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Here's a second draft of my short story. quote:
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Nov 10, 2014 22:36
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TheGreekOwl posted:Greetings? Even with the revisions in your second draft this intro is much too long and overloaded with references to concepts that are totally unfamiliar with the reader. You aren't drawing the reader in with enticing details, you're overwhelming them with a barrage of strange names, places, people and things. Its hard to even pin down what sort of technological or social level society is at: saying it is the winter of 320 is immediatly going to have people thinking about the late Roman empire (even if you emphasize that this is "another world and time") but the term "demilitarized zone" sounds very 20th century and makes me think of the DMZ between North and South Korea. Other phrases like "intel" or "proxy military company" reinforce the modern feel. If you're trying to convey a more medieval level of technology and social organization then you shouldn't be using so many modern day military turns-of-phrase. The introduction of the 'Anthropos' is weird. As has already been pointed out it is incredibly lame to just tell us that the main characters "fear" the Anthropos. Also I have to ask why the thing is called the 'Anthropos', which is incredibly close to the Greek word for man. Please God let this be a coincidence and don't tell me that this is the twist you're working toward. Your introduction of Phonithia is the worst part of this however. It's way too long, goes into way too much detail on things that everybody will already grasp intuitively (you don't need to spell out for us why killing people is problematic in the bloody prologue, for instance). Anyway, if you want an example of what is very widely considered to be an effective introduction to a complicated fantasy plot then I think the following is a pretty good starting place: quote:A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.... Notice how the setting, the main conflict, the two conflicting sides, and the major threat that the protagonists are struggling against are all introduced in less than four sentences. Imagine how boring and confusing this would be if it tried to explain the history of the Empire, orif it went into detail on the background and motivations of Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia and Obi Wan Kenobi, or discussed the contradictions of being a Jedi committed to peace while using violence, or went into detail about where the stolen plans to the Death Star were acquired. That poo poo all factors into the plot, but the movie doesn't try to shove it all down our throats in the first thirty seconds.
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Nov 11, 2014 02:05
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Helsing posted:Notice how the setting, the main conflict, the two conflicting sides, and the major threat that the protagonists are struggling against are all introduced in less than four sentences. I sat down today after a long day and I attempted to condense it as the previous poster recomended. Modified, this is what i came up with http://pastebin.com/Jnv6hBdm But that wasnt any good. So, reading your helpful critique, I basically just sat down and gutted all the stuff that got in the way of cohesion and interest, in a way that corresponds to your points. quote:A crisis is boiling in the mountainous Eastern Oroi. I've removed all "modern" military lingo even through the story takes deep attention to military matters. I've left the barrage of Greek words as thats supposed to hint what influances the setting (which I will point is absolutely not medieval in nature). I've cut down Phonitheia's character to "subtle" points (as much as my broken English can), that she volunteers and even takes charge even through she is old, and she suffers through something beyond old age. I've tried to make it as effective as possible while still remaining cohesive. I've been working on it for about an hour, so I will take a break and rework it tommorow night. If it helps, i've added an old concept of how Phonitheia is supposed look, here 
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Nov 11, 2014 04:17
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chthonic bell posted:Biting the bullet and posting a 800~ word snippet from something I'm working on. This is the very start of the prologue, about 1/3 of the opening scene: Your strong opening line in weakened by a bunch of long-winded description that doesn’t move the plot along or make me care about the characters. quote:The corpse in its burlap sack is heavy on Raimut's shoulders good, making him feel his age for the first time in a while. Cliche (“feel his age”,) followed by vague cliche (“in a while.”) He trudges This has issues with pacing (nothing happens for the first half,) blocking (are his hands full of corpse, or aren’t they?) and suspense (there is none.) I feel like I’m supposed to be worried that they’ll get caught carrying a corpse around, but that threat isn’t really made manifest. That said, it has some good points. I like the potential relationships you’re setting up between the three characters. I like that your protagonist is hiding his weakness (how heavy the corpse is) from the other two, and feels the need to assert his control over them. I like how it’s Siris that seems really confident, rather than the more cocky Anzu.
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Nov 11, 2014 04:38
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Thank you for the line-by-line! Just wanna clarify a small thing,quote:Again, why does he think of them by one name and call them another? The setting is based on Eastern Europe, I'm Eastern European (Russian) by birth and upbringing and the use of nicknames and diminutives as opposed to full names is extremely common and really to be expected past a certain level of acquaintance. I should make it clearer, somehow, that he's using nicknames for the twins. Other than that, you've brought up a bunch of good points that are super helpful and have given me some good food for thought. I'll be posting a revised (if not completely overhauled) snippet later, possibly when it's not 5 AM here.
