Nettle Soup posted:

Can I get some basic advice on this? It was a 3 random words ~500 word challenge to myself. It's grown to about 700 now so I'm going to stop editing it and just post. I'm heartened the thought that it can't possibly be as incomprehensible as that mess of words above.

---

3 seed words: Necklace, integrity, defy.

It was, I thought, a very pretty necklace. In general, "pretty" is a fairly worthless adjective. However, it does seem appropriate to (and indicative of) the narrator's status as a little old working class English lady. That said, it wasn't too clear who she was until she used the word "skip". You may want to try dropping a few more hints in the narrator's turn of phrase earlier on to help set the scene. Whether she'll like it or not I have no idea, but with what little time I'd had, I thought I'd done very well. On reading the whole piece through once or twice, I realised that you never made it clear what the narrator had actually "done" very well. Did she make the piece? Make the box? Did she consider herself to have "done well" in salvaging it at all?

It, the necklace I mean, is in a little red velveteen box. Yes it's a little worn around the edges, but it's still solid, and when you close it it Arg! How about "when closed gives..." gives a nice, satisfying click. The lining inside the box is cream, and in a specially made recess sits the necklace, a yellowgold chain with a fairly big pendant in the center, set with a large green emerald. "Lining inside the box" is redundant -- where else would you find the lining? "Specially made" kills the tone. "Yellow" gold is also somewhat redundant; sure white gold exists, but gold is by default yellow, and holy hell is "yellow" a soulless adjective for this thing. Same goes for "fairly big". You're describing the main object of your essay. Work hard on this sentence; make it flow; make it evocative.

Like I said, a pretty thing. If you prise your fingernails into the edge then it opens up, Oh. Oh. The necklace is a locket. She's just been talking about the box, and the first thing I thought was that she was prising the box open. Maybe try to add a few more descriptions tying this action to the necklace itself, or just call it a locket somewhere? and there's a yellowed picture and some hair inside, but I don't know who they belonged to, it's not old Joan.

Maybe somebody loved it once, Seriously? Maybe? It has a piece of hair in it. but right now it's in the drawer in the kitchen, Whose kitchen? Most of the rest of the essay talks about Joan's flat, not the narrator's. shoved right to the back so that nobody finds it when they need a spoon or something. When I was a girl I had a false-back in my knicker drawer Here would be a good place for turn-of-phrase clues to the reader: "in me knicker drawer" where I used to store that kind of thing, but that was quite a time ago now.

I didn't steal it, in case you're wondering. I know I'm hiding it but it's not like that.

It's not... Is it stealing if nobody will ever know? If nobody cares? If there's nobody left to claim it? "Claim" sounds awkward and out of place. It's stealing from the state also "state" sounds out of character to me. Your narrator does not sound like the type to use the word "state" to talk about the government maybe, death duties and unclaimed wills and all that, but don't talk to me about wills... Bloody government owns everything nowadays, if they don't own it while you're alive then they certainly own it after you're dead.

And it's not stealing if she'd have wanted me to have it, right? Because when I say there was nobody left, I guess that's not strictly true either.

They came only once, the Family. Not long after she died, "Died" is also a pretty awful word to use. Usually. It works here once you've got the working class accent dialled in. they came round. I watched "watched"? Try "peeped" or something. The listening at the window could be more evocative too. through the curtains and I listened through the window as they banged all her doors, as they shouted out her windows. You used "window" twice in the same sentence. I watched as they sifted through all her things, took what they wanted and disdained Again with the tone/character: "disdained" sounds out of place. all they didn't. I watched Third time using this word. I think you're going for some kind of rhythmic repetition, but it doesn't really work, mostly because "watched" is an incredibly boring word. as they filled the skip and as they dismantled her entire life bit by bit, piece by piece. This feels out of order -- they filled the skip and then dismantled her entire life? It's amazing how fast you can destroy 80 years of work. "Work"? There has got to be a better way of describing all earthly traces of somebody's 80-year long life. Two, three hours, and all signs of the person are erased. A few days, a couple of coats of paint, and it's like they never existed at all.

They saw me, Where? On first reading, I though the narrator was a ghostly apparition standing in the flat and being half-seen by the relatives. I saw them gesture in my direction, lower their voices, look away, oh yes, they saw me and they knew who I was. Except we, as readers, never really find out. You can't tease with this and then not deliver. If they'd come over, if they'd asked maybe, if they'd shown the slightest bit of sympathy... But they didn't, so I, as they used to say, kept mum. Then they left were gone and it was too late anyway. Maybe if they'd come back I would have said something, but they never did. About what? We, the readers, don't know, so why should we care? A man came to empty the skip, somebody came to take the last of the furniture, a builder, a decorator, and that was it. "that was that", for a little old working class English lady, no? Also, this sentence needs more description. "A man came", "somebody came", "take" are pretty piss-poor descriptors. Paint a picture with your words. All signs of old Joan were gone, and she may as well have never even existed at all. I don't think they even bought her a headstone... This also seems weird -- you hint that the narrator was something special to Joan, but she doesn't even know whether she got a headstone on her grave?

Anyway. No. Holy gently caress no. Do not begin a paragraph in a beautiful nostalgic rumination with "anyway". There's a woman living there now, young, I've heard her shouting yelling. or even better, yellin' at her kid and seen her busying in and out, but she seems a good sort. This sentence feels strange -- the shouting is a reason for the "but", while it's not clear why the "busying in and out" would be indicative of someone not a good sort. She hasn't been over to say hello yet but that's ok OK, that's how the young live nowadays. I keep meaning to bake her something, to go over there and introduce myself, but it's too late for me to be making friends again now. Make it clear that you mean "too late in life", not "too late after the neighbour moved in". Something like "at my age". I think about it, and then I stop. I put the cake back in the cupboard, Huh? I thought she never got up to baking something, so why is there a cake? put the extra mug away again and tell myself I'll do it tomorrow instead. Also, if there is a cake, they don't stay fresh forever; "tomorrow instead" seems weird (but only if there's cake).

