GiveUpNed posted:The trees drowned the sun. The cabin stuck out in the uneven clearing like mold on a peach, the exterior fenced by violently swaying trees. Can you hear Max Payne saying this? GiveUpNed posted:his perception of time had gone on vacation and the sky was constant grey. Existence was probable and reality shaky—he couldn’t remember the last time he saw the sun. Everything was a dirty shade of grey. This too. GiveUpNed posted:The rustle of her clothing (against the cabins wooden floors) made his cheeks twitch like a sputtering sausage on a grill—hot balls of grease splatting cross his temple. Why is grease flying from his wildly jittering cheeks to his temples? I don't know, but I love it. GiveUpNed posted:And left the door slightly ajar. Dun dun DUN! GiveUpNed posted:With binoculars in hand, John went to his work bench. Got to have the binoculars to see what's on the bench in front of him. GiveUpNed posted:It was a roughly hewn mess—he was practising woodworking as a new hobby. To pass the time he was whittling a stool leg. It lay on the table next to an open guide book with wood working tools in front of it. With his free hand he absentmindedly picked up a spool of twine as he looked at the road outside. So, obviously he's going to use the steel leg and the twine to kill her. I'm not sure why he needs both, but I'm sure he's got his reasons. GiveUpNed posted:Time to prepare, you can’t murder someone and not be ready. That’s like showing up late to your own wedding. It’s just not done. What a faux pas! GiveUpNed posted:With the delightful kernel of a thought crackling in his mind, he sat by the window with his binoculars and waited. The kernel of a thought and a complete plan are not quite the same thing. I look forward to reading more from you in the future, this was a delight.
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Apr 10, 2013 17:16
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sebmojo posted:This is horrible in more ways than the English language has to describe it. And you can't write for poo poo. Please go away and never come back.
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Apr 10, 2013 21:03
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As a Canadian you should be even more incensed than sebmojo since homeboy put Kelowna in Ontario instead of British Columbia.
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Apr 10, 2013 21:20
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Ha, I just assumed there was a Kelowna in Ontario too. How do you get that wrong?!
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Apr 10, 2013 21:26
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GiveUpNed posted:
Beaten twice, but, dude. If can't be bothered to do even the barest bit of research, then why should any of us bother reading what you wrote? This does not bode well for your future in advertising.
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Apr 10, 2013 21:28
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Fanky Malloons posted:Beaten twice, but, dude. If can't be bothered to do even the barest bit of research, then why should any of us bother reading what you wrote? This does not bode well for your future in advertising. You're right. I was thinking of Kenora, Ontario. I went portaging there a few summers ago. I'm very tired. I worked as a journalist for a year or two, but there's not money in it. I'm going back to school for advertising. It's been a very sleepless week trying to get everything together.
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Apr 10, 2013 21:34
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I'm not trying to be a dickhead, but like, is your non-fiction writing for journalism as heavy-handed? I've worked in a couple of radio newsrooms writing copy, and I know you want that poo poo as concise and to the point as possible.
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Apr 10, 2013 21:48
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Mike Works posted:This isn't a critique. It's completely detrimental to the entire purpose of this thread. No matter how high or low the quality of a submission, if you're not going to bother trying to help someone's writing, then don't bother loving posting. You're right, of course, and I apologise. I've edited in some crit of the points that haven't already been covered. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 22:06 on Apr 10, 2013 |
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Apr 10, 2013 21:54
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GiveUpNed posted:You're right. I was thinking of Kenora, Ontario. I went portaging there a few summers ago. I'm very tired. I worked as a journalist for a year or two, but there's not money in it. I'm going back to school for advertising. It's been a very sleepless week trying to get everything together. That makes more sense. And thus we all learn a valuable lesson about waiting until you're fully awake to proof-read things. GiveUpNed posted:Romance in Kelowna Fanky Malloons fucked around with this message at 04:04 on Apr 11, 2013 |
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Apr 10, 2013 23:47
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Zack_Gochuck posted:I'm not trying to be a dickhead, but like, is your non-fiction writing for journalism as heavy-handed? I've worked in a couple of radio newsrooms writing copy, and I know you want that poo poo as concise and to the point as possible. It depends on what I'm doing. I did have someone edit this for me though and they asked me to be more specific about certain things. With criticism or a feature article, I have more freedom. Eh, I see this as a first draft. I'll probably rewrite it from a different angle and toss it up here tonight for round two. People making GBS threads didn't bother me as A: It's the internet and B: I'm used to having my writing chopped and rewritten.