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Nov 11, 2014 04:47
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chthonic bell posted:Thank you for the line-by-line! Just wanna clarify a small thing, I understood that they were nicknames. It could be the cultural difference, but I usually think of people by the name I most often call them by, so if I use a nickname for someone that's what I think of them as. From a writing perspective, you're asking the reader to remember twice as many names. You’d know way better than I would if it makes sense to have him think of them by their nicknames. Could someone or several someones take a look at this snippit for me? I’m struggling with the sense of dissociation she has towards the end, and I’m not sure it’s worth the confusion of the perspective switch, even though I feel like that gets across the sense of what I want in the moment. 770 Words At the new hospital a woman in green scrubs shoves my clothes, still smelling of the laundry at home, into my arms. “Come on, then,” she says, as I press the weight of the soft fabric to my chest. There’s still blood on my skin, dried and stiff in my hair. She leads me down the white hallway to my new room. Inside are two beds, two dressers, a sink and a door. One bed is bright with colors: somebody’s clothes draped across in layers. I set my things on the other and wait, fingers playing with the edge of my hospital gown, bandages heavy around my arms. “Don’t you want to get dressed?” the woman asks. It’s a complicated question. I desperately miss the feeling of clean clothes against my skin, the safety of being properly dressed. I hold out my arms, show her my bloody, dirty body. “Well, you need to meet your social worker. If you want to do it dressed like that, it isn’t my problem,” she says. The social worker knocks on the door before she comes in. Her red lipstick is crisp and clean around the edges, and her eyebrows follow strict, neat lines. “Miss Winchester,” she says, her tone as crisp as her makeup. “Do you understand why you’re here?” I don’t understand anything except that my arms hurt, that I’m cold, that I want to go home. That I haven’t seen my mother since dawn. “Okay,” she tries again. “You’re here because you tried to kill yourself, and we can keep you safe.” I feel less safe than ever, standing in my hospital gown and my bloody hair in front of this neat and tidy woman. I didn’t, I did not try to kill myself. They’re listening to Mom again, even though I sent her away, they’re listening to her. And when you’re sure you saw your daughter trying to kill herself, you don’t think she’s safe. You have her locked up someplace that will keep her safe. I can see the logic falling into place. When you’re sure what you’ve seen you don’t ask your daughter what she was trying to do. You don’t find out that she was just trying to stay alive, trying to ride out the tide of terror and horror and anger that ate at her second by second and day by day. That she wants to be alive. That she wants to be safe. That she wants to be in control. So you send her to a hospital where she doesn’t control anything, not her bed, not her shower, not what clothes she has here. You send her favorites to this terrible place. So you end up with a daughter who sees herself from outside her body, the way you see her, while the social worker talks. She can’t make sense of the words. She hears herself breathing hard. She closes her eyes and covers her ears with her hands and twists her fingers into her hair and pulls as she sinks onto the bed. Her eyes are closed but she can still see herself, her head cartoonishly large, her head much too small for the shattered, scattered syllables and thoughts that fill it. She knows the dull ache is the roots of her hair as she pulls at it harder, pulls and focuses on the pain until she knows where the edges are. Until I can open my eyes and make sense of the picture in front of me. The social worker, staring. The hospital room around us. “Are you okay?” she asks, some of the briskness gone from her voice. In it’s place is something heavier. I shake my head frantically, my heart beating and beating in my chest, my hands pressed over my ears, my breath short and dizzyingly fast. “Deep, slow breaths,” she says, demonstrating. “Breathe with me.” I do, breaths skipping and sobbing out of control. I follow her breathing: the sound of it, the rise-and-fall of her chest and I can taste the mint on the air she’s breathing out and my attention tightens down to those things until I can drag the minty air into my own lungs, hold it for a space, let it out slowly. Again and again. I become aware of the rise and fall of my own chest, the expansion and contraction of my lungs. The warmth of my breath touching my arms. I let them drop to my sides. Time passes. “Good,” she says. “Very good. Why don’t you go take a shower, get cleaned up, and then I’ll introduce you to your roommate.”
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Nov 11, 2014 06:10
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I realise this isn't the most useful crit but I actually think that works really well. It's a bit hard to say, knowing what you were going for ahead of time, though. Maybe I only think it works because I already know what you mean?
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Nov 11, 2014 13:01
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Yeah, as someone who's disassociated a few times, that seems pretty spot-on in terms of conveying the confusion and terror.
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Nov 11, 2014 15:54
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TheGreekOwl posted:I sat down today after a long day and I attempted to condense it as the previous poster recomended. Modified, this is what i came up with http://pastebin.com/Jnv6hBdm Those are huge improvements over your previous draft but there's still room for refinement. quote:A crisis is boiling in the mountainous Eastern Oroi. Good opening. But what exactly is 'Eastern Oroi'? Is it a continent? A country? A region? This opening would read a bit more smoothly if you said something like "A crisis is boiling in the mountains of Oroi" or "A crisis is boiling in the Eastern Oroi mountains". Your writing is definitely a bit clunky because you tend to have long run on sentences. I'd suggest that for now you just focus on getting one idea accross per sentence. Like, for instance, this sentence: "Phonithia, through aged and bearing two sons, volunteers along old friends and lovers disregarding retirement to assist, and to reunite for one final operation away from home." This sentence is really all over the place and its hard ot keep track of what is going on. You might rewrite it something like this: "Phonithia, once the city's greatest warrior, leaves retirement to join her old comrades on one final mission."
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Nov 12, 2014 21:17
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Their writing is clunky in part because they're making a lot of Russian ESL grammatical errors and weird turns of phrase. It's also that they're telling rather than showing. Blah blah is a military unit. Blah blah is a legendary creature. Show, don't tell. Don't get too flowery, but create a little tension. [Greekos Commanderos] wiped the snow from his visor and gazed down the slopes of the West Oros to the ruins of [blah blah] below. His most stalwart scout had returned, shaking and pale. Any other man he would not have believed, for the being he described was a myth, something to scare children at night. But if the legends were true, and it should reach its lair at [blah blah]... His veins turned to ice as he thought of his mother, knitting by the fire back in [Greekia citia], unaware of the doom hanging over them all. That could probably be more succinct, and I'm making up details because I don't know your world, but it's a hell of a lot more interesting than the way you have things written right now. Also note how much information is embedded in the descriptions. That first sentence tells us he's a soldier (helmet/visor), that it's winter (snow), that the Oros is a mountain range (slopes), and that the blah blah lair place is a ruin. And that was without a single "is a". Something you also need to think about is your character building. Is the commander an important character? For the first half of your piece he's the centre of focus. If gryphon lady is your sole main character, and the commander guy is just a mook, you should probably trim down the fluff at the beginning and get to her as soon as possible.