But this time I mean it, I am going to go over there tomorrow, cake or no cake. I'm going to tell her the stories and I'm going to give her the necklace, whether she wants it or not.

And maybe when I die, and they shuffle through my jewelry box and they look behind my television and they curse their lack of Inheritance, they'll know it served them right.

This bugs me the most. It took about three readings to realise that the terrible vengeance she'll mete upon her own kids is to not leave them an inheritance. And how would they know it served them right? Is this old lady seriously talking about taking vengeance on her own kids for the actions of her friend's kids? Why should we eveb care about her family, whom she's never mentioned once?

Nettle Soup posted:

Thank you! I realise it has some major issue, but if nobody points them out then I'll never improve! I think the main problem is, it started out as a guy giving his girlfriend a necklace he couldn't possibly afford and her thinking he'd stolen it, and then suddenly the woman shoved her way in and I couldn't think of a better opening. I should have just erased it and started fresh.

Nettle Soup posted:

She never found the headstone because the family didn't contact her, and they didn't have one made anyway, just kept her ashes on the bookcase.

Lead out in cuffs posted:

quote:

(with cross-validated PPV of 0.98), or divorce (PPV=0.97). Working with the production team, she had optimised the classifier for speed, validated on a follow-up cohort, and rolled it out as a secure internal service to account managers country-wide.

quote:

"Suicide Cost-Benefit Analysis"

elfdude posted:

Title: Modern Magic
Word Count: 1170
Element: Cesium

Debiles smiled,. Hhis plan was coming together once again. He so loved the art.

“You, will never become the Archmage.” His quarry spat at him; even as his body was slowly being pulled apart atom by atom.

Debiles laughed, “My plan has already succeeded. You see minister, you were the final loose end to pluck out. Now the empire is mine.” With a snap of his Debiles'? The man could be disintegrating himself here. fingers the man before him disintegrated. The motes of energy that had formerly comprised his body annihilatinged themselves in brilliant flashes of light. In a moment it was over.

Debiles likes to gloat, doesn't he?

The green glow of his watches’watch's, unless there are more than one? backlight was the only light in the cavern but Debiles needed no light to see by. The magic that infused his body allowed him to see through the darkness. The radiation that permeated all things was more than enough for his eyes to see by. The last two sentences seem redundant. A faint beeping sound played out offrom his watches’watch's electronic speaker remindinged him that the minister needed to be dead by that moment.

This is where you introduce the key point of the story (everything is scheduled by his watch), but at this point it just confuses me. I'd like to see this reworked for clarity.

Right on time, he mused.

“Now what?” Fortis spoke behind him, shattering his reverie. Debiles tried not to snarl at her. It really wasn’t her fault butthat he hadn’t scheduled an opportunity for her to speak. He walked towards the end of the corridor where the minister’s personal transport to the Archmage’s chambers awaited him. The sound of his sister’s footfalls were irritatingly irregular. He had learned years ago to try and ignore that shortfall of hers,. Aafter all she had taught him magic.

The human will, such a peculiar thing, he thought. Unpredictable, resistant to routine and utterly unaware of time. To him time was precious.

“All in good time my sister,” Tick, tock, was the sound that played through his mind.

----

The sound of the clock was all that he could hear. Tick, tock. The sound seemed to obliterate every thought before it.

Was it a minute he had been locked up in the darkness? Was it a year? He couldn't be sure.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound; Tick, tock. He felt a mouse brush his leg and immediately grabbed and bit into it. The warm juice exploded in his mouth and he savored the metallic flavor. Sensation was such a rare treat down there and mice were better than nothing.

Tick… the sound was interrupted. He strained to hear the clock but try as he might the sound was gone. He felt tears run down his face. A sensation he hadn’t felt since he had first been trapped. Sentence fragment. He groaned. The sound echoed chillingly throughout the cavern. He didn’t want out,; he just wanted the clock.

“Tick, Tock.” After what seemed like an eternity he began to make the sound himself. The sound comforted him. Then he saw a light,. Tthe heavy stones that had blocked his exit were extracted. His sister stood before him covered in the blood of his captors.

He smiled,. “Tick, tock,” was all he could say.

It took me a bit to realize this was a flashback.

----

The Archmage stood before Debiles. His weak and aging body shook with the strain of holding itself upright. The staff of power that the Archmage clung to was more of a crutch than a powerful artifact. “Debiles.” His voice reminded Debiles of the rumbling of an avalanche. It was a sound he had heard once before but he couldn't quite place it.

No matter,. I didn't schedule that memory. He dismissed his own thoughts.

“Mister Verum Latet, your time has come, I’m afraid.” The ringing of the clock in his head felt like a metronome, timing his every action. He reminded himself to slow down. He was moving too fast in his excitement.

The ancient Archmage spat, “How much you don’t know. Ungrateful wretch.”

With impressive power and coordination the Archmage began to move,. Hhis hands were a blur of motion and his mouth ran through incantations faster than Debiles had thought was possible. Still against the plan, the Archmage would fail. Does it go against the plan for the archmage to fail? Debiles knew the plan almost as well as the sound that played on repeat in his head.

