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tango alpha delta
Sep 9, 2011

Ask me about my wealthy lifestyle and passive income! I love bragging about my wealth to my lessers! My opinions are more valid because I have more money than you! Stealing the fruits of the labor of the working class is okay, so long as you don't do it using crypto. More money = better than!

Jagermonster posted:

I've no real experience editing fiction, but here're my impressions:

Thanks for the feedback. Here's the story again, with some changes:

Father's Day

My stomach is so tight with hunger that the dumpster looks like an open mouth, an invitation to a banquet. I struggle between a gnawing stomach and the bruises that I'll have to nurse if the security guard catches me.

I've got to eat something. The parking lot looks clear, so here goes.

I slip in without making a sound. I've had lots of practice.

As my feet ease onto the contents of the dumpster, the garbage shifts unexpectedly and I grab at the sticky walls to brace myself. My own stench masks the odor of the garbage.

Desperately, I dig through the waste, throwing junk this way and that, when something moves outside. I freeze, but it's probably too late.

Breathing slowly, I brace myself for a tirade, but there's just silence. Puzzled, I clamber out of the bin and brush off things that are stuck to me. Some of them crawl away when they hit the ground.

A girl is standing in front of me, staring. Her eyes open wide and then tears slowly roll down her face. She manages to squeeze out a smile, a genuine honest smile. It's something I haven't seen in a long time.

A breeze plays with her purple hair and hopefully pushes my stench away.

"Are you hungry?"

Her voice is light and playful. It makes me feel good and ashamed at the same time.

I'm shaking all over, but manage a nod.

She yells out to someone else. "Bring some food over here."

A young man crosses the parking lot but, as soon as he sees me up close, moves closer to the girl, like a shield. He holds out a tall cup and a brown bag.

"Here you go. Take it."

I slowly reach for the food. When I realise that he's not trying to trick me, I grab the food quickly and feast.

The coffee is hot and creamy and sweet. It's absolutely perfect. My favorite. I rip open the bag and tear the paper wrap off the sandwich. Greedily, I feast on the soft bread, the crisp vegetables and juicy chicken. I can't remember when I've eaten this well. Days? Months? I don't honestly know.

They watch to make sure I finish my meal, then the young man and the girl walk away.

I find my voice "Uh, hey!" They stop and face me.

"Uh, thanks. Thanks a lot" I manage to sputter.

"We'll see you soon." They wave.

I sit down and lean against the dumpster, watching as they disappear.

That girl sure looks familiar.

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QuoProQuid
Jan 12, 2012

Tr*ckin' and F*ckin' all the way to tha
T O P

I am going to preface this by saying that I have never done a formal critique like this before. The quality is about what you might expect:

Erogenous Beef posted:

Find Them And You Can Resist (520 words)

A bloodied letter:
Artillery pounds my roof and I realize now The sentence flows better without the word “now” here. how wrong I was: they trapped me, just as they’ve trapped you. If you’re reading this, they wanted you to read it. If it survives beyond the bullet I’ll put in my brain, when the Soviets swarm down into this concrete tomb they let me build, they wanted my words to survive. Whether it suits them or not, I will show you: they arrange everything, everything to amuse their whims.

I do not know how much the identity of the author matters, but if your goal is to keep the audience in suspense then your first paragraph gives away too much. In particular the line, “when the Soviets swarm down into this concrete tomb they let me build,” makes it very obvious that this is a letter from Hitler. You might try changing “the Soviets” to “my enemies” or even “the Russians”. As it stands now, I feel I was let in onto the twist too soon.

They may have cornered this animal, but they have not conquered him. There is one place even their omnipotent Omnipotent is not the right word to use here. The phrasing is clunky. grasp cannot reach, and that is here, my sanctum, my soon-sepulcher.

My downfall began as I sat in a theater. Half-past midnight, as Orson Welles rode the Riesenrad, their anonymous man approached and introduced himself, the eponymous son of Herr Dreizig Junior.

Men of power do not chatter. Very nice phrase here. It immediately puts me into the proper mood for what ensues. Beyond the theater, I commanded an unbreakable machine, and in nine hours I would forge its strongest alliance. By what accident had they arranged our meeting today?

“There is no chance nor fate,” he said. “As we agreed, your end approaches. Join us in shadow, or fall.”

I chose to believe I alone had built an empire, with favors neither given nor received.

“We created you.” Lies. “We have always created men of your standing.” Lies. “And we have always destroyed you.” Lies.

I understand what you are trying to do here, but before I read your notes I was under the impression that Herr Dreizig III was the one saying “Lies”. My eyes completely skipped over the quotation marks. My suggestion would be to indicate that the “Lies” are separate from the dialogue, either by italicizing or capitalizing them.


Twenty-seven years prior, a Viennese cafe in Landstrasse near Richard Lionheart’s folly. My name immortalized, my power unquestioned, and for this they asked trifles. Who were these men who offered so much and needed so little?”

“We are power,” they had said. “Men invent our names. They named us when we were Rome’s vox populi and its emperors, they named us when we preached in the desert, they named us the people of the French uprising. They name us even now for you and will again in sixty years for a Rockefeller.”

Frequently, conspiracy theorists assume the organization they are watching is omnipresent. It is not enough for the Illuminati to have been established by Bavarian Jesuits in the late 1700s, they need to have a secret history dating back past recorded history. They are behind every event, every human achievement. Their hands are dipped into every aspect of life.
While your piece is not unique in this regard, it ups the ante in these two paragraphs by implying the organization is more than human. The dynamics surrounding Hitler’s meetings change dramatically because it means they are not bound by mortal limitations. I am interested by the religious elements.
Also, I am a huge history nerd and loved decoding what you were referring to here.


I had remarked on the providence that our interests coincided.

“There is no chance nor fate,” they had said. “Only we shepherds.”

The use of the word “shepherds” here is interesting in light of your references to the Third Crusade and Jesus above.

In the theater, I was blind to the evidence, believed myself free. I walked out and, that day of on the twenty-seventh September, signed a pact and believed it my own.