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Nov 13, 2014 19:27
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Revised (blank-page rewrite) version of the snippet from above, if anyone would be so kind as to take a look? 645 words quote:Thirteen Years Ago painted bird fucked around with this message at 20:10 on Nov 14, 2014 |
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Nov 14, 2014 20:07
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chthonic bell posted:Revised (blank-page rewrite) version of the snippet from above, if anyone would be so kind as to take a look? quote:Thirteen Years Ago The pacing, blocking, and suspense have all improved. I get a clearer view of the characters with the details spread out through the action instead of all at once.
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Nov 16, 2014 07:13
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chthonic bell posted:Revised (blank-page rewrite) version of the snippet from above, if anyone would be so kind as to take a look? I'm a complete amateur so you probably shouldn't put too much weight in my critique, but all I would say is that when he pushes forward Anzu my impression was that Raimut was ahead of the twins and still walking, I just wasn't sure on the logistics of said push - it doesn't seem that vitally important though. Also if I was carrying that sack I'd dump it on the apprentices (or at least that Siris dude), they seem younger and more up to the task of lugging around corpses, and probably have a better chance of getting away if jumped by anthropomorphic police bulls. As for the actual writing I couldn't really see any flaws, at least that I was capable of picking up. All in all was a good read though, left me interested as to what that motley crew was going to do with the body. -- I haven't written anything since highschool but I did this last night, would really appreciate any critique. 577 Words. quote:Doug tentatively touched the table. "Welcome," said the voice. Doug turned his head, empty space dissipated, becoming shag carpet and red peeling wallpaper. fankwart fucked around with this message at 03:28 on Nov 18, 2014 |
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Nov 18, 2014 03:19
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I haven't done much critique, frankly, but I'd like to give it the old college try. I do enjoy this story though, and I wouldn't mind spitballing a little if it helps. Indiana Cones posted:Doug tentatively touched the table. "Welcome," said the voice. Doug turned his head, empty space dissipated, becoming shag carpet and red peeling wallpaper. I feel that using more tarot cards than just death would give it more depth. The dialogue can be handled better, but what's actually being said doesn't feel unrealistic given the context. Invisible Ted fucked around with this message at 18:37 on Dec 4, 2014 |
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Nov 21, 2014 04:35
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TheGreekOwl posted:I sat down today after a long day and I attempted to condense it as the previous poster recomended. Modified, this is what i came up with http://pastebin.com/Jnv6hBdm Present totally can be used (it grants you a lot of immediacy, and you can do cool poo poo with the perspective), but it's harder and readers are going to notice it fairly quickly. Unless you have some special goal for the grammar, stick in the past for now.
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Nov 21, 2014 04:51
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I'm currently writing a novel about the current Russian government inadvertently summoning an ancient evil in its quest for power and control. The only ones who can stop them are two Russian expatriates (based on my real life friends), made strong by the bond of true female friendship. They are aided by benevolent magic psychedelic cats from another dimension, and a misterious Star Cat superhero who cuts off bigots' balls with his trusty Sickle of Equality. This is the (very short) introductory chapter, nothing of importance happens in it, but before I go on writing I want people to assess my style, and whether me being a Russian ESL guy is noticeable. ----- A lone woman was walking down the deserted street. There was no one else around at this hour of the night, and the lights in the windows have all gone out. The weather was starting to spit a cold drizzle, and the patter of the raindrops on the tiled roofs was the only sound that broke the silence. She pulled the hood of her raincoat backwards and breathed in the damp air. The moonlight lit up her round face, which had full lips and an upturned nose, giving her a cheeky and audacious appearance. Her hand darted nervously into the purse, fishing out a worn smartphone. The screen lit up, making her squint momentarily. No, still no response from Katya. This was getting worrying. She turned a corner and hastened her step towards the lone building in the cul-de-sac. The building was old and decrepit, one of the two-floor houses from the middle of the past century refurbished for modern use. One of the windows on the second floor was cracked, probably as a result of some drunken college kid deciding to engage in a bit of recreational vandalism. The sign “Mayflower Sports and Yoga Club” was unlit and barely visible in the twilight. The shabby wooden door was ajar, and a flickering light illuminated the hallway beyond it. She grasped the heavy iron doorknob and pulled it with visible effort. The door cracked and gave in. A loud wooden screech reverberated through the air. “Tonya?” Came the voice from the hallway. The visitor rushed inside and slammed the door behind her. “Katya! Where the hell have you been? I've been calling you all day! I was getting...” Her voice trailed off after she saw a thousand-yard stare on Katya's freckled face. “Sorry... I must have forgot the phone upstairs...” Katya said absentmindedly. “I don't like this expression.” Tonya was worried. “What happened? Creeps at the gym hitting on you again?” “No, Tonya.” Katya's face focused. “This is not the time for idle conversation. You should go home. I'll call you tomorrow. Maybe.” “I thought we were supposed to be best friends. I thought we were supposed to share everything.” Tonya said. “I don't want to involve you in this. This is serious.” Katya sounded strict and stand-offish, which was unusual for the normally mild-mannered girl. The thunder clapped and shook the greasy windowpanes. The tinkling of the glass made Tonya flinch. “If it's serious, I must know of it.” Tonya didn't want to give up. “Is it about the cats?” She squinted inquisitively. Katya sighed and pulled out a parchment. It looked shiny, almost polished. Rainbow patterns were slowly shifting on its surface, like petrol film on water. She handed it to Tonya, who unrolled it and started to read the calligraphic cursive handwriting. “No...” Her jaw almost dropped. “They told us this wouldn't happen!” Her voice took on a panicked tone. “I thought he was a legend, and old woman's tale!” “He was, but not anymore.” Katya lowered her eyes, staring at the pear-shaped stain on the floor. “Controversy Cat had entered our dimension.” Tonya's face has gone pale. It seems like her peaceful and mundane life was coming to an end. Cat Planet fucked around with this message at 13:35 on Nov 22, 2014 |
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Nov 22, 2014 13:32
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This reads bad enough that I checked your rapsheet to see if you're a FYAD jokester. I recommend a few weeks of Thunderdome, you make a lot of basic mistakes and tdome is pretty good at beating those out of you.Therion posted:I'm currently writing a novel about the current Russian government inadvertently summoning an ancient evil in its quest for power and control. The only ones who can stop them are two Russian expatriates (based on my real life friends), made strong by the bond of true female friendship. They are aided by benevolent magic psychedelic cats from another dimension, and a misterious Star Cat superhero who cuts off bigots' balls with his trusty Sickle of Equality.