Debiles’ watch chimed in again, reminding him to step to the side as the enormous spear of ice flew through where he had been standing only milliseconds before. He quite liked his watch,. Hhis sister had given it to him shortly after he had escaped from his imprisonment. Another beep reminded him to drop to the floor as spinning disks of metal cut through the air over head.

He had choreographed his motions after years of studying the Archmage. Were he a normal man he would have lost count of the number of hapless assassins he had dispatched to this very room. Each had served to reveal the Archmage’s habits and each had died. It had taken forty two to put together the plan and it all depended on timing. Something Debiles was very good at. Sentence fragment. “Debiles was very good at timing.” perhaps?

The clock in his watch was based the osculations of Cesium, like a pendulum only far less prone to error. It was accurate to a degree even his time keeping abilities were envious of. You worked this in for the prompt, but it could be cut now with no harm to the story at all. The alarm rang again, reminding him to roll to the side. Deep gouges were cut into the concrete that he had been laying upon by phantom forces. Passive voice. More active: “Phantom forces cut deep gouges into the concrete he had been laying on.”His watch was perfect, perhaps more so than the sound of clock in his head.

Another beep reminded him to cast his own magic. He had practiced this with his sister dozens of times and was completely confident in his own abilities. He mouthed the words and made the motions. Milliseconds passed as he waited for the telltale shimmer to begin, but nothing happened. His eyes widened as more milliseconds passed and no magical shield surrounded him. Then, a bolt of lightning pierced through his chest, flinging him into the wall.

His face was contorted in surprise. Not sure of what had happened and paralyzed, he watched his sister pluck the feeble Archmage up with her own magics.

The mage struggled helplessly and glared at her. “I knew it. Debiles never had any magic.” Debiles had always wondered how his sister knew where he had been taken and why his magic seemed so irregular. This is clumsy. If he'd always wondered, why do we only know it now? He was “completely confident” in his irregular abilities last paragraph.

Fortis shrugged,. “You figured it out too late father.” She smiled as she casually pulled off his arms and legs like a child ripping the wings off of an insect.

“Your act was quite perfect, I commend you.” The Archmage ceased his struggles and bowed to her magic. He's saying this with his arms and legs ripped off?

Fortis smiled as she looked at her brother’s motionless body. “To think, all it took was a clock. It took me years to convince him that my magic was his own. Luckily rhythm isn’t that hard to learn.” With her final words she pulled apart the rest of her father’s body leaving behind only a fine bloody mist.

Debiles would have cried if he could,. Tthe sound of the clock was gone. It was a hell he was only forced to experience for a few moments before his dear sister finished him off.

elfdude posted:

Title: Modern Magic
Word Count: 1170
Element: Cesium

Debiles smiled,. His plan was coming together once again. He so loved the art.

“You, will never become the Archmage.” His quarry spat at him; even as his body was slowly being pulled apart atom by atom. [Starting in the middle of the action is good. Horrible Sci-fi channel movie quality lines are terrible however. The dramatic pause after the you is especially egregious. It's good to know people being torn apart on a molecular level have time for high quality zingers like this one I guess]

Debiles laughed, “My plan has already succeeded. You see minister, you were the final loose end to pluck out. Now the empire is mine.” [More cliche dialog, with a little info dump to boot.]With a snap of his fingers the man before him disintegrated. The motes of energy that had formerly comprised his body annihilating themselves in brilliant flashes of light. In a moment it was over.

The green glow of his watches’ backlight was the only light in the cavern but Debiles needed no light to see by. The magic that infused his body allowed him to see through the darkness. The radiation that permeated all things was more than enough for his eyes to see by. [Seriously? Not only is this just a bunch of telling, it's also repetitive and boring telling. Why did you tell us he can see in the dark three times?] A faint beeping sound played out of his watches' electronic speaker reminding him that the minister needed to be dead by that moment.

Right on time, he mused.

“Now what?” Fortis spoke behind him shattering his reverie. Debiles tried not to snarl at her.[In most cases it is better to focus on what a character does, not what they don't do. There are far better ways to show restrained annoyance/contempt/etc than this] It really wasn’t her fault but he hadn’t scheduled an opportunity for her to speak.[More telling] He walked towards the end of the corridor where the minister’s personal transport to the Archmage’s chambers awaited him. The sound of his sister’s footfalls were irritatingly irregular.[This is better, it shows something she does that annoys him particularly and ties into his time obsession. Do more things like that.] He had learned years ago to try and ignore that shortfall of hers, after all she had taught him magic.

The human will, such a peculiar thing, he thought. Unpredictable, resistant to routine and utterly unaware of time.[I don't think having the "evil wizard" wax philosophical is helping the story any here.] To him time was precious.[Redundant]

“All in good time my sister,” Tick, tock, was the sound that played through his mind.[More waxing philosophical plus beating around the bush in response to a simple question for no apparent reason.The dialog needs work in this piece across the board.]

----

The sound of the clock was all that he could hear. Tick, tock. The sound seemed to obliterate every thought before it.

Was it a minute he had been locked up in the darkness? Was it a year? He couldn't be sure.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound; Tick, tock. He felt a mouse brush his leg and immediately grabbed and bit into it. The warm juice exploded in his mouth and he savored the metallic flavor. Sensation was such a rare treat down there and mice were better than nothing. [This was jarring, at first read I didn't realize this was something that happened in the past]

Tick… the sound was interrupted. He strained to hear the clock but try as he might the sound was gone. He felt tears run down his face. A sensation he hadn’t felt since he had first been trapped. He groaned. The sound echoed chillingly throughout the cavern. He didn’t want out, he just wanted the clock.