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Apr 11, 2013 01:11
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Hey all. I used the same scene, but did something different with it. Memories Keenly looking out the rustic log cabin window, while leaning over the work bench in front of him with binoculars in one hand hanging at his side, John scanned the tree line looking for Jack. Jack, you see, was adopted by John as a child. One cold April day, his cat started to irritatingly pad the back door, like fingernails gently clasping a wine glass. His mind occupied with other things, he absent mindedly opened the door to let the cat in. Chirping accompanied the cat’s paw steps. Aghast John looked down to see his cat gnawing on a baby winter wren’s wing. It was pitifully fluttering about trying to escape, its bright red flight feather wiggling between the cat’s teeth. John felt sorry for the little guy. He was never one for pets, yet seeing the fluffy little creature chirping in pain while the cat purred with pride struck him. Quickly shooing the cat way, John rescued the tiny bird. He built a shoebox nest for it using paper towels and shredded paper, feeding it with an eye dropper and using a desk lamp to provide it with warmth. He christened it “Jack” after his favorite grandpa, Jack Friesen, who lived down the street. Jack and John’s relationship was like that of a scorpion or goldfish, an interesting pet that you show to people. Jack couldn’t play catch, or cuddle with John at night, yet John didn’t mind. Jack was beautiful, and interesting and cool to show to other kids. John hadn’t thought of Jack of years until he saw him an hour ago at the cabin. He was outside with his father-in-law discussing non-profit law. Suddenly, there Jack was. He briefly landed in a bush by their table, before darting away, a red trail accompanying him in the grey sky. Childhood memories rushed back to John in an instant. Everyone in Brandon wanted to see the weird bird the kid with no friends had. Eventually John no longer needed Jack to get people to talk to or like him. Jack somehow knew and escaped his cage. He simply vanished. Exclaiming he had to get something, John rushed inside for his binoculars hanging by the door on a coat hook and then to a window. Desperately scanning the treetops for Jack with the binoculars, John couldn’t find him. The grey sky was streaked with blood red dashes of colour. Nightfall was arriving. His eyes tired, he lowered the binoculars in his right hand, absent mindedly picked up a spool of string with his left and scanned the sky a last time. Suddenly, with a flutter, Jack landed on a fir by the window. It wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t. Wrens don’t live forever. Smiling to himself John silently thanked Jack, wherever he was, for helping him as a child. Turning his back on the window, to rejoin his father-in-law outside, the red-feathered wren gave a shrill chirp and flew away into the night. GiveUpNed fucked around with this message at 18:27 on Apr 11, 2013 |
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Apr 11, 2013 16:46
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Maybe writing fiction's just not your thing.
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Apr 11, 2013 18:29
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GiveUpNed posted:Hey all. I used the same scene, but did something different with it. This makes a lot more sense as an advertising piece than murder, but why not tell these events over time, as they happen? Open with the cat bringing the bird in. Fast-forward through John's childhood as you already do, up until Jack leaves, and then have current-day John spot the wren. This would also eliminate the problem of a reader going, 'Wait a minute, winter wrens have a lifespan of six years' when you don't show that John knows (and you know) that until the last paragraph. I also suggest naming one of them something else. 'Jack' and 'John' are too visually similar. Another problem: I looked up winter wrens. I see no red feathers anywhere. If this bird is from your image, are you sure you've got the right species? As for the writing, it's a bit better here, but... I'm not sure where you get similes like 'like fingernails gently clasping a wine glass,' but they're very bad. Fingernails can't clasp a wine glass. Fingernails are not prehensile. And what the blazes that image has to do with a cat 'padding' the back door (what?) is beyond me. I need to practice my alchemy. Let's do a line-by-line. Comments and inserted punctuation are in bold, inserted text in italics. ------ Jack, you see, was adopted by John as a child. John (Consistent formatting is your friend: I added a carriage return.) He christened it “Jack” after his favorite grandpa, Jack Friesen, who lived down the Childhood memories rushed back to John in an instant. Not long afterward, Jack (At this point you'd need some wholesale rewriting to bring the time forward. I'll make