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Nov 24, 2014 02:03
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Thanks  The tenses and vocabulary are something I'll have to work at the most, it looks like. I wanted to build suspense with the first part but looking back at it it does indeed sound a bit slow. About "Controversy Cat" - it's not meant to be a serious story, it's a crazy acid inspired thing I've started to write for my friends that I wanted to tell in a semi serious way, and use it as an opportunity to improve my writing skills. I'll try to write a longer segment, give it a bit more internal editing and see where it gets me.
Cat Planet fucked around with this message at 03:21 on Nov 24, 2014 |
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Nov 24, 2014 03:13
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I decided to write a personal essay for fun. Brutal criticism please. I probably suck floppy appendages. quote:
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Dec 10, 2014 06:34
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Trying to see how good I am at pulling in reader's attention and creating compelling characters. And yes the setting is not original, but the story I made is.quote:Maria’s best friend was a personal robot by the name of Aki-Zeta. Aki was a big round chrome ball with a light-up screen and metal slabs on either side that could spin, protract and retract. Her mother had died in childbirth, and her father mostly spent his days engaged in his research and experiments. Her father was lead scientist at the University’s A.I. Division, and specialized in the study of feedback systems, or cybernetics. Maria would take Aki to school with her and talk to it about everything: how boring schoolwork and her teachers were, novel inventions she had come up with, the curious things her father spoke about with friends about “real thinking machines”, and how mean her schoolmates were to her. She confided all her secrets in Aki, like how it was her that put gravito-magnets on Bobby’s shoes and got him stuck on the school roof, crying like a baby the whole time. She could hardly refrain from giggling for weeks. America Inc. fucked around with this message at 08:44 on Dec 14, 2014 |
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Dec 14, 2014 06:43
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Negative Entropy posted:Trying to see how good I am at pulling in reader's attention and creating compelling characters. This is all exposition and no action. You tell us everything that happens instead of showing us. I'm not interested in this story at all because I don't know how these people act. I get told them, but I want to see them in action. I feel very disconnected from the story. From a character stand point, I don't really care that much. That doesn't mean your characters are bad, it's just that I don't know who they are. This goes back to the previous problem of the telling instead of showing. I don't know how your characters act. They don't feel like actual people, just names on a piece of paper. I need to see them in action in order for me to care for them. Also, if you wanted to get my attention, don't start with a boring sentence and then have a boring description, and then go into exposition. Give me some action from the start. I would advise you to focus on a specific scene and write about that. For example, one of the times the father yelled at Aki. Instead of dumping all these character traits onto me with exposition, allow me to interpret the characters by seeing how they act in certain situations. That's a hell of a lot more interesting then some big rear end info dump.
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Dec 14, 2014 08:31
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GiveUpNed posted:I decided to write a personal essay for fun. Brutal criticism please. I probably suck floppy appendages. The writing is decent but the subject is boring and meandering and by the time your somewhat jarring and seemingly out of place anecdote about your friend getting attacked arrives the reader has mostly lost interest. Also you don't do anything Interesting with that anecdote. It just sort of happens and then the piece ends. Yawn. Find something interesting to write about next time. This piece feels like it was inspired by you taking a huge rip from your bong and then watching your cat lying in the sun for fifteen minutes.
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Dec 16, 2014 22:50
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Uh, okay, so I've been away from CC so long, muggins here actually forgot this thread existed and posted the following in its own thread. No need to slap myself athwart the head, me know know me am a dumb. Anyway, I suddenly had the bug to write the following; I'm hoping to expand it into something a lot more substantial (hell, I'm in the middle of doing so now), so I was hoping to get some feedback before I'm a million words in. The big thing I'm worried about is that A: I actually want this to be a little 'theatrical' and over-the-top, but B: I'm very worried that it would turn out to be tiresome. So yeah, I'm wondering if I could have some concrete con-crit on the following, thanks. It's 935 words, so it should fit here/ PROLOGUE The bells within the Black Temples rang out, singly at first, then in ever more cacophonic choruses. The city of Pandaemonium shuddered underneath the weight of both the bells' clamorous din, as well as the thunderous revelation that marched forth through the city's streets and brought more dread than all the legions of that terrible place. It was a truth that pierced its way through the lies of Pandaemonium's citizens, bleeding the ears of all who heard it. "Gone! Gone! The truth blew past the gates of Pandaemonium on the wings, the cloven hooves, the clawed limbs of those privileged enough to be allowed to leave its bone-white walls. It carried itself on the winds of Hell, drowning the quiet sobs of fields where cut stalks leaked blood and the grains wept. It became pricless merchandise on the endless caravans of the inferno, the sole piece of merchandise that the merchants would give away willingly and otherwise. It was carried on the rhythm of clashing weapons, daemonic armies drilling for what they knew would come. "Empty! Empty!" Upon a gilded throne, itself placed atop an infinitely tall pillar buried to the hilt in gold and jewels, a four-armed toad smacked its lips hungrily. Its tongue lashed out into its wealth, untold riches sticking to its surface even as its arms reached out and clutched their own handfuls of wealth. The creature held these treasures, each a fortune that would beggar every mortal ruler who had ever and will ever live, and dreamt of the single treasure that would put its own wealth to shame. A silken bordello that