“Tick, Tock.” After what seemed like an eternity he began to make the sound himself. The sound comforted him. Then he saw a light, the heavy stones that had blocked his exit were extracted. His sister stood before him covered in the blood of his captors.

He smiled, “Tick, tock,” was all he could say.

----

The Archmage stood before Debiles. His weak and aging body shook with the strain of holding itself upright. The staff of power that the Archmage clung to was more of a crutch than a powerful artifact. “Debiles.” His voice reminded Debiles of the rumbling of an avalanche. It was a sound he had heard once before but he couldn't quite place it.

No matter, I didn't schedule that memory. He dismissed his own thoughts.

“Mister Verum Latet, your time has come I’m afraid.” The ringing of the clock in his head felt like a metronome, timing his every action. He reminded himself to slow down. He was moving too fast in his excitement.

The ancient Archmage spat, “How much you don’t know. Ungrateful wretch.”

With impressive power and coordination the Archmage began to move, his hands were a blur of motion and his mouth ran through incantations faster than Debiles had thought was possible.[This sentence is clunky. Try to avoid stuff like "Began to X" and try not to put descriptive clauses before the action they are describing. For action simple direct language with the right verb can go a long way. Keep this in mind especially for things that are supposed to happen quickly or suddenly. Example: With impressive speed and determination he began to move down the hallway vs he ran down the hallway ] Still against the plan, the Archmage would fail. Debiles knew the plan almost as well as the sound that played on repeat in his head.

Debiles’ watch chimed in again reminding him to step to the side as the enormous spear of ice flew through where he had been standing only milliseconds before. He quite liked his watch, his sister had given it to him shortly after he had escaped from his imprisonment. Another beep reminded him to drop to the floor as spinning disks of metal cut through the air over head.

He had choreographed his motions after years of studying the Archmage. Were he a normal man he would have lost count of the number of hapless assassins he had dispatched to this very room. Each had served to reveal the Archmage’s habits and each had died. It had taken forty two to put together the plan and it all depended on timing. Something Debiles was very good at. [Redundant telling]

The clock in his watch was based the osculations of Cesium, like a pendulum only far less prone to error. [Meh, had issues with this use of Cesium which I detailed more below.It was accurate to a degree even his time keeping abilities were envious of. The alarm rang again reminding him to roll to the side. Deep gouges were cut into the concrete that he had been laying upon by phantom forces. His watch was perfect, perhaps more so than the sound of clock in his head.

Another beep reminded him to cast his own magic. He had practiced this with his sister dozens of times and was completely confident in his own abilities. He mouthed the words and made the motions. Milliseconds passed as he waited for the telltale shimmer to begin, but nothing happened. His eyes widened as more milliseconds passed and no magical shield surrounded him. Then, a bolt of lightning pierced through his chest flinging him into the wall.

His face was contorted in surprise. Not sure of what had happened and Paralyzed, he watched his sister pluck the feeble Archmage up with her own magics.

The mage struggled helplessly and glared at her. “I knew it. Debiles never had any magic.” Debiles had always wondered how his sister knew where he had been taken and why his magic seemed so irregular.

Fortis shrugged, “You figured it out too late father."[Revealing that the mage is their father now feels like a cheap ploy to try an add an extra twist to the story. It doesn't add anything] She smiled as she casually pulled off his arms and legs like a child ripping the wings off of an insect.

“Your act was quite perfect,. I commend you.” The Archmage ceased his struggles and bowed to her magic.

Fortis smiled as she looked at her brother’s motionless body. “To think, all it took was a clock. It took me years to convince him that my magic was his own. Luckily rhythm isn’t that hard to learn.” With her final words[More dialog that just reiterates stuff we already know] she pulled apart the rest of her father’s body leaving behind only a fine bloody mist.

Debiles would have cried if he could, the sound of the clock was gone. It was a hell he was only forced to experience for a few moments before his dear sister finished him off. [As others have said, you do have a resolution and that's good. Also I like that for him, the biggest tragedy is losing the clock and not the fact that he is going to die or he was betrayed by his sister. It shows how far gone he is.]

elfdude posted:

My sense of grammar is instinctual not technical or logical which is problematic for understanding how to fix it. I feel like the guide you gave is helpful but to give a comparison I feel like it's akin to handing me an equation without understanding the algebraic operations it demands. One of the major difficulties I have isn't not knowing the technical comma rules, I understand the basics, but the fundamentals that those are based on are not entirely understood which leads to inappropriate usage of the rules in certain situations.

For example, the first thing I run into is trying to figure out what a clause is, this leads me into what a complete sentence is. While I understand what a verb and a noun is, or a subject and an action are, and to a lesser extent adjectives and adverbs, there exists a gap between the basic understanding of sentence structure and the more complicated sentences used in typical prose. I feel like if I could bridge that gap I could have a much more reliable understanding but I find it frustrating that guides are either spelling out those basics that I already understand or delving into clauses and etc without explaining what those are. I've made attempts to examine this but it's very easy to get lost in the weeds if you're not exactly sure what you're looking for, and I was hoping someone might have a bit more experience than I do could and could identify the gap.

Sorry if that doesn't make sense, but it's the best way I can explain it.