I was wrong. They, of course, drafted and approved its six clauses. Now they have torn me down, but I will end this puppet farce. I have spent five long years pretending it was I who moved men as pawns, but I am the pawn.

If Hitler knew he was a pawn for five years, then why did he continue? Was it fear? Desperation? Would it not have been easier to prove the conspiracy’s existence when the enemy is literally at the gate?

A pawn should not know the mind of the hand moving it. But they are men, not gods: they leave tracks any with this knowledge can see, and those who see can defy them - you can defy them.

As can I. There is one path left to me—



I am broken.

Here in my drawer, beneath the paper I stashed to write this very note, they left their final message. They knew my mind, they have always known my mind. My pistol is a six-chambered revolver.

There is no chance nor fate.
I really enjoy how you end this. It is structured very well and I feel it had sufficient build-up.

30 Apr 1945

Most my criticism was nit-picky, but all-in-all I really enjoyed your piece. I left wanting more. Unfortunately, this is also the story’s greatest weakness. There is not much there. I understand you were writing under a word limit but this would be a much stronger piece if you padded it out and let the reader see more interactions between the conspiracy and Hitler. I would be genuinely interested in reading the entirety of Hitler’s career with this shadowy cabal, from beginning to end.

tango alpha delta posted:

Father's Day

My stomach is so tight with hunger that the dumpster looks like an open mouth, an invitation to a banquet. Who jumps into an open mouth? I do not care how hungry I am, a dumpster like that is probably one I am staying away from. I struggle Struggle might not be the best word to use here. Maybe “torn” would work better? between a gnawing stomach and the bruises that I'll have to nurse if the security guard catches me.

I've got to eat something. The parking lot looks clear, so here goes.

I slip in without making a sound. I've had lots of practice. ”I struggle…” “I’ve got to eat…” “I slip in…” these are really repetitive. Find a different word to begin your sentences.

As my feet ease onto the contents of into the dumpster, the garbage shifts unexpectedly and I grab at the sticky walls to brace myself. My own stench masks the odor of the garbage.

Desperately, Adverbs are the devil. Use them sparingly or not at all. I dig through the waste, throwing junk this way and that, when something moves outside. I freeze, but it's probably too late. This paragraph is extremely clunky and it took a few rereads before I understood what you were trying to convey.

Breathing slowly The road to hell is paved with adverbs., I brace myself for a tirade, but there's just silence. You could probably break this sentence up into two parts to emphasize how unexpected the silence is. Puzzled, I clamber Can you use a simpler word than “clamber?” It does not sound appropriate for this speaker or in this context out of the bin and brush off things ”things” is neither interesting nor provoking. Find a better word to use here. that are stuck to me. Some of them crawl away when they hit the ground. Really.

A girl is standing in front of me, staring. Her eyes open wide and then tears slowly roll down her face. She manages to squeeze out a smile I am imagining a girl with a face like a bottle of Crest., a genuine honest Redundancy smile. It's something I haven't Avoid using contractions outside of dialogue. seen in a long time.

A breeze plays with her purple hair and hopefully pushes my stench away. Unless her purple hair is of some importance to the story, I would recommend removing this particular detail. It breaks up the flow.

"Are you hungry?" Who is saying this, the man or the girl? Maybe bring up the line below so as to give context.

Her voice is light and playful. It makes me feel good and ashamed at the same time.

I'm shaking all over, but manage a nod. I think your protagonist is a fawn.

She yells out to someone else. "Bring some food over here."

A young man crosses the parking lot but, as soon as he sees me up close, moves closer to the girl These two actions seem contradictory. Is he crossing the parking lot or is he shielding the girl?, like a shield. He holds out a tall cup and a brown bag.

"Here you go. Take it."

I slowly reach for the food. When I realise that he's not trying to trick me, I grab the food quickly and feast. . I apologize for repeating this, but your homeless dumpster diver is acting exactly like a newborn fawn. It is kind of funny.

The coffee is hot and creamy and sweet. One “and” for lists. ”The coffee is hot, creamy and sweet.” It's absolutely perfect. My favorite. Again, redundant. If the coffee is perfect then knowing it is his favorite is pretty pointless. I rip open the bag and tear the paper wrap off the sandwich. Greedily So many loving adverbs., I feast on Somewhat clunky. the soft bread, the crisp vegetables and juicy chicken. I can't Again, do not use contractions. remember when I've eaten this well. Days? Months? I don't honestly know. Again, redundant. If he cannot remember the last time he has eaten this well, it obviously has not been in the last few days or months.

They watch to make sure I finish my meal, then the young man and the girl walk away. Really? Nothing else? Real people do not act like this.

I find my voice "Uh, hey!" They stop and face me. ”Uh hey,” I say, finding my voice, “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

"Uh, thanks. Thanks a lot" I manage to sputter.

"We'll see you soon." They wave. This is not a normal reaction to events. It is actually really weird and serves no purpose except to keep the reader in the dark.

I sit down and lean against the dumpster, watching as they disappear.

That girl sure looks familiar. You failed to indicate any familiarity earlier in the passage. Neither the girl, nor the man show even the slightest chemistry. Throwing a sentence like this in at the end does absolutely nothing for me.

This is not very good. Most the sentences are clunky and filled with unnecessary description. Not every action needs to be attached to an adverb and not every noun needs an adjective. I would really recommend reading The Elements of Style by E.B. White. You will find several chapters that will really help you better structure your short stories. It was very useful improving my non-fiction writing.

I have very little to say regarding the plot because I do not feel there is any. Nothing happens. What you have here is a little vignette. While it may be nice as part of a larger story, alone it does nothing for me.

On the bright side, you do not seem to have significant problems with passive voice.

QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 13:54 on Jul 12, 2013

Echo Cian
Jun 16, 2011

I have never heard it advised to avoid contractions outside of dialogue, especially when it's written in first-person and thus using the character's own voice to narrate. You say "clamber" sounds too complicated for the protagonist, but "I can't remember" is less fitting than "I cannot remember"?

I hate to pick on someone else's critique, especially when the rest of it has good points, but this detail is...questionable at best.