once rustled with the promise and betrayal of desires both exquisitely bestial and vice versa, now echoed softly with the the ecstatic sigh of the desire's embers rekindled. It was achingly beautiful, its features changing with every blink, yet always heart-rendingly perfect. Its body, slender yet curvy, arose from a perfumed couch and walked languidly to an open window where the wind caressed its body. What might have been a tail, or a trailing piece of diaphanous gown, fluttered slightly as its owner sighed happily. Brackish green-yellow blood dripped from broken, rusted blood vessels that shook with a burst of sudden activity. The body of the being that they had been torn from, the being that formed the foundation of the city that lay upon it, groaned as the creature took a breath centuries ahead of schedule. Those few inhabitants both fortunate and unfortunate enough to still be active gazed up at the beast's head, where an eye opened for the first time in sleepy attention as it turned towards Pandemonium. The ever-roiling waters of the Styx boiled even more violently than before, and choked gurgles soon became throaty war cries as snarling legions clawed their way to the river's shores. Some wielded pitted bronze blades, some banged rusted iron and steel weapons on their shields, while others fired off rounds from rifles and pistols with powder that remained dry even in the depths of the Styx. At their head was the priestess betrayed, her fanged, apelike face topped by a hive of serpents, her entire upper body crusted in the scales that also covered the snakelike form which comprised her lower half. For the first time in its life, the three wormlike mouths ('head' being too noble and descriptive a term) looked upwards from its feast of wayward souls. For the first time in its life, searching jaws did not partake of the feast of suicides hanging from trees of bone. For the first time in its life, the fleshy, wrinkled limbs and distended torso of the beast raised itself from its eternal hunch to lift itself upward. Three jaws salivated and snapped; the feast was becoming too much to anticipate, yet such anticipation was itself to be savoured, an appetizer to the endless repast that it would soon enjoy. The giant serpent coiled itself through the endless halls of its never-finished grand palace, its thousand heads snarling and snapping at the damned souls that were doomed to toil endlessly in its halls- or it would have, had it not fallen silent this day. Its thousand upon thousand heads gazzed into the distance, green eyes flashing. Its ophidian jaws, normally filled with spiteful invective, now hissed in laughter. At last, at last, at last! At last, it would be the greatest of all Hell's pontifices, and all would know its might as it once hated theirs! Thousands of daemons and damned souls stood motionlessly before the sculpture gleaming in the darkness. Without the cold that held them, naught could seperate the ice that made the web from diamond. She was a spider with the head of a woman, her mouth distended obscenely by a pair of massive fangs. In days past, she would continue weaving her icy web though Hell's depths, to attract her captive audiences, to show that there were none better. Yet, something always gnawed within her, and now she knew what it was- here in the depths, her only audience was that which she could catch. But now, she had the chance to show her beauty to all of Hell, that all would know that there were none better than she. And upon a high mountan, his skin urned and charred under the rays of an eternal sun, an angel stood up with a soft smile. The unbreakable chains which once held him down now shattered easily as he stood and spread his withered wings. How could he not, when he heard the news? "The throne of Hell is empty! Lucifer is gone!"
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Feb 6, 2015 04:12
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CommissarMega posted:PROLOGUE Okay, so on a second read, it was more clear what you were going for, and I think I have some structural tips to make it clearer. First off, I didn't get the idea that each paragraph was a new scene. You either need to establish that more clearly, or spend more time establishing each new scene. The idea that came to me, if you want to make this sound a little theatrical, would be to get a little bit of dramatis personae in there, since that's what you're essentially doing here. Like: quote:The truth blew past the gates of Pandaemonium on the wings, the cloven hooves, the clawed limbs of those privileged enough to be allowed to leave its bone-white walls. It carried itself on the winds of Hell, drowning the quiet sobs of fields where cut stalks leaked blood and the grains wept. It became pricless merchandise on the endless caravans of the inferno, the sole piece of merchandise that the merchants would give away willingly and otherwise. It was carried on the rhythm of clashing weapons, daemonic armies drilling for what they knew would come. Just an example name I pulled out, but it'd serve the purpose of being theatrical and it'd clear up the confusion about the inter-paragraph structure. If that's a little artificial for you, you could instead be sure to start each paragraph with that particular contender's name, to make it clear that we're seeing each of the candidates. And speaking of the struggle for the throne, this is something I think should come sooner. Holding off on revealing information can be tough, because while you want to give your reader a reason to keep going, you don't want them to get lost with no idea what's going on. I'd bump up the 'throne is empty' idea, put that before introducing the characters. That way, it makes even more sense that you're going through one by one to introduce them all, because now the question isn't what are they all getting up for, but which of these is going to get the throne? If you wanted a reveal at the end, you could keep the 'lucifer is missing' idea until the end. That way, you can still have the reward at the end that gives more context to what's happening, but the motivation of the characters you're introducing is clear: they want the throne. It's just not clear that it's literally Lucifer's throne until the end of the prologue. Though with all that said, I do want to also say that I'm not saying 'this is how it needs to be done', just that this is how I'd do it if it was me writing this story. If you come up with some other way to fix the clarity issues (which is the one major area that needs work) then that's great too. I think one way you might be able to catch some of this yourself is to read it out loud once or twice at least. If there's parts that feel difficult or that you stumble over in reading to yourself, imagine how someone who didn't write those words themselves is going to feel when they get to that part.