As far as the prose itself, you've given me some awesome ideas on how to fix the writing. I'm glad to know that there's some inherent qualities which are solid within the story and I'm happy to rewrite the prose to better explain those.

elfdude posted:

My sense of grammar is instinctual not technical or logical which is problematic for understanding how to fix it. I feel like the guide you gave is helpful but to give a comparison I feel like it's akin to handing me an equation without understanding the algebraic operations it demands. One of the major difficulties I have isn't not knowing the technical comma rules, I understand the basics, but the fundamentals that those are based on are not entirely understood which leads to inappropriate usage of the rules in certain situations.

For example, the first thing I run into is trying to figure out what a clause is, this leads me into what a complete sentence is. While I understand what a verb and a noun is, or a subject and an action are, and to a lesser extent adjectives and adverbs, there exists a gap between the basic understanding of sentence structure and the more complicated sentences used in typical prose. I feel like if I could bridge that gap I could have a much more reliable understanding but I find it frustrating that guides are either spelling out those basics that I already understand or delving into clauses and etc without explaining what those are. I've made attempts to examine this but it's very easy to get lost in the weeds if you're not exactly sure what you're looking for, and I was hoping someone might have a bit more experience than I do could and could identify the gap.

Sorry if that doesn't make sense, but it's the best way I can explain it.

As far as the prose itself, you've given me some awesome ideas on how to fix the writing. I'm glad to know that there's some inherent qualities which are solid within the story and I'm happy to rewrite the prose to better explain those.

Anathema Device posted:

*snip*

elfdude posted:

My god, I did not know the distinction between an independent clause and a dependent clause. That has simplified the whole problem immensely. Thank you! I'm exploring the website you gave me more thoroughly.

Palisader posted:

The Move
word count: 967

When I was eleven years old, I lived in Hong Kong.

Some people might take the time here to tell you that this opening sentence is relatively drab and boring. I wouldn't go so far, but what it does do is set up an expectation of a very clipped and matter-of-fact style. We'll see if you follow through.

In general, this isn't necessarily an exciting thing. Something close to 7 million people live in Hong Kong right now. Fly to Macau and proudly announce that you live in Hong Kong and you'll get a funny look and a gentle reminder of where the aquarium is.

This paragraph is poor in a number of respects. First off, you double-qualify your first statement "in general", "isn't necessarily" which makes it poor English, notwithstanding it being pretty asinine. The next few sentences are redundant and probably worth cutting. I don't understand the aquarium joke either.

Ask yourself what purpose this little intro serves. To establish that Hong Kong is, or to you at the time, an exciting place to live. Which you proceed to establish for a second time in the next paragraph. Cut it all.

At any rate, moving to Hong Kong was exciting Starts with another qualifier "at any rate", needlessly weakening your point.. Up to "until" would be the word I would use here that point I was, without a doubt Why even put this clause in? You are telling us the facts, we are taking you at face value. Stop qualifying your own statements., a tiny little southern girl living in a series of tiny little southern towns. Cute repetition. Worrying ambiguity due to use of present-past tense, where you are living in multiple towns at once. I didn't have a tiny little southern accent Aaaand milked it. to go along with it, but the same couldn't be said of my worldview. I lived in America This is redundant information, because you set up the previous sentence to imply that you have a little southern girl's worldview. Plus it kills flow. Let's leave flow for now.. To me, other countries were a bit like fairy tales—they existed, but possibly possibly only? STOP THIS MADNESS only in theory. To this day, I describe my move to Hong Kong as the best time of my life Another dicey use of English here. Literally, this sentence reads that the process of moving was the best of your life. You don't mean that, and I know it, but that is what it says. Something like: "To this day I still look on those days I spent in Hong Kong as the best in my life." Works better right?. Since then I've married and had a child, so it's not entirely true, I suppose. What is this instant backpedalling? Why do this? Don't set up your story then knock it down. But it was definitely the best thing that could have possibly happened to me at the time. Well, gee, maybe it was the second or third best, I dunno... NOPE. This stuff is anathema to writing. Don't hash out your inner thoughts in a piece that is telling a story about YOUR past. You tell US how it was, and still affects you. If I sit down to tell a story to somebody, I don't hem and haw and disagree with things I just said. It kills your pacing, and it makes the narrative far less impactful.

I can't really describe the experience. Try harder. One day I woke up and I was living on an island that you could drive across in one day This would work better if you set up the contradiction more clearly with your previous way of life. "One day it was X, the next Y" Not necessarily like that, but in that vein.. I saw buildings so high that it could rain and tops would stay dry A nice detail.. I saw open-air markets, shouting fishermen selling eels, silent temples, monsoons, and a shop that sold ivory figures of couples in poses from the Kama-Sutra that my mother definitely wouldn't let me inspect too closely. This strays too close to a shopping list. You're evoking feelings and imagery for your reader. "Open air markets" doesn't cut it. The final example of the figure shop breaks the plurality of the list by referring to a singular thing, which is improper in my eyes, and then you make it run on and on by being over-wordy which is also not good.

My mother, far too bored of housework to stay home for long, worked at the school that I attended, being one of the few places that didn't require either of us to know Cantonese. This meant two things—one, that she rode with me on the school bus every morning, a trip that took more than an hour, and two, that I would accompany her on weekends and holidays any time she had to go to the school for work related things. I didn't mind. I loved that school. Hong Kong International School it was called, and to this day I still remember how to say it in Mandarin. Well, that and I can count to 100 and say thank you. I would make the most polite Chinese accountant that there ever was. Pretty cringeworthy, if I'm honest.

This whole paragraph is not story. Not even worth my critiquing it. These are simple biographical details, which was not what the prompt was looking for. I suppose it introduces your mother as a character, but I get the feeling she is not going to come up again.