QuoProQuid
Jan 12, 2012

Tr*ckin' and F*ckin' all the way to tha
T O P

Echo Cian posted:

I have never heard it advised to avoid contractions outside of dialogue, especially when it's written in first-person and thus using the character's own voice to narrate. You say "clamber" sounds too complicated for the protagonist, but "I can't remember" is less fitting than "I cannot remember"?

I hate to pick on someone else's critique, especially when the rest of it has good points, but this detail is...questionable at best.

Looking back, it is bad advice. I work more on articles and academic papers rather than fiction and applied those rules to the story. It was a bad decision on my part because fiction and non-fiction are really not the same thing at all. I got ahead of myself.

Sorry for that tango.

QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 03:24 on Jul 13, 2013

Jagermonster
May 7, 2005

Hey - NIZE HAT!

Jagermonster posted:

This is the first Thunderdome entry I liked enough to keep working on/revise (original http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3527428&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=90#post417028215)

In honor of the fact that there's a whole section at Barnes and Noble called "Supernatural Teen Romance," I re-title this

El Supernatural Fiend Bromance

An adobe ranch house stood abandoned, a gutted carcass. Cartel enforcers had carved out its former inhabitants. “Sinola,” written in blood, warned others away.

A chupacabra licked and gnawed at the dried blood. Standing on his hind legs it could just reach the bottom of the ‘S.’ Weak with hunger it dropped, clawing and scraping on its way down. It coughed up flakes of clay.

The chupacabra lifted its nose to the night. The moon refracted on its scales, warping the monster’s shape as it craned its neck, twisting its head, sniffing. It could catch no scent of goat blood. Human blood everywhere, inaccessible, tormented it.

Everything had changed when the dangerous men with guns came. They guarded vast stretches of land. They patrolled trails that swelled with people and trucks all through the night. The surrounding towns were now full of the dangerous men, men who killed other men, women, and children.

The men with guns did not drink the blood. They burned or buried or did worse to the bodies. The chupacabra came across men in a truck, bodies piled high in their payload. They hung them from a power line outside of a town. The blood dripped down and dried on the concrete. Such a waste.

It knew it would die soon. The ranchers had all fled, taking their livestock with them. Or they were killed by the dangerous men, their goats and cows and pigs butchered as well. The chupacabra could not feed. It curled up in his burrow. It would die as it lived its life, alone in the dark.

A whistle. Seven notes. Rising, then falling. Slow. Close. The chupacabra picked itself up.

Delirious and feeble, it crawled from one of its tunnel entrances. Nothing but the hot desert air greeted it. The whistle beckoned it again. The chupacabra plodded off into the night.

The whistling stopped. Gunshots thundered. It followed the noise to a crumbling building. Two men lay on the ground, their stomachs torn open. Their guns rested harmlessly in limp hands.

A sack lay crumpled in the brush. It smelled of death. The chupacabra tugged at it. Bones spilled out.

The chupacabra turned back to the men. It inched up to them. It chupacabra had never drunk human blood. It slurped it up, still fresh, oozing from their abdomens.

“Does that taste good, chupito?” something said with a voice of scraping gravel. “I thought you a myth.”
It screeched.

A pale man loomed over him. Not a man. The chupacabra could catch no scent of blood. A walking corpse, with rotting grey skin. Bloody entrails dangled from his clenched fists. A black sombrero covered his face.

“Little one,” he said, “I am El Silbon.”

It bared its fangs and growled.

“Such efficient tools,” El Silbon said. “You can put them to use tonight. There are wicked men in there.” The thing’s lip quivered. It looked hungry. “Men like my father who prey on women. Devils, like my grandfather, who take pleasure in others’ suffering. Men I must collect.” He extended his hands to the chupacabra.

The chupacabra did not understand El Silbon’s words, but it licked his hands clean. It wagged its tail.

“Come, father.” El Silbon tossed the fallen bones back into his bag and hefted it over his slumped shoulder. “You will have company soon.”

The chupacrabra followed the shambling dead man.

The companions entered the hacienda. El Silbon pursed its cracked lips and whistled. Seven shorts notes. Rising then falling. He repeated it. And again.

A man poked his head out from behind thick double doors. He squinted at El Silbon in the dim light. “The gently caress are you?”

El Silbon dropped his bag and shuffled forward.

He raised his gun.

El Silbon grabbed the man’s head and twisted.

The man screamed and fired a shot before El Silbon silenced him.

Footsteps fell like sudden rain.

El Silbon passed through the threshold. His body shook as bullets flew through him. Small pieces of him fell to the floor. He showed no pain. El Silbon looked back at the cowering chupacabra.

The chupacabra rushed forth. It had never attacked a human before. It panicked, releasing sulfurous smoke that choked the attackers. The men stumbled and lost all sense of balance and direction after looking into its glowing red eyes. It bit at ankles, calves, anything its fangs could reach as it scrambled around the room. The men lurched and fired wildly.

El Silbon advanced. He tore a grizzly spiral around the room, snapping necks and dismembering those he passed. None escaped.

One man remained, his back against a table, pulling the trigger on an empty, useless gun. As El Silbon approached, the man said, “I have money! Drugs! Take anything you want!”

El Silbon paused. He squinted at the man, then grabbed the man’s wrist. El Silbon dug his jagged fingernails into the man’s arm. “This is the only thing I want.”

The man screamed. He eyed El Silbon’s bag. “gently caress you! This poo poo isn’t real!” He kicked at El Silbon. “This some Michoacana bullshit? Huh? Zeta assassins? I’ll see you in hell!”

El Silbon tore his arm off. “First, you will accompany me through the hell you created.”

The man fell to the floor thrashing and shrieking and cursing.

El Silbon stripped the flesh. He put it in the sack. Then he grabbed the man’s other arm.

The chupacabra sated its thirst.

El Silbon’s bag bulged with fresh bones.