a stab at it.) Years later, as John talked with his father-in-law on the cabin porch, a winter wren landed in a bush by their table and then darted away again within a heartbeat, a fleeting blur of brown feathers against the grey sky. John excused himself and grabbed the binoculars hanging inside the front door, then sprinted to a window. He scanned the treetops through the lenses, caught by the sudden recollection of his friend, but he couldn't find any wren out there. Suddenly, with a flutter, Jack landed on a fir by the window. No. It wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t. Wrens Smiling ------ This version is still a simple and somewhat cliche story, but I'm assuming that's not a problem in your context. Edited to add: I just noticed that the winter wren feeds exclusively on insects. This is not a practical pet species. Kaishai fucked around with this message at 21:00 on Apr 11, 2013 |
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Apr 11, 2013 18:40
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Welcome back. Let's begin.GiveUpNed posted:Memories OK friend. Here are my general pointers for the writing: - Stay the gently caress away from adverbs if you can help it. - Assess your overly long sentences. Read them out loud. Are they stilted and flow poorly in speech? Then they flow poorly on the page too. - While you assess this, consider whether the information you are providing contributes to the narrative. Does it give colour/flavour, does it add something? No? Then loving cut it. Here are specific pointers to this piece: - The premise is incredibly simple, but you have verbal padding where it is totally pointless and then lack it where it is necessary. Use your words more judiciously. - The conclusion is truly atrocious. I'm sorry, but pretending like the realisation that the wren is dead is somehow meant to make me go 'woah, deep man' is deeply flawed It fails to capture what you wanted (I imagine), which is this kind of slightly heart-warming life goes on vibe. If you wanted to change the piece for the better, I would suggest working on the emotional front. Get him surprised/hopeful at the start at seeing the bird, have him reminisce happily about his nurturing of Jack (BETTER NAME PLEASE) and then chastise himself for getting his hopes up but not being sad because he enjoyed Jack's presence while he was alive. My 2 cents. EDIT: Forgot to say that this, as you might put it, has a kernel of a good idea in there somewhere if it was substantially reworking and realigned. Therefore marginally better than last time. Take the crumbs of praise, take them. Jeza fucked around with this message at 23:54 on Apr 11, 2013 |
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Apr 11, 2013 19:06
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Think back to the point people made earlier about writing needed to clearly convey ideas. You did better this time by cutting out the majority of the over-the-top descriptions, but you are still lacking so much clarity in your writing. You should only use an imaginative metaphor or simile to express something that regular verbs, nouns, and adjectives just can't get across. When standard subject-->verb-->object can convey exactly what you mean, then you should just use it. You are making some really basic mistakes using regular words, so focus on fixing those before throwing similes in. The previous line-by-line crits have showed some of those, but look at these examples: quote:Jack and John’s relationship was like that of a scorpion or goldfish The relationship between Jack and John is being compared to a scorpion or a goldfish. You cannot compare a relationship between two things to the relationship of one thing to nothing else: "Tom and Mary's relationship was like a scorpion's relationship," makes no sense. Are you trying to say that their relationship is LIKE A SCORPION... or maybe it's LIKE A GOLDFISH? I'm pretty sure that you mean their relationship is like the relationship between a scorpion AND a goldfish, so why didn't you just say "and" instead of "or"? Even if you had phrased this perfectly, it's a very weird thing to say and I don't think Jack and John's relationship seems anything like how a scorpion and a goldfish would act together. Think about the idea or feeling that you actually want to express, THEN think of the way you want to say it. quote:John rushed inside for his binoculars hanging by the door on a coat hook and then to a window Here is an example of failing to use simple verbs, nouns, and prepositions to clearly express a basic action. It doesn't matter that the binoculars are hanging by the door on a coat hook. Trying to shove that information into the sentence kills the meaning of the sentence. It's also very troubling that you couldn't have at least put the commas in here so that the sentence reads properly. I hope there are binoculars in the picture you are writing about, because otherwise you are way too into binoculars.
