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CommissarMega posted:And THIS might be a little embarrassing, at least for me, because I can't quite seem to get my head around how else I should do it You can always do what I do and avoid using dialogue tags 80% of the time!  But just using "said" without a bunch of extra stuff is fine. Said is invisible, after all.Edit: I should at least add an example! "[words]." [Character] shoved himself away from the table. "[words words words]!" What I usually do is insert character action in between bits of their dialogue to break it up some, and so they're not just sitting around talking. Even if they are sitting around, I try to include some small action that reveals something about the character's personality, or their current emotional state. How Ingratiating! fucked around with this message at 12:41 on Mar 25, 2014 |
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Mar 25, 2014 12:29
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Have any examples I can look at, or suggestions on how to keep it down?
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Whenever you see that construction in your writing, break it up. It's incredibly easy to fix. Before: "Butts butts butts," Djeser said, taking a bite of his sandwich. After: "Butts butts butts," Djeser said. He took a bite of his sandwich. Then if that sentence looks awkward, later on in revising you can rephrase.
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Mar 25, 2014 18:02
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Attribution exists to tell you who's speaking. The first name you read after any given line of dialogue is typically the person you associate it with. Said is invisible, sure, but also superfluous. What's important is the name. The rest is so much hash browns. Now, in a vacuum, you want to throw in a Name Said because just a Name is jarring. It's a noun with no verb. It needs a verb to feel complete. That verb needn't be Said though. You can substitute an action. "Like this." He spread his arms across the table. "You see? You don't even need said." Everything in moderation, of course. You generally drop attribution for any kind of back and forth, and it gets ridiculous if everyone is always pointing and gesturing or doing something different. Sometimes a character just has something to say; no frills, no extras. In times like these, just Said is enough.
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Mar 27, 2014 06:13
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How Ingratiating! posted:You can always do what I do and avoid using dialogue tags 80% of the time! This works for simple, brief exchanges--but when you get into longer conversations, or dialogue with more than two speakers, a lack of dialogue tags can confuse the reader, particularly when the characters' voices aren't differentiated enough. Of course, when every character has a distinct, recognizable voice, then most dialogue tags become redundant, as the reader will instinctively recognize what lines belong to what character. I'm not sure if anyone here is interested in stuff like Jane Eyre, but the exchanges between Jane and Mr. Rochester are great examples of tagless dialogue in action. I'm not sure you could get away with it to the same extent in contemporary fiction, but the two characters' voices are so distinct that the reader never has trouble telling them apart, despite the fact that there are frequently pages and pages of dialogue with nary a tag in sight.
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Mar 27, 2014 06:58
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I mostly use said if two characters were talking and then a third one joins in, just to reemphasize that the third dude isn't just doing something while the back and forth happens.
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Mar 27, 2014 12:29
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Hi thread. I have a sample I'd like to be critiqued. Thanks. "Having just moved to the area from New England, I figured it'd be a good idea to get a feel for the town. With comfortable sneakers and a sunny sky, I picked a direction and started walking. Growing up in valleys and around mountains, The first thing I noticed was the flat landscape and picturesque suburban setting. Almost as if I had been dropped into a fictional world created by a non-American who was asked to describe this country. Single-story single family homes with decorative fences, pools or trampolines in the backyards and a single straight driveway leading to either a carport or garage. Complete with stay at home mothers watching their young children, men and husbands either working or tending to their lawns of always lush green grass. Not three blocks into this walk and I had come upon a public park called "Ridgeland". As this was a Friday, I remember thinking it odd how deserted it was. I first came upon a large wooden plaque designating the park's name and a list of rules. The basics all applied; no littering, no skateboards, no overnight camping, etc. Walking down the park's length, I was surprised by it's massive size and amenities. Almost every outdoor activity imaginable was doable here. benches, outdoor grills, restrooms, basket and tennis courts, a playground and even a sizeable bike park. Why skateboards were prohibited for use on the bike park doesn't make sense to me, but I do neither."
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Mar 29, 2014 23:08
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rizuhbull posted:"Having just moved to the area from New England, I figured it'd be a good idea to get a feel for the town. With comfortable sneakers and a sunny sky, I picked a direction and started walking. quote:Growing up in valleys and around mountains, The first thing I noticed was the flat landscape and picturesque suburban setting. Almost as if I had been dropped into a fictional world created by a non-American who was asked to describe this country. I grew up around mountains. To me, the horizon was always filled with peaks, always a tree-lined border around the sky. But the sky here was huge and bold, dominating my view all the way down to the color-matched roofs of the homes around me. quote:Single-story single family homes with decorative fences, pools or trampolines in the backyards and a single straight driveway leading to either a carport or garage. Complete with stay at home mothers watching their young children, men and husbands either working or tending to their lawns of always lush green grass. Not three blocks into this walk and I had come upon a public park called "Ridgeland". Three blocks down away from my home, I found an empty park. A tall wooden plaque at the entrance read 'Ridgeland Park', with a list of rules printed in large type beneath. quote:As this was a Friday, I remember thinking it odd how deserted it was. I first came upon a large wooden plaque designating the park's name and a list of rules. The basics all applied; no littering, no skateboards, no overnight camping, etc. Walking down the park's length, I was surprised by it's massive size and amenities. Almost every outdoor activity imaginable was doable here. benches, outdoor grills, restrooms, basket and tennis courts, a playground and even a sizeable bike park. Why skateboards were prohibited for use on the bike park doesn't make sense to me, but I do neither." You use it's incorrectly, where it should be its. You also forgot to capitalize your sentence fragment. Maybe you meant that to be a colon instead of a period? "Almost every outdoor activity was doable here" is an awkward sentence, because 'every outdoor activity' is an unnatural phrase (it sounds like what you'd see on a brochure) and 'was doable here' is passive tense. Plus, skating is an outdoor activity and skating isn't doable. My advice would be to drop that sentence and stick "there were" in front of the sentence fragment where you list what there was. Your last line has tense and comprehension issues. You use both past and present tense ('skateboarding was prohibited'/'doesn't make sense to me'), but more importantly, your sentence wanders from where you start. The parts of that sentence are: [Why skateboards are prohibited] [doesn't make sense] [to me], [but I do neither]. The first two parts don't match up perfectly to me ('The rule against skateboards didn't make sense', I'd say, or something like that). But the real issue is that last part. As you're reading it, it comes off like 'it doesn't make sense, but I do,' before you get to the last word. And 'neither' doesn't work, because you haven't mentioned two actions, you only mentioned skateboarding in the bike park. So my five-second rewrite would be: They had a bike park, so the rule against skateboards made even less sense, but I don't bike or skateboard anyway. Overall what I'd say you should be working on is clarity and vividness. You've got a few very visual moments, but you don't do a whole lot with them, and I got tripped up on strange things or awkward words that took me out of the flow. One thing you can do to help with the clarity issues is just to read out what you've written to yourself. Try to read it as naturally as possible. If there's a part you get to where it doesn't flow naturally, change it to make it more smooth and natural. As for the vividness, all I can suggest is to try to get inside the head of your character, and imagine the details that he sees. A small detail can anchor a broad idea clearly--like if you wanted to stress the regular nature of the suburban houses, maybe your protagonist notices that they always alternate between a carport and a garage. A small, well chosen detail like that does two jobs: first, it creates an image in someone's head, and second, because you picked that detail to underscore a larger idea, now that idea is now going to stick around in that person's head. Also, what is a bike park? Is it like a skate park, but you're not allowed to bring skateboards? If so, why would he think of it as a 'bike park'? Or maybe that's just me, but I've always heard of those sorts of areas referred to as specifically "skate parks".