My best friend at the time was named Amy, and she was from Singapore. Her family had a sign up in their bathroom that was a list of all the things that could get you fined in Singapore. I asked her once if it was all really true. “Oh yes” she said, her eyes going wide “they're very strict there. You can't even buy gum!” I was shocked and horrified. I still wonder if that's true. Every time you chime in with your opinion in the present, you interrupt the story set in the past.

This reads like one of those "Write about yourself" assignments that a seven or eight year old might write. Possibly younger.

Sometimes, on the occasions when my mother would have to visit the school in order to work "on the occasions"? I thought she worked there., Amy would come with me in a concerted attempt to keep both of us out of trouble Doesn't make sense. Keep you out of trouble perhaps? Or is this implying she would also get in trouble if she stayed at home?. We'd occasionally disappear for a while and walk around, which wasn't considered 'getting in trouble'. We did that a lot, and nobody seemed to mind. It was a bit of a small town mentality, only in a city of 7 million people. Apparently crime like that just didn't happen.Crime like what? No reference for "that" anywhere.

On one occasion, we decided to investigate the large hill that stretched out behind the elementary school across the road, since there was a path there and really, why not? Don't use rhetorical questions like this. The path itself was an informal affair, and possibly long-forgotten, mostly overgrown in places Qualifiers! Qualifiers everywhere!. There were signs that it was set up intentionally, at least to a preteen—a log, mostly stripped of branches, placed across a crevice to make a perfect bridge, some brush cut away here and there. We were explorers! Really quite a non-sequitur exclamation. Tone shift from the very clinical description of the path. We took many extremely thought-provoking what? pictures of ourselves posing majestically on the side of a hill, or draped across the aforementioned log.

At first, we were sure we'd find treasure. After a while we became absolutely positive that we'd find treasure, because we had read far too many Nancy Drew books and by golly you don't just have a weather-beaten old path with no treasure! After a longer while we became absolutely convinced that we would, at some point, at least find the top of the hill. It was a very large hill.

"It was a very large hill"? Are you kidding me? Repetition of absolutely is jarring me as well. Would have preferred to see "at least" come before "at some point" as well, to make the meaning clearer.

And then we did. Ta-Daa...? Could have at least given "it was a large hill" some much needed mileage by making out it was a difficult climb or something. We reached the crest just as the sun was beginning to set, and it cast a glow across the whole of the world (below). And there, at the top, right as the path ended completely, was a tiny stone temple, about waist high. And if you bent down, which I did, inside of it you could see a tiny stone Buddha. Someone had placed an incense burner in front of him, and the ashy remains of a stick of incense were still there. The trail wasn't completely abandoned after all. Redundant information. Don't patronise your audience, they can work out that sort of thing.


“Come on,” said Amy “we have to get back.” She turned away from me with a bit of a sigh. There was no treasure, just a stupid stone Buddha.

Technically speaking, you shouldn't be straying from your narrative perspective at this point. We slip, only briefly, into Amy's mind. You should be consistent and just have it designated as your opinion/view on what she thought.

I stayed bent down and stared at him for a moment, the setting sun casting Buddha in a deep shadow. He smiled serenely at me. It was beautiful. Amy shouted at me again, and we left. Too abrupt.

I never went back.

I wonder if you really can't buy gum in Singapore. I wonder if it's still okay for two little girls to wander the streets of Hong Kong alone. I wonder how my life would have been different if I had never gone there. And I wonder if, sitting on top of a lonely hill behind an elementary school, there's still a tiny temple with a tiny Buddha statue, the wafting smoke of incense barely visible against the setting sun.

Jeza posted:

This is a reflection on the passage of time, and a kind of musing on perhaps the less-innocent times we seem to have today. Most of it is washed away by a flood of trivialities. There isn't really a story here and the writing level is very simplistic. I'd be tempted to chalk it down to getting into the little southern girl mindset if it wasn't so signposted that that was not your intention. In the cold light of day, this piece is like one of those anecdotes that goes nowhere, where somebody strings you along feeding you details only for them to conclude flatly, leaving you kind of confused.

This will probably seem overbearingly negative to you, and I suppose it is. Don't get too depressed about it though, because I think at least a fair few of your problems in this piece come from the fact that it was written almost more for yourself than for any audience which made it sort of inevitable that it would fall flat when presented to an audience.

JuniperCake posted:

But you can go ahead and throw semi-colons in the trash. There are uses for them but they are far too easy to screw up and it's not worth it.)

Erogenous Beef posted:

Your character makes no significant choices during the story itself.

Erogenous Beef posted:

On both a macro- and micro-level, a plot follows a “tick-tock” structure.
[...]
This is often called a motivation-reaction unit (MRU).

Erogenous Beef posted:

Your story consisted of a lot of “character does something, thinks about it, does something else, thinks about it.” It's a bunch of actions, but those actions are not acting against any apparent Character Problem.

crabrock posted:

Just to play some devil's advocate, and to remind everybody that one writer's way isn't the ONLY way.

quote:

what. neither of these are "common" or particularly useful. A google search for "tick tock writing" returns info on the kesha song and deadlines. I won't even start on hitting somebody with an acronym that you never use again. The jargon is totally unneeded.

quote:

Here's a story by sebmojo that many consider to be quite good. It suffers from the same "problems" you say elfdude does.

elfdude posted:

It's difficult to understand the issue inherent in the ending. The ending's point was that the character just killed a bunch of people for no reason, or rather that the reason he thought he had wasn't real.

quote:

I don't know what the character can solve. The contract has no bearing other than it is invalid.

elfdude posted:

It's difficult to understand the issue inherent in the ending. The ending's point was that the character just killed a bunch of people for no reason, or rather that the reason he thought he had wasn't real. I don't know what the character can solve. The contract has no bearing other than it is invalid.

elfdude posted:

Revised mark II: https://docs.google.com/a/pdx.edu/document/d/1Slc49xywlgcpGup-oSaK0LhGW1UbMinvH1xLESkB57o/edit

I feel like I made some pretty good changes in a lot of areas. I've read it aloud a few times, but I'm still in the habit of reading my words as grammatically correct. I guess I'm a better speaker than writer. Anyways, I hope this is better.

quote:

Inside, the diner was nearly vacant. The broad-shouldered cook regarded him with a quiet nod. At the other end of the room, a young man sat in a booth, smoking a cigarette and staring at the table. Roger took a seat at the counter. “I’ll take a cup of coffee, please.”