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Feb 6, 2015 05:31
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It was carried on the rhythm of clashing weapons, The following clause connects poorly to the preceding clause, because you refer to the rhythm, then the armies. Connecting the rhythm to the drills (that the armies are doing) as opposed to the army (that's doing drills) would probably make it clearer. daemonic armies drilling for what they knew would come. 
heads gazzed Oop, typo again. into the distance, green eyes flashing. Its ophidian See this might be a cool thing to drop in if we didn't already know it was a snake. The snake had snakey jaws? You don't say. jaws, normally filled with spiteful invective, now hissed in laughter. I know it's a snake but "hissed in laughter" is still a weird phrase. At last, at last, at last! Okay, I get it. At last, OKAY! it would be the greatest of all Hell's pontifices, and all would know its might as it once hated theirs! What? All would know its might as it once hated theirs? So it once hated them a whole lot, so everyone's going to know its might a whole lot? It doesn't feel like the two things are comparable enough for that construction.
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:3) If you want a critique, post one first. 1:1 ratio. Just a little reminder that while Thunderdome regulars have been incredibly magnanimous in giving out crits for free, this thread is meant to be quid pro quo. You should still be posting a critique of another story at the very least as an exercise in improving your own writing.
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Feb 6, 2015 18:09
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CommissarMega posted:PROLOGUE All in all, if you had opened with the last line, I would have been 100% invested in learning about each of the contenders for the throne. Additionally, it doesn't really seem like information you need to, or should be, withholding. Even if you went on to write a million words, because this is the backdrop, or at least the call to adventure, for the story, it's probably going to be in the blurb, right? But as it stands, I opened frustrated with your writing, and kind of mad at the way things were written. You go to such lengths to make theatrics of the things which you are describing that you end up making it confusing instead of painting a picture. Like the other poster, I had to read that twice to get an idea of what was happening, and what the point of it all was.
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Apr 15, 2015 18:00
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Goons, I need your help. My creative writing class is a giant hug box, and I can't get more than a sentence of critique on anything i post. It's getting to be pretty frustrating. The assignment in this case was a 250 to 300 word short story. Something Old Jacob shook out his slicker and boots in the house’s entryway while Tropical Storm Abraham continued its deluge outside. His new wife, Ann, posing with her friends and family warmly welcomed him home from within the frames of a lifetime of photos. As he entered the kitchen he stopped short. poo poo. A man in a dark coat and still-dripping brimmed hat sat at the kitchen table holding a steaming cup of coffee. “There you are!” Ann called from next to the coffee pot. “Jake, your dad is hilarious. I’ve gotten two wildly embarrassing stories out of him so far. Who’s Becka?” Jacob sized up the situation. “He’s my foster father, Ann. My dad passed.” “Still... He’s got stories.” She smiled behind her coffee mug. “Can you give us a minute?” No questions, Baby. Please. “Sure,” she said, raising an eyebrow. She turned to Dad’s ghost. “You and I have more to talk about, sir. Pleasure to finally meet you.” “Likewise, ma’am,” his familiar southern drawl and gravelly voice were exactly as Jacob remembered. With Ann safely upstairs, Jacob poured another cup from the pot, keeping Dad within sight. “Freshen that up for you?” Jacob slipped a boning knife into his sleeve. “No thanks. How did I die, by the way?” “Hunting accident.” Figuratively true. Dad chuckled. “What was I hunting?” “Big game.” “Does Annie know you’re hiding?” “And she never asks why.” Rain drummed on the windows as they sipped their coffee. “Guess you’re wondering how I’m here.” The wind changed. “I know the basics...a Beckoning, right?” Dad nodded gravely and leaned forward. “Give me what They want so I can rest again.” Jacob massaged his temples. “And if I refuse I’ll have to put you to rest.” “That, my boy, is the long and short of it.”
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Apr 16, 2015 18:09
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Elpato posted:Something Old My first impression is that if the entire thing is dialog, is it really a story? The answer can obviously be yes, but I don't think in this case it does the work through conversation to get that credit. If the assignment is to write a short story, it should be a story, with a beginning, middle, and end. This seems more like a set up to something larger that remains to be written. This is obviously a criticism that hinges on what was needed for class, and it also is based on my distaste for stories told entirely through conversation. Going by your title, I think that the title "Something Old" is probably a reference to your method of revealing its a ghost, and then throwing out ambiguous references to a shadowy off-scene 'They' at the end, while referring to a ritual. As it stands at the end it seems like even you are bored by the concept, ending it on, "Oh, you get it then? Yeah. OK." If you want to stick with the current structure, my personal belief is that because the last line is the last thing that someone will read, it should have impact. It should be the twist, not the reply that a character has to that twist in which they sound bored with the idea. =============================== I'm looking to hear some advice as well, while I'm here. I wrote this because I wanted to experiment with a story that people could relate to and I really wanted to focus on developing a character as the foundation of a short story. I'm kind of proud of it, and really like how it ends, but I want to hear some criticism from people who know more than I do with regards to it. Does it offer a message in a way that doesn't make you roll your eyes? Is it well written? I tried to not make Ned a Mary Sue, or some kind of perfect being, but does he still seem that way? I just wanted him to be the confident kind of person most people wish to be themselves. =============================== In many ways, Ned was an accomplished individual. He was Father to a loving family, an accomplished Pianist, and a celebrated member of his church and community. He gave to the poor generously, avoided gossip, and served dutifully in any capacity he was able. Each day he awoke to the first light of the Sun and filled the house with his music, before serving as a father, a husband, and a citizen unerringly. He was the sort of person could turn to, no matter the trouble, and get advice that was free of the platitudes and empathetic to their struggle. Far from the generalized and well-meaning instructions of others, his advice was good natured and honest, and his advice never failed to heed the realities of the world. As Ned grew older, and indeed he did, he realized that this important role was his alone, and he could never ask the same of anyone else. He had tried for decades to seek the solace of an individual from which he would be able to get advice. Never had he found someone able to speak to the frank reality of his life. He searched for answers in his church, but found the Priest was more troubled than he, it seemed that even the holy needed the advice of others. But Ned was not troubled by this fact. Instead, Ned accepted his role with the quiet that all wise men someday learn, and lived to enjoy and share his unique talent. Every chance to give advice to those who sought it was heeded, joyfully. He was like the Buddhist gardener, experiencing the Zen of focus within their garden. However, time marches on, and all men must one day die. It was a day that Ned could feel arrive, whispered to him from his bones and mind. His time was passing and he began to fear the inevitable. “My time is short, and I wish only to continue to help others,” Ned had thought, sighing inwardly. It kept him up, one fateful night, a year before the stroke which would end his life. He had questioned for years, how he might continue to help others, even after his passing? What could he leave behind which could grant others a clarity of mind that would help them in troubled times? Ned began to write. Simply at first, short chapters which would speak to the friends and family whom would read it after his passing. Then, as his time grew shorter, the chapters grew longer and spoke more truth. Triumphant were the words, inspirational was the imagery, and motivating was the advice. When his will was read, and the books delivered, his family, moved to tears, deigned to live by the words he had written. Each of them, from his youngest daughter Claire, to his Mother-In-Law Henrietta, followed the inspirational words that were written in the small journal left behind by Ned. They too flowered into the kind of individuals whom give advice while unable to find any for themselves. They passed on this gift, as they began to improve upon it themselves. Although his journal itself was never published, through the writings of his friends and family, Ned’s advice did spread through the globe, and a legacy that was not just his own, but that of the world, was created long after his life had ended, panting and shuddering on the cold tile of his bathroom that night.