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Mar 30, 2014 02:00
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rizuhbull posted:Having just moved to the area from New England I can't help but feel that this is a wasted opportunity. You describe where you came from but not where you're going to. If this is happening the real world then call upon our internal catalog to save yourself some effort describing. Otherwise the 'to the area' part seems redundant and pointless., I figured it'd be a good idea to get a feel for the town. With comfortable sneakers and a sunny sky, I picked a direction and started walking. Growing up in valleys and around mountains, The first thing I noticed was the flat landscape and picturesque suburban setting. Too much telling. You're using words which, to you, seem to have some very specific meanings, but need to remember not everyone sees the same meanings, this is why using words like picturesque is a pretty poor descriptor. Describe the suburban landscape, we don't need to know it is one. On the other hand say it's suburban, and leave it at that. Almost as if I had been dropped into a fictional world created by a non-American who was asked to describe this country. I feel this description is a bit weak, I'm struggling to picture a fictional world created by a non-american asked to describe this country. I know my English friend would create an effigy of the deep south and gun violence, my French friend would picture healthcare issues and poor schools, while my Filipino friend thinks of the US as a paradise. The best I can come up with is a urban sprawl out in California like at the intro of Weeds, but I find myself referring back to the description throughout trying to figure out what it meant Overall not a terrible piece IMO, the central plot item seems to be the emptiness of the park which I'd imagine you're going to talk about. Regardless tone down the telegraphic description, use some more imagery description. For example telling me he wore a trenchcoat tells me nothing more than he wore a trenchcoat, telling me that he wore a trenchcoat like an old mystery protagonist gives me the image of Casanova. Or better yet, google showing vs telling. I don't know, it's hard to offer more than that to a piece of description. elfdude fucked around with this message at 13:18 on Apr 3, 2014 |
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Apr 3, 2014 13:05
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Hi thread, I like reading and talking about words.rizuhbull posted:Hi thread. I have a sample I'd like to be critiqued. Thanks. A lot has already been said about this, but I hope I helped. I think through most of the excerpt, I was wondering where you're going with things.
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Apr 6, 2014 22:17
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I did a crit on the most recent thing, which was rizuhbull's story snippet. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cXa_orZzmzq85PFuHnNbkxwXcKnK6Urzb04PkKbPDiM/edit?usp=sharing Anyone mind doing a thing to this: quote:It’s late. Already you’re gone, your mind is, chemicals swirling around your neurons: kissing them quietly, slowly, seductively. Starter Wiggin fucked around with this message at 23:38 on Apr 14, 2014 |
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Apr 14, 2014 23:06
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Starter Wiggin posted:It’s late. Already you’re gone, It's nice, but it clearly has an audience of one if you know what I mean. Some parts are flat-out unpoetic, i.e. tired vertebrae, while other parts jar me unnecessarily like the needless personification of the arm. It waxes on the better side of being a bit adolescent. Romantic fluff is not the easiest to do well. I always treat description one of two ways: Either I play it realistic, in that I want my readers to picture what I'm talking about, or identify through experience. Just a nice landscape painting. Or I go impressionistic, and throw some curveballs, leave a lot implicit and do a lot of fancy literary stuff. Mixing both is difficult and dangerous, because if a reader is expecting to envision rather than "get a feel" for what is happening, weird descriptions like "unasked questions in its veins" (and the repetitive "unspoken question pulsing through it" reads like meaningless word-wankery, especially when you play it po-faced and straight 90% of the time. A reader only gets jarred when something deviates from the norm, so if you set a standard it is best to stick with it (unless you contextualise something as an acid trip, fever dream etc. and yes I am aware this story starts off with drugs but the narrator seems pretty lucid so OK then)
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Apr 15, 2014 00:57
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). The arm, its hand, finds its way to your shoulder, your neck, your face.
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Starter Wiggin posted:
I'm not very experienced with crits, and I realize this was posted a couple of weeks ago, but here's my opinion after a couple of read-throughs. I think personifying the arm throughout the piece weakens the whole thing. "An arm reaches around you," works, "The arm says, My bed is more comfortable than the floor," doesn't. It's jarring to suddenly have the arm apparently talking in the middle of a lusty scene. Descriptions like "tired vertebrae" just completely yanked me out of the story because they don't flow with the rest of your writing. I'm not sure what the intent of your piece was but I was also a little confused about spending the whole time describing how someone feels during foreplay, all those emotions building up, and then the characters spend exactly one sentence having sex. The whole thing might be stronger if you described emotions during sex as well. I agree with the above poster that romantic scenes are really hard to get right but you can pull it off with some modifications. As for me--here's the first bit of a short story I've been working on, my first try at fiction writing in a while. It's basically one big personal exercise in "showing not telling" and I have no idea if I am pulling it off well, so please critique! Nolichucky "Get the drat water, boy, and be quick about it!" Christopher's sooty hand flew up just in time to catch the faded wooden pail before it whacked him in the face. He turned without a word and dashed through the door, blinking as the sunlight slammed into his eyes. The dust beneath his bare feet rose gently into the air as he slowed down to a skip, sucking in the warm spring air. To everyone else, it was an uncommonly hot day for this time of year. Christopher, who spent every day of the year next to a blazing hot forge, found even stagnent summer air refreshing. The ground squished and slid beneath his toes as he neared the creek. Christopher trotted behind the big tree that blocked the view of the river from the blacksmith's shop and happily leapt into the air, his feet splattering mud everywhere with a satisfying splat as he slid down the bank towards the sparkling blue river. A squirrel chattered, its tiny jaw moving in quick little bursts of anger as it skittered up a tree out of Christopher's path. The sky seemed impossibly bright as Christopher looked up through the waving branches, the tip of the squirrel's fluffy tail vanishing just out of his sight. "Ow!" The sky vanished as Christopher flung forward, pain shooting through his toes as his body smashed into the ground, mud filling his mouth. He barely saw the gray of a large rock sticking up in the middle of the path before suddenly there was sky again, rock, sky, rock, sky. His hands flew out, grasping for the bucket handle, but only splashed into cool water, and then his whole body was splashing as the spinning world came to a halt and the taste of mud was replaced with earthy water. The sound of laughter floated over the river and Christopher cowered, expecting the laughter to be drowned out in a moment by the whistle of a lash about to slash across his back. He trembled. "Oh, Eliza, he's really hurt." A girl's voice, not the voice of his master. "He'd not be hurt if he were proper, he's just Mister John's 'prentice." "Don't being a 'prentice mean one day he'll be a smith just like Mister John?" "If he can't get water wi'out drowning, Mister John ain't going to be training him much longer." A few splashes grew closer. Christopher pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes as rustling pink fabric filled his vision. "Yer bucket's okay, it didn't break." The bucket thrust towards him. Christopher glanced up, blinking the last bit of water from his eyes. A girl gazed at him with eyes the color of the river, and when he met her eyes, her round cheeks grew plumper as she grinned. A second girl on the opposite river bank stomped her foot, pulling her blue skirts up to keep them from dragging in the mud. "Catherine, hurry up, or I'm goin' back wit'out you and you can have Ma's switching." Catherine stood up, brown braids swinging across her face as she turned to glare. "Eliza, yer oldest so Ma will switch you too for not being responsblah." "It's responsablah, and I'll switch you for makin' us late wi' the water."