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Apr 11, 2013 19:41
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First thing I've written in a while. It's subtle as a brick through a window, but it felt good to write. A Good Guy With A Gun I am hiding behind a sign advertising a dating website, the sound of screams and gunfire fill the air. That gun. Semi-automatic. I don’t know how much he’s got left in that clip, but those belts attached to him means that that doesn’t matter unless somebody stops him. In some sick way, a part of me wanted this to happen. All those drat liberals saying guns never solve problems. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m going to prove them wrong. Keep hidden. Low on the ground. This mall is filled with waist-high furniture and kiosks. About 40 feet away. Need to cut that distance in half. He’s going into that store. Does he have a grudge against the company? Someone who works there? Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to ask him. Hide behind the display shelf. Security cameras can see me, but he can’t. I hear clicks. He’s out. I have between 10 and 20 seconds, depending on how good he is. In front of him. A woman. Holding a baby. She’s frozen in fear. I’m going to save her. I pull it out in a motion I practice constantly. 9mm. Keep the permit in my glove box. I’m going to be a hero. He’s fumbling. His adrenaline is working against him. I’ve got him. Aim. Go for the head. He could be wearing Kevlar under that shirt. Pull. The mother screams. I got him. I got No. That… on the floor… He’s turned around. He’s looking at me. On the floor…bleeding. Blood. The woman…knees on the floor…cradling the blood. Cradling the baby. No no no no NO! NO! What did I… I don’t… I never… 99 times out of 100 I… Oh god. The man is gone. I don’t see him. I don’t hear gunfire. Just a mother’s screams.
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Apr 11, 2013 23:03
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SpiderHyphenMan posted:First thing I've written in a while. It's subtle as a brick through a window, but it felt good to write. I quite like this, it's sort of prose poemy. Unsubtle, you're right, but it works. I've done an edit, see what you think - I cut the ellipses, as you can do it with the structure you've set up already. Also the last line because I think you've made that point. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 01:32 on Apr 12, 2013 |
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Apr 12, 2013 00:21
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sebmojo posted:I quite like this, it's sort of prose poemy. Unsubtle, you're right, but it works. I was also thinking that the reason he didn't hear gunfire was because all he could hear were the mother's screams, not because there wasn't any. So I quite like that last line. Honestly I just wanted to write a counterpoint to the inane "The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun" hence the title. I never intended a "No Jon, you are the demons" ending.
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Apr 12, 2013 01:37
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SpiderHyphenMan posted:It's funny, when you make "The man is gone" and "I don't see him" separate lines, and end on "I don't hear gunfire" I almost feel like that makes it sound like the gunman was never there at all, and this was some psychotic episode thing. I didn't mean it that way at all, though I suppose that that interpretation makes a point about background checks, especially for those with a history of mental illness, need to happen now. Oh, I wasn't meaning to imply that. I just thought he'd run off and wasn't firing anymore. Otherwise why doesn't he shoot the protagonist? Your story, go with what works. Maybe rewrite that last line of yours though - 'a mother's screams' is very purple, and you've earnt somthing more dry I think.
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Apr 12, 2013 02:01
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One issue I had was that you are playing off us not seeing the ending coming. If you're going to do that you might want to avoid overt caricatures or the absolute worst case scenario accidental shooting. When your protagonist sounds like an archetypal crazy concealed weapons guy and when there is a "woman holding a baby," then we pretty much know what's going to go down. For a surprise ending you have to force a certain expectation and then surprise the reader. You accurately portrayed crazy people who carry guns around everywhere, but when I read the first time through I thought, "Either the guy writing this is really into guns and this is a super lovely story, or the woman with the baby is going to get shot." The woman with the baby pushed my guess toward the direction of her getting shot, because even a from-my-cold-dead-hands gun nut would probably never write himself in as saving a woman with a baby; it would simply sound like too much.
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Apr 12, 2013 03:37
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Kaishai posted:
I fixed the ending by talking about nostalgia. quote:No. It wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t. Wrens didn’t live forever. Nostalgia can do strange things to one’s mind. While driving and passing a sign in the street, you are singing a song you haven’t thought of in twenty years ago to yourself. Also, I used to write a lot of fiction in my spare time. Then I got a job at a newspaper. With writing, I find you have to do a lot of a certain type before you can comfortably change gears. Writing fiction used to come effortlessly to me, now I'm struggling to remember all the things I used to do. To say I'm rusty is an understatement. Thank you very much for all of your help.