El Silbon surveyed the room. “These groups,” he said to the Chupacabra, “they spread so much suffering.” He looked tired. “I am pulled in so many directions. They are everywhere.” He stroked a tuft of fur jutting from the chupacabra’s scaly head. “You are welcome to accompany me as long as you like. It will be dangerous for you.”

The chupacabra belched. It swelled with a fullness of stomach and heart.

The companions wandered back out into the night.

Monsters hunting monsters.

No takers? Anyone want to post a story and exchange critiques?

Anathema Device
Dec 22, 2009

by Ion Helmet
There's a lot of stuff I really liked about this story. The tone of the first version really spoke to me. The clarity of the second was nice. Crit here is intended to try to get the good parts of both in one.

I love the characters here. I also love the story. Pacing, suspense, and action need some work. If you're struggling to keep the word count low, cut some of the dialogue that the viewpoint character doesn't understand anyway. The only dialogue we really need is exposition that the readers need which chupacabra can't understand (who these people are, why Silbon is hunting them.) The rest is nice, but could be cut for length if necessary.

quote:

Birth, Curse, and Choice 
Word Count: 985

He knew sorrow. This is a really strong opening. I love the repetion of “he knew...” in the first three paragraphs. I would keep this structure for the opening of version two. His grandfather tangled in barbed wire, the blood drained from his torn scales. This sentence is awkward. Rework it. He lapped up the blood with his father, trying to find nourishment in a senseless death. Love this. Please keep the opening three paragraphs in the final version. Please?

He knew fear. Gun shots thundered through the darkness as he scrambled through the desert scrub, abandoning the goat carcass. His father never made it back to the burrow. Awesome. So much exposition, emotion, etc. in such a short paragraph.

He knew hatred. A metal jaw with razor teeth, set for predators and trespassers, them, clamped on his mother’s leg. After she died he sucked the blood she had trailed through their tunnels, caked in the dirt.

The ranchers and villagers had never set traps or fired their guns so wildly in the dark. Everything had changed when the dangerous men came. They guarded strange crops. They patrolled trails that swelled with people and trucks hauling the crop, people, or bodies. The surrounding towns were now full of the dangerous men, men who killed other men, women, and children. I love this. It carries all of the confusion of the viewpoint character and tells us everything he knows. It creates honest suspense. We don't need to know what's going on yet, because our viewpoint character doesn't know.

The men with guns did not drink the blood. They burned or buried the bodies. He came across men in a truck, bodies piled high in their payload. They hung them from a power line outside of a town. The blood dripped down and dried on the concrete. Such a waste. Again, this is very much following our viewpoint character. It shows without telling that he must kill for food, but doesn't murder for fun.

He knew he would die soon. The ranchers had all fled, taking their livestock with them. Or they were killed by the dangerous men, their goats and cows and pigs butchered as well. He could not feed. He curled up in his burrow. He would die as he lived most of his life: alone in the dark. You start telling here instead of showing. What does it feel like to get weaker and weaker while a feast of blood goes wasted outside? What does it feel like to have eaten the corpses of your family and have nothing – family or food – left?

A whistle. Six notes. Rising, then falling. Slow. Close. He picked himself up. Okay. This is where the action starts. Good.

Delirious and feeble, he crawled from one of his tunnel entrances. Nothing but the hot night air greeted him. He heard the whistle call to him again. He plodded off in its direction. Lots of telling here. Show us, when he picks himself up, that he is feeble. Show us that he's delirious. What is he perceiving in his delirium?

When the whistling stopped, gunshots briefly replaced it. He followed the sound to a crumbling building. Two men lay on the ground, their stomachs torn open. Their guns rested harmlessly in limp hands. Showing again. Show us. Did the whistling stop at the end of it's pattern, or in the middle? Were the gunshots close or far? How many? Your viewpoint character has heard a lot of guns by now, and probably has an emotional reaction to them. Why does he follow the sound? Is he scared? Don't answer all this, but pick a few details to show us what happened instead of listing it.

A sack lay crumpled in the brush. It smelled of death. He tugged at it. Inside he found bones. What type of death? Human death? Animals? Fresh death, old death? Rotting flesh? Blood?

He turned back to the men. He had never drank human blood. He slurped it up, still fresh, oozing from their abdomens.  Is he reluctant to drink human blood? Does it taste different from other blood? He's been starving – what does it feel like to eat after so long?

“Chupito,” something said with a voice of scraping gravel. “I thought you a myth.” 

He screeched. Why?

A pale man loomed over him. Not a man. He could catch no scent of blood. A walking corpse, with rotting grey skin. Bloody entrails dangled from its clenched fists. A black sombrero covered its face. He's covered in bloody entrails but he doesn't smell like blood? If his skin is rotting, he probably smells of rot, right?

“Little one,” it said, “I am called El Silbon.” 

He bared his fangs and growled. Why? Show us what the viewpoint character is thinking here. You did this so well earlier on.

“Such efficient tools,” El Silbon said. “You can put them to use tonight. There are wicked men in there.” The thing’s lip quivered. It looked hungry. “Men like my father who prey on women. Fiends like my grandfather who take pleasure in others’ suffering. Men I must collect. Nobody will miss them.” He extended his hands to the Chupacabra.  Here is where you put the exposition from version two. These are cartel enforces, and El Silbon knows that. Let him fill us in.

The Chupacabra did not understand El Silbon’s words, but he licked its hands clean. He wagged his tail. Why did he go from growling to licking his hands? Was it his tone of voice? Stay with the viewpoint character. Be subjective. This is a subjective story.

El Silbon hefted the sack over its slumped shoulder and muttered to it, “Come, father.”

The Chupacrabra followed the shambling dead man. Why?

The companions entered the hacienda. Raucous music reverberated from behind closed double doors. 

El Silbon pursed its cracked lips and whistled. Six shorts notes. Rising then falling. He repeated it. And again.  You're doing a lot of telling here. Combine some of these details and show us how the viewpoint character experiences them. His senses aren't human – use that. Your intro was awesome and you lose it through the action because you start listing a sequence of events instead of showing us how the little, lost monster sees them.

A man poked his head out. He squinted at El Silbon in the dim light. “You a Sinola?”