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Apr 23, 2014 23:56
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Pata Pata Pata Pon posted:Nolichucky The biggest stumbling blocks I saw to comprehension were your kudzu sentences and the whole whatever was happening to Christopher. Regarding the sentences, it's something I think a lot of writers have to work hard at. It's definitely something I have to do when I do revisions on my stuff. I end up tossing on those extra phrases when they would sound and read better as their own separate sentences. Don't be afraid to have short sentences if it makes things clearer.
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Apr 24, 2014 00:57
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Ha, I know wordiness in my writing is something I need to work on and I even cut some stuff before posting that snippit here. Clearly it's something I need to keep working on, and I will! "Nolichucky" is the name of the river but you're right, in my mind they're really more in a creek-type environment so I guess I need to change the river references to a creek. I'm not sure about the dialect either. Maybe I will tone it down and see if it sounds okay, or if it just sounds like my grammar sucks and drop the dialect all together.
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Apr 24, 2014 01:31
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Welp, time to throw this out there. It's small, but it's a start. quote:I’m not sure where I am. Also just wanted to say re: Nolichucky that I'm on board with the dialect, so far.
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Apr 24, 2014 04:11
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Clicky Pen posted:
You have some neat sentences and ideas floating around so all you have to do is elaborate and you'll have yourself a story. Also, write more like the parts I liked. They are concise and clear. Now it's my turn to get shredded. Faux Pas 353 words As he grabs her forearm she drops her glass causing shards of crystal and beads of champagne to scatter across an oaken-floor. “Charlotte—you're going to apologize!” “I have nothing to say to him.” They stand in a room filled with suited men and women in their fineries now aghast as man and wife collide. “I sincerely apologize for any offense she may have caused—Apologize!” “Let me go, Stan!” The crowd winces as Charlotte cries out in pain. Stan's grip tightens in response to each of her attempts to break free, causing Charlotte's arm to turn red in distress. “Stan, you're hurting me!” The crowd gasps as Stan glimpses himself in Charlotte's watch. Disheveled and red-in-the-face he shakes his head and releases his wife's arm. He wonders to himself: “Where did I go wrong?” The day started like any other Sunday. They had an early breakfast with Charlotte's Mother and Father over mimosas. They enjoyed a spirited discussion over the state of the countries failing economy. There were no arguments and things progressed civilly. They finished the morning with a few games of backgammon. At noon, Mother and Father left to meet friends at the Verdant Courts country club. Stan spent the afternoon drinking scotch and reading the news paper. Charlotte made return calls to those friends who had left messages of congratulations for the couple's anniversary. At four, Charlotte reminded Stan of their obligation to attend a friend's party. “We're having a party tomorrow night—why does she have to throw us another?” “I told you—she won't be able to attend our party—Stan.” They arrived at the party two hours later and both began to drink champagne. The couple split to mix amongst friends. For another hour the party progressed well enough until—bringing up the state of the economy—Charlotte inadvertently insulted a man. Stan interjected in an attempt to smooth over the faux pas, insisting that Charlotte apologize. Charlotte was vehemently defending her statements when Stan reached out to grab her. As he grabbed her forearm she dropped her glass causing shards of crystal and beads of champagne to be scattered across an oaken-floor. ---- My questions for you: Is the tense shift jarring or does it make sense in context? Does this sentence, "Charlotte made return calls to those friends who had left messages of congratulations for the couple's anniversary..." read too wordy? Not_Rainbow_Horse fucked around with this message at 07:01 on Apr 24, 2014 |
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Apr 24, 2014 06:33
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Not_Rainbow_Horse posted:Faux Pas I like the shift in perspective from the event itself to the build up but, when the event comes back around, I'm not sure what I was supposed to take from the build up that makes the event itself more profound/interesting the second time. For such a short piece there's quite a lot left unsaid. Try to bulk out the characters so the reader can engage more with what's happening and the people it's happening to.
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Apr 24, 2014 14:04
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And here's something from me. Think I may have got a little carried away with the alliteration in the final para. Critique away! Under St Pancras (376 words) The clock on St Pancras says it’s just past nine. The last of the patent leather shoes scatter past me. I croak out a muffled line from where I’m sprawled out on the floor but no one pays attention. I notice the birds massing on the roof opposite. Silhouetted against the blazing sun they’re caught like blotches on a polaroid. One of them gives the signal and they pop like blisters oozing sticky black oil down onto the concourse. The wings beat at each other and their beaks clack open and shut in a nightmarish rhythm. They tear scraps of food out of their neighbours’ mouths and split the rumbling of the trains with their scraping cries. My stomach cramps and I can feel a starchy, wet lump in the back of my throat. As the birds’ fever rises to a crescendo a woman parts their silken mass with striding, pointed heels. I watch the muscles in her legs contract and relax; the taut strings of an ancient instrument. I turn my head away into the sun and let my eyelids burn. Dark, naked, oiled shapes split and morph and churn in black relief. I barely nod a thank you as she drops a coin into my cup. I fall asleep and come around during the lunch rush. Bags of food everywhere. Plastic wrapped in plastic bagged in plastic. I glance up at the clock to see if the kitchen is open yet. Five more hours until I can queue and sit and eat. And then they make you sing. A loaf of bread for an empty, godless song. There’s an endless orchestra playing around me. Violin bows beat up and down under the heavy sun. The strings carry resonances of money and time and leisure. It’s all a dischord to me. All a mess. But they play on, oblivious. Kettle drum thunder catches the attention of the conductor and suddenly the orchestra clamours to climb out of the pit; a calm panic of politely crushed instrument cases and flattened sheet music. Soon there’s nothing left but me and the chanting percussion spitting splinters of rain. The station clock has stopped. The orchestra has gone. The birds are watching; breaking my metre with an off-kilter beat.