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Apr 16, 2015 19:21
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Elpato posted:Goons, I need your help. My creative writing class is a giant hug box, and I can't get more than a sentence of critique on anything i post. It's getting to be pretty frustrating. Writing a story within 300 words is tough, since you don't have a lot of space to get through the entire plot arc. That said, I don't think this works well on its own. What's different at the end from the beginning? At the end, Jacob knows his dad's ghost is there, and there's something undefined he has to do. But throughout this, he hasn't really taken any action of his own, not even really to make a choice. He just has his choices laid out for him, and then it's over. There's a lot of vague things that are introduced but then not closed: mysterious circumstances around the dad's death, the fact that he's hiding, what a Beckoning is, who They are, and Jacob slipping the knife into his sleeve.. These things don't need to be laid out in detail, but by the end of it, I don't know who They are beyond the assumption that they're the ones who did the Beckoning, and I don't know what a Beckoning is beyond the fact that it makes ghosts appear. There's a lot of words spent introducing things, and none spent on resolving any of the things. I do appreciate the setting detail that ghosts are just a normal thing, and I like the way you introduce that not by telling it to us but by showing her reaction to it. There's some issues with clarity right then though, because I get the flow of conversation is 'Who's Becka', 'he's my foster father, my dad [the man with us now] is dead', but a careless read could get you 'Your dad is hilarious, [section Jacob ignores because he takes offense to calling his foster father his dad]', 'he's [the man with us now] my foster father, my dad [who is elsewhere] is dead'. Later on, it gets cleared up, but that section could be clearer. Other than that, there's only a few things that stick out for me. The beginning line, especially the second sentence, reads oddly to me. It gave me the impression that Ann wasn't home. I know this is a work where you had to conserve words, but without tags, sometimes it's hard to tell who's saying what, particularly when there's three people in the room.
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Apr 16, 2015 19:53
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Thanks, fellas. You are right. I wrote this thing without keeping in mind that it needs to be a story instead of a teaser. Goon critiques are way better than what I'm getting in my class. I swear every entry gets just one or two "I like this story. You used words that I like, and I felt like I was there spooning with Batman as well." (seriously, one guys writes nothing but Batman fanfiction)
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Apr 17, 2015 14:02
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hubris.height posted:In many ways, Ned was an accomplished individual. He was Father to a loving family, an accomplished Pianist, and a celebrated member of his church and community. He gave to the poor generously, avoided gossip, and served dutifully in any capacity he was able. Each day he awoke to the first light of the Sun and filled the house with his music, before serving as a father, a husband, and a citizen unerringly. He was the sort of person one? could turn to, no matter the trouble, and get advice that was free of the platitudes and empathetic to their struggle. Far from the generalized and well-meaning instructions of others, his advice was good natured and honest, and his advice never failed to heed the realities of the world. Sorry, but this is really bad :/ The dude is beyond a Mary Sue. This literally reads like the biography of the most boring saint of all time. It's not exactly terribly written, but it's definitely all telling (except for the last italicized phrase). It's just pure praise of some dude and how great he is. There is no real plot and nothing really interesting about him. He's the perfect Christian Patriarch.
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Apr 22, 2015 08:59
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No need to apologize those are super legit criticisms and on a second reading I definitely see where you're coming from. I think I fell victim to trying too hard trying to be too deep. I really appreciate the feedback. I'm going to go read up on how to make a character likable without using the biblical definition of a nice guy and using active voice. E: also didn't realize how preachy it sounded 
hubris.height fucked around with this message at 12:23 on Apr 22, 2015 |
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Apr 22, 2015 12:20
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Also read up on how to write an actual story instead of just summarizing some dude's boring life. Dialogue and action, dude.
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Apr 22, 2015 14:39
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That came off more rear end in a top hat than I intended. You're not the only person in CC to not really know what an actual story is. What you did is all just summarized telling, like an obit or something. You need actual characters with diologue and action. Think about every story you've ever read. Or think about a movie where instead of scenes, an old guy in a waistcoat just sits in a leather wingback and drones on about someone else's life without ever describing actual scenes or relating dialogue. Pretty boring.