The cook eyed him. “Ten cents.”

Roger reached back into his pocket, taking his wallet in hand. “Could you make change for a dollar?” He asked, placing the note onto the counter.

The cook frowned, turning his eyes up from the dollar back to Roger. “Sorry mister. We don’t take green money, here.”

Roger looked up at him. “Pardon?” The man from the booth had gotten up, and stood beside them now. He placed a coral pink banknote upon the counter.

“This one’s on me, friend. You’re not from around here, right?” He smiled. “I knew it. Come on over and sit with me, will ya?”

Roger took a seat across from his sponsor. The man was wearing khaki pants, polished black shoes, and a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled past the elbow. His hair was sandy blonde, and his eyes a steely blue. There was something wrong with them; it was like he couldn’t see you, as if he were looking over your shoulder instead of at you. He looked back at the counter, before explaining, “They only take Conners, here. Same as everywhere in town.”

“It’s company scrip?”

“They say it’s so we don’t have to pay out in taxes, or something like that.” He bit his bottom lip, looking away for a moment. “You’re with the government, aren’t you?”

Roger nodded. “My name is Roger Keyes. I’m with the Bureau.”

The man rocked his upper body back and forth, clasping his hands together. “Oh, I knew it when I seen you. I knew you’d come- I’ve been here, waiting, because everybody what comes into town stops here first.” He raised his voice. “I’ve been here every day, haven’t I Frank?”

“Day and night”, answered the cook.

He leaned in closer, lowering his tone once more. “You came looking for the bomber. And you’ve found him. My name is George Metesky, sir, and I’d like to commit myself to justice.”

Roger took a sip from his coffee, looking to George from across the dark surface of the mug. He’d been on the case for years, and to have the perpetrator land so cleanly in his lap- it didn’t seem right. “You’ve been doing an adequate job of covering your tracks this far- seems to me like you didn’t want to be found. Why the change of heart?”

“When I sent that letter, about the war, I did mean it, you know. It was just a ceasefire. But after a while, I started to realize- I am very sick, sir. I’ve done terrible things, and I need to be made to pay. It was like I couldn’t see it, before. Like a haze.”

“Why’d you start?” (Roger wouldn't ask this. He's been on this case for a long time- Metesky was never coy about his motive.)

“Because. Consolidated Edison hurt me. I gave years of my life to them, and, and there was an accident. My workstation exploded. I breathed in something bad. Look here. A part of the machine flew off and took a bite out of me.” George leaned over the table, pulling down on the neck of his shirt to reveal a peculiar burn mark on his collarbone, a ring with a circle in the center, and a single cross breaking the ring. “I was never the same. They kicked me out on my rear end. Wouldn’t pay my worker’s comp. Ignored me when I wrote to the higher-ups. They pressured my coworkers to perjure against me in court. I couldn’t work, couldn’t even think- I started going wrong, after all that.”

“So Consolidated Edison betrayed you. What’s that got to do with bombing theaters and phone booths?”

“Oh, well. Something broke in me, Mr. Keyes- that wrath that welled up inside me, it just kept on coming. I struck out at everyone.” He took a moment to regain his composure, drawing a measured breath.

“After I die, Mr. Keyes, tell them to open my head. You’ll find that a little part of my brain is withered and dead.”

Roger watched George from across the table. He studied the man, who curled in toward himself as he rubbed granules of sugar between his fingertips. He tried to picture him, sitting in a workshop and wiring bombs, pasting newspaper clippings into raving threats, speeding towards the city with hate in his heart and a caustic payload in his trunk. (Terrible. There should be a moment of observation here, for sure, but it has to be better than this.) George picked up a fork, and began to poke at the power outlet with the prongs of it.

“You know, there’s two kinds of electric power, alternating current and direct current. Nowadays, almost everything’s on AC. But there are still some places that use DC, mostly in Europe. Con Ed still supports some DC grids; you’ve gotta have two sets of equipment for everything, it’s ridiculous, drags the whole operation down. Who knows, with the war going on, all those American boys coming over, American radios, American hot plates- maybe the balance of power is shifting.” He smiled. (Tangential; the title of this story is 'The War of the Currents', and it is linked to WWII, but this may not be relevant enough to justify.)

quote:

Roger finished his coffee. “Well, Mr. Metesky. I think it’s time to go. Would you stand, please?” Roger stood, and George followed.

Roger took the set of handcuffs from the front-right pocket of his overcoat, fixing them upon George’s wrists. “Just a formality, Mr. Metesky. You’re being placed under arrest by the power of the federal government. You’ll be rendered to Jefferson Market to await trial. Do you understand the charges being brought against you?”

As Roger spoke, he ran his hands over George’s body, searching his pockets and patting down his shirt. “Yes, sir,” answered George.