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Apr 24, 2014 14:07
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Not_Rainbow_Horse posted:Faux Pas Like, you do this thing with present tense in the start (which I'll be honest, I hate present tense, but the tense shift is sort of important to the style) that seems to be mostly from a third-person limited perspective; we're seeing poo poo from Stan's point of view. I don't know why he suddenly let Charlotte's arm go, but I know we're seeing a controlling rear end in a top hat making a scene over something that I guess is unimportant based on Charlotte's reaction. Then we switch to past tense (in a super ugly introduction) and it's jarring as hell, because it's still a third-person limited Stan story; Charlotte's a prop, and we see a bit before the party happened, and it's irrelevant and the question Stan asked was never answered and it left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. I enjoy the concept behind the tense switching here but the execution just leaves me annoyed. You probably read some writing advice that says you should focus your story around conflict; this is true, but you should also try and resolve something, either the conflict, the questions in the audience's mind, a story, anything. I don't feel like I read a short story or exercise here, I feel like I read the rough drafts of someone trying out different methods of telling an introduction to a different story. Nigel Tufnel posted:Under St Pancras (376 words) I critiqued it on the story I read. The story I read suddenly has this whole band pop up around Michigan J. Frog, then go away, while he just kind of hangs out and waits for his chance to sing for some bread. If that's not your story, you didn't write a story, just a bunch of words that say "a guy sat around and looked at things for a couple hours." If that is your story, you need to sit back and think about how to write an ending that works with what you introduced to us because I genuinely don't know what I read other than there's a frog, and some suddenly Lovecraftian birdmonsters, and a witch, and then there's this band, and the band goes away, and the freakish crowbeasts kind of annoy Michigan by clicking their beaks in a different rhythm than "Hello! Ma Baby" goes. Seriously I'm confused enough that I'd love for you to explain this to me and I generally hate when people try and explain their stories. Wungus fucked around with this message at 15:59 on Apr 28, 2014 |
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Apr 28, 2014 15:57
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Nigel Tufnel posted:
First, the little things: The alliteration in the last paragraph is fine, don't worry about that. As Whalley said, specifying the church or cathedral or whatever as 'St. Pancras' is unnecessarily confusing, and looks like a typo or odd symbolism. I'd also be a bit careful with semicolon use, but that might just be my personal preferences talking. I got the impression that the homeless man is a schizophrenic, or suffering from some related sort of mental illness. If he's not, then I don't see the point of all the slightly grotesque imagery. If he is, then the story works in a sort of impersonal 'narrative snapshot' kind of way - Though there wasn't much context for me to empathize with the man in any real way. I guess the story just doesn't really have an impact with me. The first half makes me feel vaguely nauseous, and the second half doesn't really make me feel anything at all. What are you trying to make me feel with this? I'm curious. Anyway, here's my thing: quote:Shifting
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Apr 30, 2014 08:36
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Rollofthedice posted:It was a particular day in February, a decade ago. "It was [month], [year]" is not a captivating opening It was bright out, very bright, even as the sun set. Snow blanketed the earth, occasionally Apart from a few minor clarity issues, your writing is understandable and you've got some idea of sentence pacing. You lost me on some of the imagery, like your winter flowers and white sunsets. But more than that, I don't know what I'm supposed to feel about this or why I'm supposed to care. First person characters can let you get inside the head of someone who's going through a conflict, but your first person character doesn't have a conflict beyond not wanting his friend to die. I don't know what's happened until two lines from the end, and the ending makes his death seem kind of beautiful which is a bit weird because that's not the tone the story takes. There's something good in there about the dramatic irony of the soldier living while his family back home dies, but I never got to care about any of it. Anyway I should nut up or shut up so have fun with some 2011 vintage words. Recursive Zero II 650 words In the times indefinite of King Ur Who Counted The World, there were two who came for the naming of their son. In the old tradition they listened and heard, as within ringing-speaking the forms of his name became clear. Stone words shone in sound, speaking over the name: [Urzchtek], Ur's Death. Even within and around these times naming was known to aspire to Truth. His parents swore upon the brow of Reason that they would keep him where he could do no harm to their king. Within walls of heath and bars of grass they bound him, to not leave their home. (But remember in these days that their homes were of lesser flesh and bone teetering atop the ground.) Ur's Death grew up within these walls. He enjoyed counting immensely, as Ur had. But while Ur had counted the world and made it whole within his mind, Ur's Death had little to count but his family's garden. So once he had counted all that lay within it, he turned his numbers upon their sides, and counted perpendicularly. He counted the garden eight times over, each time taking a new direction. His parents watched, tears stabbing their breasts at their child's madness. (For remember, in these days numbers stretched only like lines toward the horizon.) Ur's Death planned to turn aside the hedge and escape the garden, but soon his mother found him, and told him that they would go into the wild to hunt. As she wept tears of fire, he set out before her. She had to end her shame, and so she drew her bow and let fly her loving arrow straight at the back of Ur's Death. Ur's Death turned around and quickly counted the distance between the arrow and himself, then took off running. "Your arrow flies faster than I run, mother! But by the time it's got to where I was, I've gone further already. And when it's where I am-was I'll be where I will-be-am." The arrow heard the words that Ur's Death spoke and felt its logic to be true; so the further Ur's Death ran, the nearer it crept, yet still he eluded its flight. Before long, however, he reached a steep cliff, surrounded on all sides with the arrow coming behind him. He couldn't stop, so he spoke to the stone, counting it upwards, then backwards, then rightwards, then timewards, and again the four times in orthagic sequence. Bent in the Eight Ways of Building, the stone gave way, by the power of Ur's Death compelled to follow the numbers that he spoke. Halls sprang from his throat, breath becoming column and balustrade, his heartbeat pounding into alcoves. Deeper into the stone Ur's Death and his death ran. With finesse that had been turned inward, stone became finest brass under his lips. Ur's Death saw what he had created and was delighted, pausing to bask in his first creation. And as where he was became coterminous with where he would-be, the arrow robbed him of all Logic and Reason, and he fell silent. The mother of Ur's Death was distraught to find the curled and angled stone, and came back only when accompanied by Ur Who Speaks and the World Listens. (For remember, in these days such beauty was unknown.) In awe, Ur reached out, feeling the ways in which the count had become angles and angles become form. Of the Eight Ways only Four were felt, and so half of Geometry was lost; we seek now still to learn what Ur's Death spoke. Ur Tongue of Pure Premise saw his integral within Ur's Death, and proclaimed him to be a hero; he was the death of Ur, for now the Angles superceded the Count. With Architecture and Geometry began our cities, and with brass we built our name. Recurring and infinite thanks be to Urzchtek, Thamzurak and the Zero Angle.
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Apr 30, 2014 14:01
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Rollofthedice posted:Shifting Sometimes I like writing that describes weather or surroundings. Good descriptions can really make me feel like I'm there. Your piece had some nice moments, but occasionally I was distracted. Mostly because some of your descriptions don't answer to any weather phenomenon that I am familiar with, and you aren't always consistent. l already mentioned that falling leaves, blossoms and snow don't tend to happen at the same time. Also, I've never seen orange moon light. Maybe I've just been really unlucky. Then you mention it's night, but still the narrator seems to see all the grave stones clearly, the red colour of blood on snow etc. You start the whole piece with "a decade ago", yet you don't ever return to the present so to speak. How is it relevant that it was a decade ago? Does it still haunt the narrator? Is he thinking of this before putting a gun to his own head? What's the point here? I liked the tone of your writing, which was mostly bleak and depressing. It suited your story. All in all your writing is clear and you convey a lot of feeling. Just previewed this before posting and noticed that Djeser has already given you a crit. I'm slow at this critting business. Posting it anyway.