El Silbon dropped his bag and shuffled forward.

“Zeta?” He raised his gun. “Michoacana?”

El Silbon grabbed the man’s head and twisted. 

The man screamed and fired a shot before El Silbon silenced him.

The music stopped. Footsteps fell like a sudden rain shower.

El Silbon passed through the threshold. His body shook as bullets flew threw him. Small pieces of him fell to the floor, but he showed no pain. El Silbon looked back at the cowering Chupacabra. More listing of events.

The Chupacabra rushed forth. It had never attacked a human before. He panicked, unleashing all of his natural defenses. He released sulfurous smoke that choked the attackers. The men stumbled and lost all sense of balance and direction after looking into his glowing red eyes. He bit at ankles, calves, anything his three fangs could reach, as he scrambled around the room.  You're starting to show us the uniqueness of the character again, but still falling a bit short. Stop listing things that happened. How does the chupacabra deal with the smoke? How do the attackers look to him as they choke? Is he confusing them with his eyes? How does he feel about all this?

El Silbon advanced. As the men lurched and fired wildly, El Silbon snapped necks and dismembered those he passed.  Is the viewpoint character watching this, or is he busy? Is he hearing the necks snapping and smelling/feeling the blood that's splattering as people are dismembered?

When one man remained, cowering under a table, El Silbon surveyed the room. A pile of decomposing bodies lay in the corner. Children. Women. A bride. It grabbed the cowering man. 

“Who were those people?”

He convulsed, too scared to speak. 

El Silbon dug his jagged fingernails into the man’s arm.

“I don’t know! They were here!” He winced. “Please, don’t!”

“What were you doing here?”

“We were celebrating.” He closed his eyes. “The union of the Zeta and the Sinola cartels.” 

“You slaughtered those people in their home. Then you mocked them.”

The man answered with screams as El Silbon tore his arm off. It stripped the flesh, and then put it in the sack.  Listing stuff again. The viewpoint character doesn't understand all these words. Tell us what he's experiencing as well.

“These groups,” El Silbon said to the Chupacabra, “they spread so much suffering.” It looked tired. “I am pulled in so many directions. They are everywhere.” It stroked a tuft of fur jutting from the chupacabra’s scaly head. “You are welcome to accompany me as long as you like.” Good exposition about the second character, but since Chupacabra can't understand the words, you need something that reaches out to him for emotional effect. Silbon is letting him eat – maybe that's in? Chupacabra is shown eating with his family early on. Maybe this reminds him of that, or eating in the presence of someone else is a bonding thing amongst his species? Figure it out yourself and then convey it as simply as possible.

When El Silbon’s bag bulged with bones and the Chupacabra sated his thirst, they wandered back out into the night.

He knew joy, feeding on wicked men, feeling purpose for the first time. 

He knew security, despite their dangerous quarry, traveling with El Silbon.

He knew love, helping his companion bear its curse.  Awesome callback to the beginning. Awesome closure. Give us more details here, like you did in the beginning. How is his new life similar to his old, and how is it different?

Monsters hunting monsters.

And then you have the edited version, which lacks the symmetry of the first one (The “he knew” paragraphs at the beginning and the end.) This has more clarity, though. I would bring some details from this into the first version, but use the structure of version one, which had a great emotional kick and subjective, character-based feel.

quote:

El Supernatural Fiend Bromance 

An adobe ranch house stood abandoned, a gutted carcass. Cartel enforcers had carved out its former inhabitants. “Sinola,” written in blood, warned others away.  The use of “cartel enforcers” here is really the big point of clarity. Have El Silbon use that to describe the men when he starts talking and drop it from the beginning where chupacabra doesn't know who or what they are. It's okay for the reader to be confused if the viewpoint character is.

A chupacabra licked and gnawed at the dried blood. Standing on his hind legs it could just reach the bottom of the ‘S.’ Weak with hunger it dropped, clawing and scraping on its way down. It coughed up flakes of clay. 

The chupacabra lifted its nose to the night. The moon refracted on its scales, warping the monster’s shape as it craned its neck, twisting its head, sniffing. It could catch no scent of goat blood. Human blood everywhere, inaccessible, tormented it. Good descriptions of hunger and carnage here. Use some of these details where you were just telling us that he was hungry in version one.

Everything had changed when the dangerous men with guns came. They guarded vast stretches of land. They patrolled trails that swelled with people and trucks all through the night. The surrounding towns were now full of the dangerous men, men who killed other men, women, and children. 

The men with guns did not drink the blood. They burned or buried or did worse to the bodies. The chupacabra came across men in a truck, bodies piled high in their payload. They hung them from a power line outside of a town. The blood dripped down and dried on the concrete. Such a waste.

It knew it would die soon. The ranchers had all fled, taking their livestock with them. Or they were killed by the dangerous men, their goats and cows and pigs butchered as well. The chupacabra could not feed. It curled up in his burrow. It would die as it lived its life, alone in the dark.  I'm glad you kept details from the first version here. I don't like the shift from “he” to “it.” He has a mother and a father. His species has genders. Use them.

A whistle. Seven notes. Rising, then falling. Slow. Close. The chupacabra picked itself up. 

Delirious and feeble, it crawled from one of its tunnel entrances. Nothing but the hot desert air greeted it. The whistle beckoned it again. The chupacabra plodded off into the night.

The whistling stopped. Gunshots thundered. It followed the noise to a crumbling building. Two men lay on the ground, their stomachs torn open. Their guns rested harmlessly in limp hands. 

A sack lay crumpled in the brush. It smelled of death. The chupacabra tugged at it. Bones spilled out.

The chupacabra turned back to the men. It inched up to them. It chupacabra had never drunk human blood. It slurped it up, still fresh, oozing from their abdomens. 

“Does that taste good, chupito?” something said with a voice of scraping gravel. “I thought you a myth.” 
It screeched.

A pale man loomed over him. Not a man. The chupacabra could catch no scent of blood. A walking corpse, with rotting grey skin. Bloody entrails dangled from his clenched fists. A black sombrero covered his face. 