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Apr 12, 2013 10:59
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systran posted:One issue I had was that you are playing off us not seeing the ending coming. If you're going to do that you might want to avoid overt caricatures or the absolute worst case scenario accidental shooting. When your protagonist sounds like an archetypal crazy concealed weapons guy and when there is a "woman holding a baby," then we pretty much know what's going to go down. A Good Guy With A Gun I am hiding behind a sign advertising a dating website, the sound of screams and gunfire fill the air. That gun. Semi-automatic. I don’t know how much he’s got left in that clip, but those belts attached to him means that that doesn’t matter unless somebody stops him. In some sick way, a part of me wanted this to happen. All those drat liberals saying guns never solve problems. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m going to prove them wrong. Keep hidden. Low on the ground. This mall is filled with waist-high furniture and kiosks. About 40 feet away. Need to cut that distance in half. He’s going into that store. Does he have a grudge against the company? Someone who works there? Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to ask him. Hide behind the display shelf. Security cameras can see me, but he can’t. I hear clicks. He’s out. I have between 10 and 20 seconds, depending on how good he is. In front of him. A woman. Holding a bag. Can't make out what's in it. She’s frozen in fear. I’m going to save her. I pull it out in a motion I practice constantly. 9mm. Keep the permit in my glove box. I’m going to be a hero. He’s fumbling. His adrenaline is working against him. I’ve got him. Aim. Go for the head. He could be wearing Kevlar under that shirt. Pull. The woman screams. I got him. I got No. That On the floor He’s turned around. He’s looking at me. On the floor Bleeding. Blood. The woman, knees on the floor, cradling the blood. Cradling the baby. No No The baby No What did I I don’t I never 99 times out of 100 I Oh god The gun. I can’t hold… I hear it hit the tile floor. The man the killer the bad guy He’s walking over to me. I’ve vomited on the floor. I hear nothing but his footsteps and her sobs. I want to beg him to kill me but I can’t speak because I I Killed He’s taking my gun. My gun. The gun I shot. Why isn't he pointing it at me? Isn't he going to? Do it. Please. *in my defense, to write the internal monologue of someone who has had a bullet go through their head is pretty silly. Were this traditional prose, I'd likely commit either way. SpiderHyphenMan fucked around with this message at 02:12 on Apr 13, 2013 |
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Apr 13, 2013 02:07
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SpiderHyphenMan posted:The "he's gonna shoot the baby" problem was an easy fix, thanks a bunch. I also changed the ending because, yeah, why wouldn't the killer shoot the protagonist? But on the other hand I wanted an ending where the protagonist wallowed in his misery. Good thing I can have my cake and eat it too!* While I think the short and halting lines do a fantastic job of conveying the urgency and intensity of the situation, I feel like this story would work best if you lengthened it a bit. In that way, you could flesh out the progression from "relatively (and I stress the qualifier here) calm assessment" to "absolutely panicked monologue" and make the process a little more gradual - generating a deeper level of pathos for the reader. I'm not sure if that's what you want to do with this particular work, but a story with such a psychologically wrenched premise could only benefit from something like that. Trust me, there are far worse things people can say about a story other than "it needs to be longer". I have been working on this "mini-novel" for a while now. I'm not sure if I'd classify it as neo-noir or post-modern or whatever. I like to think of it as just a story. Anyway, the plot is essentially about the collective unconscious, and the slow but inherent melding of the two realities of modern society (physical life/the internet and its various components) into something I call The Othernet. Basically, my main character (Morgan Stone) finds himself slowly becoming a sort of pioneer figure within The Othernet known as Rebell Yell. Of course, being in such a position makes him vulnerable to all sorts of extra-normal agencies, including an unsentimental, chaotic figure known as The Canadian and an overly-emotional, luddite cult led by The Abbott. I've got a little bit written but am steadfastly working on Stone's backstory. I have a vague sense of what I want to do with it, but so far, connecting the dots to make it work isn't happening. What I do know about Stone is he's just enough a pop-culture oriented, wiseacre jimmie to make for either a sometimes crass, sometimes amusing narrator. quote:Rebel Yell And so there you have it.
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Apr 13, 2013 09:23
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