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Apr 30, 2014 15:42
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Thanks a lot, shooz and Djeser. Some reptilian part of my brain thought that the idea of flowers/leaves/falling plant matter on snow was pretty, and proceeded to gag logic and throw it into a river. The 'orange to silver' thing was supposed to mean from sunset to moonlight, but since I mentioned white in my canvas simile everything got hosed up. I'm glad that my sentences are clear and structured. I just need to clear up what I'm saying and make what I say worth reading, instead of just conceiving of a scenario and typing it down without any thought over its purpose. Chelb fucked around with this message at 17:57 on Apr 30, 2014 |
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Apr 30, 2014 17:37
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No one's taken this on! I'll try it for my first critique. I really like the feel of this--alien but historical. It reminds me of some of the weirder Elder Scrolls fiction. Given that it's meant to feel weird and describe a lost art, I think there are a few places you could clarify things without losing that feeling. Djeser posted:Recursive Zero II Again, really enjoyed the mood and the structure of the piece.
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May 20, 2014 23:28
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Djeser posted:In the times indefinite of King Ur Who Counted The World, there were two who came for the naming of their son. I like how you're using numbers here and to my mind it reads a lot like a Celtic-style myth, especially with the repetition of key numbers like eight. Perhaps try and work that theme into the bit where he sings the cathedral? It's been built up to with plays on Xeno's Paradox and concludes with a Euclidean cult, you might as well run with it. 'Ur's Death' isn't a bad character name for what you're doing but it's a little unwieldy just because it's two words and you can't easily shorten it. Changing some of the mentions to a simple 'he' when appropriate would make it less off-putting. Overall this feels close to a fairy story mathematicians tell their kids and whilst I know sod all about maths I still appreciated it: if your audience aren't familiar with Xeno's Paradox it might be an issue but you apply it succinctly here and I wouldn't bother trying to explain it more. A little tightening is in order to make the ending less vague but it can get there. Here is a thing I did for last week's Thunderdome which the judges recommended I seek further crit on: it's been slightly edited from the version in the TD thread. Avast, Me Hearties “Shift’s over,” said Theresa, with her cute smile and tattered coat. “You know, the Cyclopean look suits you. Fancy coming for a drink?” I winked at her. “How do you know I'm not a pirate?” Theresa punched me gently. “A pirate would have answered my question already.” “In that case, aye, I'll be attendin' with ye, madam.” She laughed and my guts clenched like always. “Maybe you should avoid the pirate's life.” “I suppose you're right, my dear. I'll finish up here and we can-” It was then that the front door opened, and the dust of the disturbed evening spilled into the lobby. It wafted along with the breeze, and I was just about to scurry over when I saw exactly who it was that had stalked in, coming to rest against the disused fireplace. I figured I should ask.. “Can I help you, sir?” He grinned at me, no gaps in those pearly whites. “I think you can, my friend.” “Tsongwe, I'm working right now.” “I don't count sexy talk as work, Hastings, and neither do you. You owe me a favour. I'm calling it due.” He turned to look at Theresa. “Not that I blame you, mind.” She looked him up and down: no mean feat given his six feet and six. Tsongwe's body branched out like an overgrown sapling, imposing and somehow brittle. She said nothing. “Miss, I need to speak to our mutual friend. Would you perhaps give us a moment?” She looked at me. I smiled. “Well,” she said, “I guess next time, then.” She walked away, and it was just him and I again. I looked over my shoulder towards the staff door. I had nearly made it. I leaned over the desk and lowered my voice. “And you had to come here, now? I'm trying to go straight here, man.” He laughed. My guts held firm. “So I see. But this is big.” I sighed the silent smile of service workers everywhere. “What is it this time? New plates? Another clean phone? The First Bank again?” “Hastings, you insult me. When did we ever pull the same job twice? You should think yourself lucky I'm looking you up again,” he said, “and I know you do.” --- I picked up the phone and dialled. Theresa answered on the final ring. “I thought you'd never call,” she said. “Thought you'd found yourself a new friend.” “Oh, he's an old one. It's been a while, though.” A beat. “He needs me to help him with something. Tying up a few loose ends. I owe him.” I could hear her breathing down the line. “Then I'll see you soon,” she said. “I swear,” I told her, hoping I meant it. --- It was only when the two of us were crouched in the long grass, not a hundred metres from the railroad tracks, that he actually told me the plan. “You're crazy, Tsongwe. Still.” “I'm the sanest I've ever been. Honest.” Darkness was falling over the plains. From here it was a long ride to the Zambezi crossing and further still to the coast, but the mine trains rattled through here at least once a week with their earthly riches. Further up the track, towards the mountains, fires sparked amongst the shanties that clung to the verge. Tsongwe followed my gaze, and nodded. He pulled out a pair of binoculars, passed them to me. Squinting, my eye could make out the distant shape of a mine train, pouring a column of smoke into the wind. “On that train.” said Tsongwe. “What we want is there.” He reached into the bag, and pulled out a thick hemp sack. “When it stops to cool down, we'll just siphon off a little taste for my employer. If he likes it, we come back next time and take more.” “How do you know it stops?” Tsongwe turned and looked at me. “I have my ways. You should know that.” I looked back at him. He sighed. “I asked a shanty boy. What did you think I did?” He turned away towards our quarry. I spoke in the falling silence. “This is the last time, man.” The train chugged on, and the thud-thud of its coming grew louder. “We can't be doing this any more.” “Fine. Have it your way – the new one, that is.” I reached for the hole where my left eye had been. “This is just like you! I don't hear from you for an age, and then suddenly you show up at the worst possible time-” “She's not your type.” “Oh? And here you are out of the blue all Hey there Hastings, let's go rob a train like nothing ever happened. Some of us want to move on, you know. I am done with this whole drat business and I-” Suddenly he had a finger on my lips. “Shh,” he said. “Train's here.” He turned and skulked down the slope. And I followed. --- The still train heaved like a beast in labour. At the front where the engine sat steam hissed, slowly breathing out. Tsongwe slunk up to her, counting carriages. “Six, seven... eight. This is it here.” He crouched in front of the carriage tap and unfolded the sack, settling its neck around the faucet. “Ready?” “Ready.” I reached for the handle. As I gripped it I could feel the dust and grime on its surface, and turned. As it released the carriage creaked, and something began to slide into the sack. It took its time, whatever it was. Even as I checked my watch I could feel something slowing us, dragging on the second hand like a dead weight. “We're done,” he said, tying the sack and straightening up. “Let's go.” “Wait. Aren't you going to show me what we did this for? Why you dragged me out here?” “Once we're safe.” “Let me see it, Tsongwe.” “You're the crazy one. We can't just stand here.” “Give me the sack, Tsongwe.” “drat, Hastings, get off me!” As I grabbed for the sack, we wobbled, lost balance and fell. It burst. The black powder within caked us in seconds, sticking to our sweat, getting in our eyes. I sat up, wiping my face with one dirty hand. “You bastard,” I said. “Who do you know who's going to pay big money for a sack of coal dust?” “Nobody, okay? But it's good stuff, I can find a buyer, and-” he looked at me, “it was fun, right? Like the old days?” I opened my mouth to answer, but another voice cut across me. “Hey, the hell are you?” It was then we turned and saw the silhouettes stumbling at us through the night. My fault, I guess. “Let's go!” Tsongwe shouted, and he was away up the hillside: I grabbed the remains of our prize and followed him, the waves of our laughter washing across the prairie and falling back into the dark. --- I was working desk when I next saw Theresa. It was a warm evening, with the moisture hanging in the air, but the steady crackling of the fireplace was at least drying the place out if nothing else. “The mystery man returns! How was your trip?” I shrugged. “Nothing special. Some raidin' an' booty, aye.” The beginnings of a grin crept onto her face. “Alright then, have it your way.” She crouched down beside the old fireplace, staring into the flames. “And why do you have this going? I didn't even know it still worked.” “No reason,” I said. “Just getting rid of the evidence. Arr.” She laughed again, and I was back in the game.