“Little one,” he said, “I am El Silbon.” 

It bared its fangs and growled.

“Such efficient tools,” El Silbon said. “You can put them to use tonight. There are wicked men in there.” The thing’s lip quivered. It looked hungry. “Men like my father who prey on women. Devils, like my grandfather, who take pleasure in others’ suffering. Men I must collect.” He extended his hands to the chupacabra. 

The chupacabra did not understand El Silbon’s words, but it licked his hands clean. It wagged its tail.

“Come, father.” El Silbon tossed the fallen bones back into his bag and hefted it over his slumped shoulder. “You will have company soon.”

The chupacrabra followed the shambling dead man. 

The companions entered the hacienda. El Silbon pursed its cracked lips and whistled. Seven shorts notes. Rising then falling. He repeated it. And again. 

A man poked his head out from behind thick double doors. He squinted at El Silbon in the dim light. “The gently caress are you?”

El Silbon dropped his bag and shuffled forward.

He raised his gun. 

El Silbon grabbed the man’s head and twisted. 

The man screamed and fired a shot before El Silbon silenced him.

Footsteps fell like sudden rain.

El Silbon passed through the threshold. His body shook as bullets flew through him. Small pieces of him fell to the floor. He showed no pain. El Silbon looked back at the cowering chupacabra.

The chupacabra rushed forth. It had never attacked a human before. It panicked, releasing sulfurous smoke that choked the attackers. The men stumbled and lost all sense of balance and direction after looking into its glowing red eyes. It bit at ankles, calves, anything its fangs could reach as it scrambled around the room. The men lurched and fired wildly.

El Silbon advanced. He tore a grizzly spiral around the room, snapping necks and dismembering those he passed. None escaped.

One man remained, his back against a table, pulling the trigger on an empty, useless gun. As El Silbon approached, the man said, “I have money! Drugs! Take anything you want!” 

El Silbon paused. He squinted at the man, then grabbed the man’s wrist. El Silbon dug his jagged fingernails into the man’s arm. “This is the only thing I want.”

The man screamed. He eyed El Silbon’s bag. “gently caress you! This poo poo isn’t real!” He kicked at El Silbon. “This some Michoacana bullshit? Huh? Zeta assassins? I’ll see you in hell!” 

El Silbon tore his arm off. “First, you will accompany me through the hell you created.” The action scenes are more detailed here. However, they're being described from a human perspective (it feels like) and the charm of this piece is the chupacabra's point of view.

The man fell to the floor thrashing and shrieking and cursing.

El Silbon stripped the flesh. He put it in the sack. Then he grabbed the man’s other arm. 

The chupacabra sated its thirst. 

El Silbon’s bag bulged with fresh bones.

El Silbon surveyed the room. “These groups,” he said to the Chupacabra, “they spread so much suffering.” He looked tired. “I am pulled in so many directions. They are everywhere.” He stroked a tuft of fur jutting from the chupacabra’s scaly head. “You are welcome to accompany me as long as you like. It will be dangerous for you.”

The chupacabra belched. It swelled with a fullness of stomach and heart. 

The companions wandered back out into the night.

Monsters hunting monsters.

I like the first version better, but the action scenes in the second have more detail. I want to see more subjective cupacabra point of view, because the strength of his sweet, innocent, lost, hungry, and monster-shaped character really caries the whole story.

Jagermonster
May 7, 2005

Hey - NIZE HAT!

Anathema Device posted:

There's a lot of stuff I really liked about this story. The tone of the first version really spoke to me. The clarity of the second was nice. Crit here is intended to try to get the good parts of both in one.

I love the characters here. I also love the story. Pacing, suspense, and action need some work. If you're struggling to keep the word count low, cut some of the dialogue that the viewpoint character doesn't understand anyway. The only dialogue we really need is exposition that the readers need which chupacabra can't understand (who these people are, why Silbon is hunting them.) The rest is nice, but could be cut for length if necessary.


And then you have the edited version, which lacks the symmetry of the first one (The “he knew” paragraphs at the beginning and the end.) This has more clarity, though. I would bring some details from this into the first version, but use the structure of version one, which had a great emotional kick and subjective, character-based feel.


I like the first version better, but the action scenes in the second have more detail. I want to see more subjective cupacabra point of view, because the strength of his sweet, innocent, lost, hungry, and monster-shaped character really caries the whole story.

Wow thanks a lot. I did not expect you to do a full critique of the original too. You really went above and beyond the call of duty. These are thoughtful, clear, and enormously helpful.

One of the criticisms I got from the TD judges was that the "reveal" the POV character was a chupacaba came too late. I tried to stick it right upfront because I wasn't trying to Shymalan the reader. I can just change "he knew" to "the chupacabra knew" at the beginning.

I've struggled mightily in other entries with POV third person tone. I always have an impulse to change to first person, which in some cases may be appropriate, but I should probably try to avoid until I get better at the more generally accepted third person past tense.

Jagermonster fucked around with this message at 22:57 on Jul 16, 2013

tango alpha delta
Sep 9, 2011

Ask me about my wealthy lifestyle and passive income! I love bragging about my wealth to my lessers! My opinions are more valid because I have more money than you! Stealing the fruits of the labor of the working class is okay, so long as you don't do it using crypto. More money = better than!

QuoProQuid posted:

Looking back, it is bad advice. I work more on articles and academic papers rather than fiction and applied those rules to the story. It was a bad decision on my part because fiction and non-fiction are really not the same thing at all. I got ahead of myself.

Sorry for that tango.

No need to apologize. You've given specific feedback, which is always helpful. I bought Elements of Style and can see now that I've got work to do. If anyone else is interested, the ebook is only a dollar on the App Store.

Any reason why some people seem to dislike Elements of Style?

Anathema Device
Dec 22, 2009

by Ion Helmet

Jagermonster posted:

Wow thanks a lot. I did not expect you to do a full critique of the original too. You really went above and beyond the call of duty. These are thoughtful, clear, and enormously helpful.