Roger stood behind George and began to walk him towards the door, when something caught his eye. Behind the counter, Frank was speaking into a CB radio set. “Are you there, Karen? That milk delivery should be here before sunup, so be ready to put it away when it gets here, alright?”

Roger looked over to where the radio had been set, by the glass-domed cake plates. “That’s a pretty serious set you’ve got, there. Something wrong with the telephone?”

“Mhm,” Frank nodded. He stuck his thumb out, as if to indicate Ogdensburg. “Back in town, the copper miners have been on strike. Ugly business. Holed up in the mine during the day, won’t let anybody in. Only come out at night to raise hell. Some of them cut the phone lines just a while back.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Why would they do anything they do? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Roger’s brow creased. “Well, have a nice evening, mister.” (I don't really know how to describe what I want here. Roger is thinking about it, and I want his action to reflect that, but this just isn't good.)

George smiled. “So long, Frank.”

Frank gave another nod. “Take care of yourself, George.”

Anathema Device posted:

Apparently my thunderdome this week had a weak ending compared to the rest, so I did some rewriting. For anyone who read the original, am I going in the right direction?

For anyone else, how's the ending?



Christi dumps her tray into the trashcan slowly, looking to see what's gone in before. There's half a cookie and a packet of chips, and with her broad body in the way, she can reach in and grab them without anyone noticing.

She's eaten all they've given her, but she's always hungry. She watches herself wrap her salvaged goods in a napkin and stuff them in her sweatshirt pocket, hating it. Hating herself. There's still time before math to find a quiet place to eat.

There's something on the chip bag that's sticky and smelly. She wants to throw it away again. She wants to puke when she pulls her hand from her pocket and sees the trashcan slime on it. She wants to stuff all the chips into her mouth before she's caught.

Christi makes herself walk to the bathroom. She has to pee, but she can't wait that long; there's food in her pockets and she can feel it itching at the back of her mind. She makes herself wash her hands slowly, meticulously. She glances under each door to make sure she's alone.

When she pulls the chips from her pocket she breaks. She wants to throw the food out again. She wants to wash the sticky mess off the bag. Instead she watches herself pinch the corners, reach in, stuff them into her mouth all in one big handful. In the mirror her face is speckled with bits of chip and grease. Crumbs fall on her sweatshirt and stick there, staining it.

She has the cookie into her mouth when the door opens. She chews fast, trying to swallow it, but the chip bag is still on the counter and her mouth is still full when the two girls come in. “Oooh, look,” the first says. “It's the harpy. Come to stuff your face?”

“Look what she's got. Did you pull that out of the trash, harpy?”

“She can't answer, look. Her mouth's full of trash!” the girls make theatrical gagging noises that set off Christi's own gag reflex. She swallows dry cookie and nausea. Throwing up isn't an option; it's just past noon and she doesn't know when she'll get to eat again. Not until lunch tomorrow if her dad finds out she's been stealing treats.

So she swallows and doesn't puke and doesn't cry, because there's no tears left. “Harpy, harpy,” they call her, while she washes her hands and keeps her eyes down so she doesn't see their pretty, thin faces in the mirror. She wishes her class had never studied the mythical vulture-women with their insatiable appetites and their stink.

By afternoon it's all over the school that Christi the Harpy is eating out of the trash again. High, shrieking cries follow her through the hallways, and people cover their noses when she walks by.

The history teacher is late, and two boys in front of her open a package of candy and share it. She watches each piece from the bag to their mouths and tries it ignore the way they look at her and laugh. She bites her tongue until it bleeds, but she can't stop the words tumbling out. “Can I have one? Please?” There's a nasty whine on the please, and oh god she wants to die.

“Go buy your own,” they say, and turn their backs to her. She imagines herself jumping over her desk, grabbing their hair, and smashing their smug, fit faces into the table. She imagines stealing their candy. Instead she opens her history book and tries to shut out the sounds of the bag rustling, of chewing and swallowing. She thinks she can hear the sugar melting on their tongues.

She sees the package of crackers first, slipped onto the open page of her book. Then she notices the small, quiet girl sitting next to her. “Listen,” the girl says, as Christi tears open the crackers and puts two in her mouth. “I don't know why you eat out of the trash, but you've got to have a reason. I just wanted to tell you...I talk to the counselor. And it helps. Maybe it'll help you, too.”

Christi tries to answer, but the crackers are dry and sticky with peanut butter, all at once. By the time she swallows enough to mumble, “Thanks,” the teacher's there.

The boys throw the last few candies at her after class. They bounce off her face and hit the floor. She's on her knees scrabbling after them before she's even realizes what happened. Above her she hears, “Look at the harpy, crawling on the floor like a dog. Did someone drop some trash, harpy?” Her tears fall on the backs of her hands.

She thinks of being hungry all night. She picks up the candy and puts in in her mouth, to the squeals and gags of the crowd. At this level she can see the legs of the chairs. One's missing a foot, ending in jagged, sharp metal. She imagines shoving it into the boys' face. Even the imagined blood makes her feel sick. Maybe she can hit herself so hard she'll pass out.

With the three candies in her mouth like little sugary bits of courage, she stands up. She doesn't see the crowd through her tears; doesn't hear them through the ringing in her ears. They're background buzzing, like classes, like everything that isn't the hunger and the fear.

She walks past the chair. The counselor's office is downstairs. The sugar melts across her tongue slowly. She'll make it.

sebmojo posted:

Maybe you should try and extend it; it doesn't have to be this length, after all. Take us with Christi to the counsellor, I'd like to know more.