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Jun 5, 2014 11:57
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Obliterati posted:Avast, Me Hearties As promised in the TD thread, here are my detailed thoughts. In general, I liked this a lot. You do a great job establishing character through your dialogue, and particularly in telling us a lot while using very few words. I admire minimalism in both the visual arts and in writing; it's a talent I don't really have, but it's one I really like to see when it's done well (as here). You have an occasional tendency toward overly-clever word choices, and while I certainly understand the temptation, I don't think you need to rely on them. As I said in the line-by-line, your writing here is at its best when your language is straightforward, simple, and showing us paragraphs worth of detail in just a few words.
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Jun 6, 2014 03:36
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Dust Bowl I pushed the two pennies across the countertop and smiled graciously. “Open your hand, boy” the plump shopkeep said cheerfully, his cheeks red as rhubarb. Into my palm he poured an ounce of dried lentils. These were lean times, not just for me but for the nation as a whole. People everywhere were doing whatever they could to get by on a dime a day. I am a writer by trade, but making a living from “the pen” as my favorite instructor Mr. Emerald used to call it was about as difficult as a Chinaman getting elected President. As I popped the dry legumes into my mouth one at a time, I tried to savor their essence, their green peaness. I had been tipped off about a job opening at Blochure Magazine by an old school friend of mine and I needed all the vigor I could muster to impress upon the folks at this periodical that I was the one they should hire. I made my way up to the dusty office by means of the stairs, as the lift was out of order. The secretary’s desk was vacant and I was already ten minutes late, so I decided to open the door and introduce myself. Boy howdy was I in for a shock at what I saw: a grown man sitting on another man’s lap. “Who told you to barge in here like that?” said the man on the lap, his hands still in the other man’s thinning, grey hair. “Where the hell is Marge off to now?” the sitting man grumbled. As he gathered himself and stood, the younger man said something which surprised me greatly: “Probably another one of her diarrhea spells, pa”. “Well whaddya want?” the men said in unison. “I… I… I…” I was stammering, moved to disequilibrium by the turn of events which had unfolded before my eyes. Stomping my foot and regaining my composure, I started into the speech I had prepared on the way Downtown: “I intend to become the chief writer of Blochure Magazine, and I’ll do whatever it takes to secure that position!” I was proud of myself. I had delivered every word excellently. “Boy oh boy” the older man chuckled to himself. “We’re payin’ a nickel a paragraph here son, there ain’t no full-time opportunities. ‘Sides, we ain’t seen whatcha’ can do yet. Are you aware of what type of stories we write here, Mister…” his voice trailed off. “Cave, Charles Cave” I shot back. “And no, I don’t know what type of business Blochure Magazine is in, but I can assure you that I am a fine writer and I’ll have no problem producing top-notch content for you.” “Blowing.” The younger man sat down on the large wooden desk and said “we’re in the blowing business”, which caused me to completely lose my composure. I hadn’t yet secured my first kiss, but I remembered the blue stories older boys would tell at the campfire late at night. “B… b… blowing…?” I stammered out. I froze momentarily. “Good day!” I yelled pleasantly and ran right back out the door. I simply did not have the intestinal fortitude to participate in such an endeavor. After five flights of stairs I realized that I had forgotten my briefcase in their office and rushed back up to retrieve it. The door was still ajar from when I left, so I poked my head in to see if the coast was clear. What I saw this time nearly gave me a heart attack: the two men, ostensibly father and son, were kissing passionately! I didn’t care to interfere so I simply abandoned the briefcase and redoubled my efforts to escape. I made my way out but in my haste to abscond I tripped over my own legs and fell in the street, injuring my wrist. An angelic woman came to my aid, and when she saw the panicked look in my eyes she gently placed her palm on my cheek, soothing me. The woman that rescued me that day became my wife of forty years. As I lay on my death bed, surrounded by my loving family and colleagues from my successful writing career, I closed my eyes and thought of the one moment in my life when I felt genuine exhilaration: the time I saw a father and son kissing on the mouth at Blochure Magazine.
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Jun 10, 2014 02:18
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bless
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Jun 10, 2014 03:10
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Dust Bowl Overall, I thought this was a reasonably competent piece of writing. It’s a solid premise, newbie writer presents himself before editorial gate-keepers only to be brushed aside. I wasn’t sure what to make of the incest bit, but from Charles’ perspective we’re supposed to be surprised and shocked and most of us would have gotten the hell out of dodge if we walked in on something like that. Still, I think having Charles linger there a bit to try and figure out what exactly is going on would have made the story a bit more intriguing. What were they doing? I liked the line “Chinaman getting elected President.” It tells you a lot about the time and the character in just a few words. I felt like you could gone a bit further describing the setting other than saying “these were lean times” and “People everywhere were doing whatever they could to get by on a dime a day.” Like what? What exactly were they doing? Just a couple of sentences would have gone a long way toward showing the reader what life is like here. All in all, I think the premise was solid, if it needed a bit more fleshing out. Charles’ point of view worked for the most part. There’s a bunch of questions I have, which is always a good way of stringing the reader along. The jump to Charles on his deathbed was super jarring, though. I guess it makes sense given the length, but I wanted to know what was going on with those dudes more than I wanted to know how Charles wooed his future wife.