One of the criticisms I got from the TD judges was that the "reveal" the POV character was a chupacaba came too late. I tried to stick it right upfront because I wasn't trying to Shymalan the reader. I can just change "he knew" to "the chupacabra knew" at the beginning.

I've struggled mightily in other entries with POV third person tone. I always have an impulse to change to first person, which in some cases may be appropriate, but I should probably try to avoid until I get better at the more generally accepted third person past tense.

I'm so glad they were helpful. I liked your story in the Thunderdome thread, but I wasn't sure about the etiquette of writing crit if I wasn't competing. I signed up this week (and am now terrified!)

I like first person, but it's very limited. Every word reflects on the person narrating them. Speaking of which, here's a a first person perspective piece from me. I don't think this one would work as well in third person as it is intended to be extremely subjective.

Tear it apart!

Salt
753 Words

At dawn we sprinkle salt around the house. Downstairs they chant, discordant voices rising and falling. Mother, strident and low, sets the pace. Grandmother, cracked and reedy, rushes ahead and falls behind. My aunts and sisters fill out the chant, slow and quick, low and high, quiet and loud.

Here in the attic, I sing. The salt sticks to my fingers as I pull it from the old leather pouch, clumping in the wet summer heat. I leave a trail, thin and white, across the west window ledge. It will be clear today; I can see the stars fading. I stoop to the baseboards, singing quietly. Downstairs the chanting rises, builds momentum, and I hurry to keep up.

I do not chant with them, but our power is one. The ritual is as strong as the family. As the line of salt meets itself the circle completes. I add my last soft, high note as the chanting stops. Invisible, the protection rises. My fingers tingle as salt calls to salt. I feel the power binding the house, binding the family, binding me.

I shudder.

I scrub the salt off against my pants. The drawstring catches as I jerk it tight, loop it around my neck, and hide the bag under my shirt. It hangs against my skin, heavy and solid. Binding me. Protecting me. It makes us one and makes us powerful. It holds me in my mother's arms; it drowns me like a stone.

Downstairs they start breakfast. I will steal down later, mouse-like, to nibble from the scraps. I eat begrudgingly of their bounty, wanting to owe them nothing. I will take the best for my brother to try to coax him to eat.

He's still asleep, sweat clumping his hair. The blankets are thrown off in the heat; in the gray light his ribs cast angular shadows against his pale skin. He hugs an empty bottle to his chest. I glance away to the old stuffed bear in the corner, soft and worn. Pain stabs deep in my gut at the changes half a decade has wrought. I hate the ghosts who have taken him from me.

It smells of vomit. I pick up a bucket from the corner and listen at the doorway. Nothing. Downstairs pans clang against metal. I climb down the narrow attic stairs to fill the bucket from the bathroom sink. The plastic bangs on porcelain, loud in the silence. Through two floors I can still hear the clinking of dishes in the washbasin and the harsh cawing of voices. They won't have heard.

The men are sleeping. I hear my father's snores through the old heat vent. Always, we work our magic early and late. They have learned to sleep through what they are not welcome to participate in. We protect them in their sleep and when they wake. We are strong.

The bucket drags my arm down as I walk back up the narrow stairs. I kneel beside my sleeping brother and listen to his breathing. Steady, regular, deep. I match it to calm myself. He has survived another night and another bottle. The salt will keep him safe today. Vomit sticks between the floorboards. I scrub with the grain of the old wood. The open windows draw a fresh breeze.

“Hey.” I touch his shoulder softly. “Hey, you gotta wake up.”

His eyelids open, close, open, and scrunch shut. “'s too bright.”

“It's not light out yet. You need to shower. You don't have much time.”

He covers his eyes with his arm and his voice comes out muffled and groggy. “Before what?”

“We did the barrier this morning. She'll want to check.” Mother can't find him like this. The old sickness haunts him, the ghost sickness. The salt and the magic should keep them away, but don't. Only the alcohol does. If she knows they haunt him she will call for a cleansing.

We cleansed my uncle when I was small, with the fasting and the cold water and the fire. He'd screamed and screamed until he had no voice, but his eyes hadn't lost the wildness. The burns had festered and wept, and still the ghosts had haunted him. They'd made me bathe the wounds and sing the healing songs.

He died anyway.

He drinks to drive the ghosts away. I can see it killing him, but her way is no better, only faster. I will hide his sickness and his cure. I will find a better way.

Tonsured
Jan 14, 2005

I came across mention of a Gnostic codex called The Unreal God and the Aspects of His Nonexistent Universe, an idea which reduced me to helpless laughter. What kind of person would write about something that he knows doesn't exist, and how can something that doesn't exist have aspects?
Sorry have a compulsive need to share this
Edit: Dead DougWord Count: 850, corrected stomp to be in the past tense.