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Apr 22, 2015 15:09
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hubris.height posted:I think I fell victim to trying too hard trying to be too deep. There is no depth here at all. It's very shallow Depth implies complication and complexity, surprise and unexpectedness.
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May 6, 2015 11:59
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Thanks for the feedback, I honestly appreciate it. Hindsight being 20/20 I'm actually ashamed of how good I thought it was before I posted it. I'm glad that the feedback was able to deflate my pride in my writing, which was probably too inflated anyway. I'm going to go back to the drawing board, and really take a close look at my writing. Thanks for the feedback! e: My shame knows no depth or width, but consists of more volumes than the Encyclopedia Britannica, yeah. VVV hubris.height fucked around with this message at 13:50 on May 6, 2015 |
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May 6, 2015 13:12
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Yeah this is like "new writer's trap: the paragraph" herequote:Ned began to write. Simply at first, short chapters which would speak to the friends and family whom would read it after his passing. Then, as his time grew shorter, the chapters grew longer and spoke more truth. Triumphant were the words, inspirational was the imagery, and motivating was the advice. When his will was read, and the books delivered, his family, moved to tears, deigned to live by the words he had written. HOLY loving poo poo BTW whom is used wrong here, since it's the subject of the relative clause!
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May 6, 2015 13:38
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hubris.height posted:Hindsight being 20/20 I'm actually ashamed of how good I thought it was before I posted it. I'm glad that the feedback was able to deflate my pride in my writing, which was probably too inflated anyway. Welcome to being like 90% of all new writers.
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May 6, 2015 22:29
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hubris.height posted:Thanks for the feedback, I honestly appreciate it. Hindsight being 20/20 I'm actually ashamed of how good I thought it was before I posted it. I'm glad that the feedback was able to deflate my pride in my writing, which was probably too inflated anyway. do some thunderdome, it'll knock it out of you quick smart.
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May 6, 2015 23:26
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Nothing to it, but to do it. Or something. Looking to be told what's wrong with this smattering of words, and to what degree. “Now approaching,” The conductor said over the intercom. He paused and a different, deeper voice finished, “Frostivale, station 55.” For those in the dining car it was a last call on orders both alcohol and food. The stout man across from Pars took a sip of red wine from his glass, “Ah, almost there; are ye excite?” Pars propped her head up with her elbow on the table between them. She’d been quiet the entire trip, responding to her coach in short yes or no answers. “Yea.” The man nodded. His green vest complimented the red cushioned booth. Her prior winnings had paid for winter-wear for both he and she, and he wore the goose-down coat wrapped around his shoulders. “Well ye could stand to look it.” He went back to his dinner of fish and potatoes, “bah, I don’t know what’s colder, out there,” he motioned with his fork, “this food, or your attitude.” Pars took no offense and let her mind wander back to the passing scenery. Snow covered pines passed in an evergreen blur with the purple mountain range as a backdrop. Regrettably, she didn't know the name of the mountains. The skies were a stark blue and through spots in the moving tree line she spotted a flock of birds. They were specks against the blue flying toward station 55. Were they migratory? Were they coming home or fleeing worse weather elsewhere. Pars found it fascinating any animal could scrape a living up here in Snow Country. It was tundra for half the year and only a few months would there be any tourism. Pars wrapped her new scarf tighter around her neck to prevent a shiver. She’d be glad to get this tournament over with and be back below the border. “You’re not even listening. Great,” he let his fork drop. The clang brought Pars to attention. “Sorry, Mr. Dale. You were saying.” He laughed at her promptness, “glad that got yer attention. That’s good! Means when you’re out on the ice, the second that bell rings you’ll clobber the whole lot a’ them.” “Excuse me?” Since they left the smoggy urban cities of New Prolix, Pars’ mind ran through the rules and strategies she’d seen at the Frozen Blade Arena. While they were old memories, she knew none of which involved being on ice or clobbering. Dale studied her face; he abruptly leaned in close, almost whispering with the bitter wine on his breath, “you’re competing in the Ice Maul Arena, the no-holds-barred, all-for-one fight on a frozen lake.” “What about Frozen Blade—” “They closed their doors months ago!” He scoffed. “Prolly budget reasons, maybe bad publicity. You know how people want more blood sports. Fencing isn’t gonna draw a crowd like it used to, sweetie.” Pars sat back in her seat thinking how this arena would go. How many people is all-for-one? No-holds-barred on a frozen lake sounded like a death sentence. Chillingly, that was likely the point. “Sorry. Look, it’s just like Venom Fang, but you don’t gotta drink no poison, and there’s nine other contestants you can punch a bunch. It’ll be easier by my predicts.” “Has anyone died?” Dale lightly tapped his fork on his empty plate. He looked toward the bar as if an answer was in one of the many bottles. “Dale.” She demanded. “Am I signed up for a death match?” “Well, Venom Fang had sudden death, that’s the like—” “Dale!” Pars didn't mean to raise her voice, but here they were. She was a lightly seasoned contender in the arena scene, but never with death on the line. Even with the Venom Fang Arena, uses a non-lethal paralyzing agent or however they tell it. “No need to shout.” Dale said, not looking her in the eyes. “So far there have been five deaths: two hypothermia, two drowning, and one to a fight in the audience.” Pars slumped. Dale tried to justify this, “One of the drownings was a drunk in the stands who wandered onto the ice! The on-site medics have gotten better too, faster response time. The minute someone goes under, they’re outta the fight anyway so…” She was in disbelief. She buried her face in her hands, “Why is this place still open?” “What was that?” “How is this death trap still open?!” Dale drank his wineglass empty and shrugged. “People love their blood sports.” As per the 1:1 crit4crit, I'll be sure to get who ever posts next.
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May 9, 2015 08:37
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