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Jun 10, 2014 20:09
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Fulfillment Yes, I knew it was illegal for my father to have me. But here’s the thing. He never actually got to go through with it. There was the time he had me bent over and the doorbell rang: encyclopedia salesman. Another instance I had my legs wrapped behind my head and we smelled smoke, and he realized he had left a quiche lorraine in the oven for over 2 hours. Once when camping we were getting hot n heavy in the tent and he said he was going to “split me like a piece of firewood” and then an air raid siren went off and we were forced to evacuate by rangers due to a mother bear rampaging at a campsite nearby. Now sure, father did do inappropriate things that were probably close to being illegal. French kissing your son every day when dropping him off at school can make problems with classmates like you wouldn’t imagine. I generally skipped and hung out behind the convenience store, or if I had to be in class I would put my head down on the desk and go to sleep. Any time I was in the bathroom at home and I left the door unlocked, he would come in with no pants on and try to get frisky. I got used to hearing the doorknob jiggling when I took a shower, but I simply had to lock it, as I wanted to wash my hair in peace. Overall, the crude acts dad did weren’t such a big deal to me, since he was a pretty handsome guy, so I just kind of tolerated it. One day we were in bed together and he was kissing me in his usual hard way, scratching my face with his bushy moustache. He would dart his tongue in and out of my mouth while I laid there stoically. “This is it son, I’m entering you” he said to me as he slid off my sweatpants. I closed my eyes. “You’ve got such a fine arse and I…” he didn’t finish his sentence. When I looked up, he was falling face first onto me, clutching his chest. Dad was having a heart attack. When the paramedics got to my house, they had a confused look on their faces. I’m sure they were wondering why this guy was fully naked in his son’s room. Dad was rushed to the hospital but he didn’t make it. I guess all that quiche really adds up over time. That night when I went to sleep I was a bit sad but also I felt glad to know I would have an undisturbed night of rest. There had been so many times when I would wake up in the middle of the night to dad’s member in my face, him breathing hard, and then someone would try to break into our van and he would run out into the street waving a gun. As I dozed off, an apparition appeared at the foot of my bed. It was dad! His ghost climbed on top of my body and mounted me, and in death he was finally doing what he never could in life. Dad’s ghost raped me all night long, and in the morning I was too tired to go to school.
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Jun 10, 2014 23:09
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enough
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Jun 10, 2014 23:26
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Obliterati, I remembered liking this piece in TD, so here's a crit.Obliterati posted:Avast, Me Hearties This ending is much better than the first one! Overall, this is an impressively complete story with a lot of character development for a piece in the 800-900 word range. You paint broad pictures with very few words. I enjoyed it the first time and even more this time.
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Jul 9, 2014 08:20
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Aughhh, Ahwhhhh! Eurahhhhhhhhh! There’s something coming up from under the bed. oh God there’s something coming! This can’t be real. This has to be a night terror brought on by a childish fear of the dark. I'll get drowsy in a minute and it'll go away. But oh God, I fear this isn’t a phobia. Something’s materializing, and it’s tired of leering at me from the other side of the room. This has to be a trick of the light. I knew I shouldn’t have condoned that woman’s vanity when I bought her all these damned mirrors. The reflections must be being subliminally focused on the relative brightness of the open doorway; that or my conflicting desires to sleep and escape are projecting themselves as an entity whose function is to deny me an exit. Oh great, now the mirrors are filling me with dread. I feel like they’re losing their solidity and becoming portals to another room that just happens to look like my own. This new fear of being dragged off might not be a bad thing. Doesn’t this prove that what I’m sensing is psychosomatic? The fear got worse because I shifted my focus; all of this must be a fantasy run amuck! I think I’ll just get up and turn on the light. Let’s just ignore how I’m being watched and the looming mass that has been lurking forward inch by inch since I first took notice of it. That grating buzz issuing from its unseen maw must be me crafting noise from the night’s silence. Just ignore it: it’ll stop in a second. (Flick) Oh GOD WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?! It’s screaming and I’m throwing up within a second of illumination. The Aberration’s flat and multicolored, as if it’s a lightshow projection of a hell beast whose hide has deliberately evolved to strike terror into our species' limited mind frame. Why isn’t it eating me? WHY ISN’T IT EATING ME? The lightbulb should have already been shattered by the ultrahigh pitch of that excruciating wail, but it continues to shine with a magnitude I can barely register over my mortal terror and puking my guts out all over the floor. I close and open my eyes one last time, and expect my consciousness to linger on being torn apart for the rest of my empty afterlife. But when I reopen my eyes…there’s nothing there. I’m all alone with a mountain of hurl and a persistent ringing in my ears. It’s Thursday and I still need to go to sleep. Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 22:44 on Jul 10, 2014 |
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Jul 10, 2014 19:21
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Snippet # 2 Killing the kid wouldn't be a problem; I’d have no interest in whether he felt pain or fear after I gutted him like the pig he made himself out to be. Petty notions of morality were also out of the equation; I’d let Christ or whatever dumbfuck in charge of arrogant pricks like him decide the repercussions for what I was planning to do. Nobody would even miss him; I’d heard enough of his family disputes to know that he was the black sheep of the (degenerate) family. No, my problem was the obvious one: how to dispose of the body. The neighborhood had been quite enough before his kind, and I was pretty sure no one would catch what I did on camera. They’d probably even congratulate me if they ever found out I was the one to do that miserable punk in. I had seen enough tv to know that my best bet was to melt the bastard, but I was nowhere near a chemist, and googling “how to decompose a body” right before a murder tends to raise eyebrows if looked into. I’d have to eat ‘im. Oh well, an upset stomach is better than a annoyed stroke. After a little bit of prep I was ready. I waited for an excuse and he gave me one; the gently caress presented himself with his reliably condescending smile and I pulled out my knife… __________________________________________________ Having to kill the old man wouldn’t be a problem; he’d instigate an ordeal and my conscience would be clean. I had lived in this shithole of a neighborhood my whole life, and I’d be damned if someone other than me decided when the sidewalk was off limits. I’d had enough of being told what to do, and I was sick and tired of being the guy who stepped out of the way for others who were walking. Who cared if people called me crazy for running around at midnight? If I wanted to I could summersault my way through the cul-de-sac in nothing but short shorts and there would be nothing they could do about it. After tolerating a decade of worsening affronts I had finally graduated into the real world. No more morons were pushing me around: I didn’t stand for it. I had actually come to enjoy the neighbors’ unease, and if they wanted some they could come and get it. The old man was the worst of them; his stares felt like a mix between the glare of a judgmental uncle and an overbearing school-yard bully. I knew he wanted to hurt me, and I could be obliged to give him a try. At this point I was just asking for trouble. I would go out of my way to exercise when his kind were out. I’d smoke a cigarette and make the punks look weak in front of their girls, and I would never break eye contact with someone until they did it for me. I see the old man by his car; I can easily walk the other way. But why should I? The pavement is public property: gently caress him. Before I know it something sharp flashes in his hand, finally allowing me to pull out something sharp of my own. If I go down he goes down with me. ___ If I go down, he goes with me. Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 23:19 on Jul 10, 2014 |
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Jul 10, 2014 19:23
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Sithsaber posted:[i] Aughhh, Ahwhhhh! Eurahhhhhhhhh! Don't do this So I guess I'm kind of confused here. Your narrator sees a monster except he thinks it's all in his head even though he can clearly see and hear it. Then he turns on the light, and suddenly the thing is real and has a fancy name. Then there's some random lines that basically sound like you're trying to ape Lovecraft, but the rest of the piece isn't written in that tone at all. You've got a narrator that we end up knowing absolutely nothing about except that he's scared and he threw up. Your tone is schizophrenic and worst of all, nothing actually happens in the story. So this monster shows up and he closes his eyes and then...it's gone, I guess? Does your narrator keep seeing this thing? Is it tormenting him night after night? Or is it the world's shittiest cosmic beast, showing up once just to make a dude puke on himself and then retreating back to the infernal plane to laugh about with his buds? You really need to focus on showing the reader what's going on. I think literally the only showing you do is one line describing this monster, and even that does a pretty poor job. It basically sounds like someone laid a disco ball on a pile of jello. Does it even have a mouth to eat people with? Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at 22:15 on Jul 10, 2014 |
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Jul 10, 2014 22:04
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He basically is schizophrenic. The character is a little bitch 20something year old who's still afraid of the dark, As you probably know, being afraid of the dark is essentially caused by our imaginations not shutting the gently caress up.(which is why he tried to ignore it) 2. Will change the second night to dark. 3. Train of thought of someone trying to man up instead of pulling a blanket over his head. 4. I had fun with this. 5. I added one sentence for you. Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 22:47 on Jul 10, 2014 |
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Jul 10, 2014 22:29
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Sithsaber posted:Killing the kid wasn’t the problem;I would get rid of the semicolon and replace it with a period I’d have no interest in whether he felt pain or fear after I gutted him like the pig he made himself out to be. Petty notions of morality were also out of the equation; I’d let Christ or whatever Dumbfuck don’t cap in charge of arrogant pricks like him decide the repercussions for what I was planning to do. Nobody would even miss him; I’d heard enough of his family disputes to know that he was the black sheep of the (degenerate) Don’t do parentheses, especially for one unimportant word family. What the hell is happening in your story? So, protag kills a kid, decides he has to eat the body, and then there’s an old man on the sidewalk and he pulls out a knife? What just happened? None of it makes sense. And please, don't reply back to this with excuses or explaining what happened. If your story doesn't make sense, then fix it. The time you spend replying back to me could be time spent making your story more clear. Worse of all, nothing actually happened. We’re just told protag kills a kid and eats the body. Or does he eat the body, I'm not even sure. Then, he’s about to fight the old man, and story ends. We’re just told things happen and we just watch the aftermath, or get the build up to the climax without any payoff. I feel like there should be some scene transitions, but I can’t tell where one scene ends and another starts. For all I know, it's one big scene. Your protagonist was nothing. I don’t know who he is, why he is doing this, and why I should care. This story could be much more interesting if you showed us how he got to be a crazy murderer who is willing to kill an old man just for standing in his way. But all you do is tell us that he had trouble (“After tolerating a decade of worsening affronts”). I don't care about your protagonist, so I don't care about your story.
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Jul 10, 2014 23:02
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Broenheim posted:What the hell is happening in your story? So, protag kills a kid, decides he has to eat the body, and then there’s an old man on the sidewalk and he pulls out a knife? What just happened? None of it makes sense. And please, don't reply back to this with excuses or explaining what happened. If your story doesn't make sense, then fix it. The time you spend replying back to me could be time spent making your story more clear. You reiterated the problem with train of thought and for some reason pasting killed the line break. But more to the point, does every story require spelling things out? I've always enjoyed good usage of omission. Ps. And wouldn't a little give or take be better than basically telling me to shut the gently caress up? Some of us like to learn through active communication. Sithsaber fucked around with this message at 23:57 on Jul 10, 2014 |
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Jul 10, 2014 23:13
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Sithsaber posted:I've always enjoyed good usage of omission. There's your answer. To be less flippant: writing is a confidence trick, requiring the reader to trust the author that things will make some semblance of sense by the end. That's why in most cases (cliche alert) it's worth learning the rules before you try to bend them. The 'uses of omission' you've enjoyed will, no doubt, be carefully limited uses - like we'll know exactly what someone is doing, but be left to figure out why (or even vice versa). As for stuff that makes even less sense... well, Joyce is Joyce. But even he had to write Dubliners first, partly to get good at telling a story, partly to earn enough reader trust to drag them down a lexical rabbit hole second time around. But good on you for getting work out there. That's the start, and it's more than most manage.
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Jul 11, 2014 00:53
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Sithsaber posted:He basically is schizophrenic. The character is a little bitch 20something year old who's still afraid of the dark, As you probably know, being afraid of the dark is essentially caused by our imaginations not shutting the gently caress up.(which is why he tried to ignore it) So I'll elaborate a bit on this because I realize my crit may have come off a tad dickish. The biggest problem with this is that there isn't really a narrative arc. You mentioned above that you don't feel you should have to "spell things out," but that doesn't apply to, you know, your actual plot. Omitting details certainly has a place, especially in horror, but you have to know when to do it. For instance, it might work if your narrator is unreliable, but this piece is so short and self-contained that you have no room to explore that conceit and thus you don't "earn" that kind of omission. Back to the narrator: He basically doesn't exist. In your reply here you say he's basically schizophrenic, but that doesn't come across in your writing. I said your tone was schizophrenic, in that it seems to alternate wildly between a serious and lighthearted tone with no rhyme or reason. That doesn't mean your narrator comes across as a literal schizophrenic. If you want that to be a character trait, awesome, it can certainly be interesting, but you have to actually show us somewhere. You don't have the luxury of replying to your readers directly like this. There's also no reference to his age or gender or anything, so if being a young 20-something is important, it needs to actually come up somewhere. Finally, you cut to black right as things actually get interesting and it just leaves the reader hanging, and not in a good way. Is the thing he's seeing real? If so, why does it just vanish? What is the point? Why is it dangerous if it doesn't actually plan on hurting your narrator? You called it a snippet so I'm not sure if this is supposed to actually be an isolated story or if it's a chapter or section of a larger piece, etc. I can only judge it in the context it's presented, and right now it's just flat-out not a story. This happens sometimes, god knows I've done it myself more than once, but it means you hosed up and need to re-approach the piece on a fundamental level. In a story that short you can't afford to omit important things like "character" and "plot." Which comes down to my comment on this being like 99% telling and no showing. Show the reader why we should be scared, and why we should care about the narrator's predicament. What you are doing is basically going "Trust me guys, this monster is pretty scary. The narrator is, like, totally scared!" I assume you want the narrator's tension and sense of tread to actually transfer to the reader, in which case that isn't going to cut it. Which is why I was curious about the intention of your tone. Someone like Vonnegut can blend serious elements with totally ridiculous ones and still make a story that is profound, sad, and hilarious at the same time. But you need to hone your chops before you try something like that. This writing just isn't self-assured enough to make it seem intentional.
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Jul 11, 2014 02:19
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