Outside the morgue a hawk coasted on thermals above highway 80, the pavement in the parking lot was hot, re-radiating sunlight for the sole purpose of blistering my feet.
The she beast with hamhock arms waved me in.
He was dead. Good for him.
Diet iced tea in hand, I went back outside to soothe my soul with sucralose. It didn't help. Wanted something different, corn syrup was lighter on the mood if a bit heavier on the thighs.
Doug never liked me and the hawk flew away.
In the distance, a mufflerless car called me out, puttering loud, lurching forward at haphazard angles, and spouting incomprehensible profanities. It was Doug, dead Doug coming to gloat. He had won after all, beaten me to it.
Can't I do it? End myself now, end this now, this waiting around, pretending to feel sad for those that have already escaped.
The car slid into me then dissipated as vapor into the air, after the cloud settled I could see Doug standing before me naked except for a harp.
"You've gotten fat," Doug said.
I said nothing.
"I said, 'You've gotten fat' fat ears."
Even dead Doug was a dick.
"C'mon, say something, or are you too busy being flaccid?"
A younger me would have bleed for that remark, launched a fist to flatten his face and laughed about it. I was soft then, easily bruised. I am different now, my ego is calloused, hardened from years of failure. "There was a hawk here," I offered.
"Oh? A big one? With wings?" Doug grinned and pantomimed a flap.
"Flying on the thermals."
"Ha! What a laugh, I'm dead and you go bird watching. Where's the respect?"
"Go to hell."
"Been there, done that. Better places in this universe Tom, brighter places, have all of eternity for cold lightless chasms. Places with flowers, birds bees and sun. That's where I'm goin' now."
"Served your time did you?"
"Yeah. A life sentence. On this poo poo heap," Doug said gesturing around him. "Compared to this Hell is rosy, though it ain't got no roses."
"So what's the big guy like?"
"Hmm?"
I pointed up.
Doug laughed. "You're too fat. He likes attractive believers, models and actors mostly."
"That so?"
"Yeah, rest get sent to purgatory till they buff up. Maybe get new faces."
"New faces?"
"'Thou shalt have impeccable bone structure,' is his 11th commandment."
"So that's where I'd go? If I went through with it?"
"'No fatties,' 12th commandment"
"I thought he loved all his children."
"He created us in his image, obesity is sacrilegious."
"You saying I shouldn't do it, then? I have to keep on living?"
"At least till you've buffed up. Gotten a few surgeries, pectoral implants, Botox, maybe widen your eyes."
"I'm okay with how I look."
"Yeah, but HE isn't. Lose weight, better yourself, become strong and attractive. Then you can compare yourself to weaker, lesser people and feel satisfied and in control. The meaning of existence is moments of fleeting vanity, thank God."
Doug flew into the sky and left me to clean my thoughts.
Trashed morality. Burned away inner character and stomped on the ashes of experience. Disregarded justice. Embraced vanity, hedonism and improvement of self over the needs of others.
And life was easy.

Tonsured fucked around with this message at 23:58 on Jul 17, 2013

Jagermonster
May 7, 2005

Hey - NIZE HAT!
Here're my impressions, I hope someone else jumps in too:

Anathema Device posted:


Tear it apart!

Salt
753 Words

At dawn we sprinkle salt around the house. not sure this fits here - perhaps separate it from from the next sentences Downstairs they chant, discordant voices rising and falling. Mother, strident and low, sets the pace. Grandmother, cracked and reedy, rushes ahead and falls behind. My aunts and sisters fill out the chant, slow and quick, low and high, quiet and loud. I like this description, though on a reread "discordant" seems kind of redundant.

Here in the attic, I sing. The salt sticks to my fingers as I pull it from the old leather pouch, clumping in the wet summer heat. I leave a trail, thin and white, across the west window ledge. It will be clear today; I can see the stars fading. I do not understand the interplay between clear days and fading stars I stoop to the baseboards, singing quietly. Downstairs the chanting rises, builds momentum, and I hurry to keep up. it's not clear whether the narrator is working with or against the chanting which may be more distracting than intriguing

I do not chant with them, but our power is one. The ritual is as strong as the family. vague and bizarre As the line of salt meets itself the circle completes. I add my last soft, high note as the chanting stops. Invisible, the protection rises. My fingers tingle as salt calls to salt. salt calls to salt? I feel the power binding the house, binding the family, binding me. binding may work with the family, but I'm not sure if its right with "house" and "me"

I shudder. I like this separated out

I scrub the salt off against my pants. The drawstring catches as I jerk it tight, this is an awkward description of closing the bag, especially right after talk of pants loop it around my neck, and hide the bag under my shirt. It hangs against my skin, heavy and solid. Binding me. again with the autobinding Protecting me. It makes us one and makes us powerful. It holds me in my mother's arms; it drowns me like a stone. Drowning like a stone is powerful? Very contradictory. Plus, lots of semicolon usage - use them sparingly

Downstairs they start breakfast. I will steal down later, mouse-like, to nibble from the scraps. I eat begrudgingly of their bounty, wanting to owe them nothing. I will take the best for my brother to try to coax him to eat. does the narrator not owe anything for taking food for the brother?

He's still asleep, sweat clumping his hair. second use of clumping The blankets are thrown off in the heat; passive voice confuses who is throwing the blankets - the brother? evil spirits? in the gray light his ribs cast angular shadows against his pale skin. He hugs an empty bottle to his chest. I glance away to the old stuffed bear in the corner, soft and worn. Pain stabs deep in my gut at the changes half a decade has wrought. "half a decade has wrought" seems superfluous I hate the ghosts who have taken him from me. the last sentence feels too tell-y

It smells of vomit. what does? I pick up a bucket from the corner and listen at the doorway. Nothing. Downstairs pans clang against metal. I climb down the narrow attic stairs to fill the bucket from the bathroom sink. The plastic bangs on porcelain, loud in the silence. Through two floors I can still hear the clinking of dishes in the washbasin and the harsh cawing of voices. They won't have heard. objection: speculation

The men are sleeping. I hear my father's snores through the old heat vent. Perhaps "My father's snores drift up through the heating vent" instead (we know the narrator is "hearing" them Always, we work our magic early and late. why? They have learned to sleep through what they are not welcome to participate in. why? We protect them in their sleep and when they wake. We are strong. again, with the declarations of strength. I am getting the impression the narrator is very weak.

The bucket drags my arm down as I walk back up the narrow stairs. I kneel beside my sleeping brother and listen to his breathing. Steady, regular, deep. a lot words to describe mundane action I match it to calm myself. He has survived another night and another bottle. The salt will keep him safe today. Vomit sticks between the floorboards. I scrub with the grain of the old wood. The open windows draw a fresh breeze.

“Hey.” I touch his shoulder softly. “Hey, you gotta wake up.”

His eyelids open, close, open, and scrunch shut. “'s too bright.”

“It's not light out yet. You need to shower. You don't have much time.”

He covers his eyes with his arm and his voice comes out muffled and groggy. “Before what?”

“We did the barrier this morning. She'll want to check.” Mother can't find him like this. The old sickness haunts him, the ghost sickness. the what now? The salt and the magic should keep them away, but don't. Only the alcohol does. If she knows they haunt him she will call for a cleansing. what is going on with these rituals/haunting?

We cleansed my uncle when I was small, with the fasting and the cold water and the fire. He'd screamed and screamed until he had no voice, but his eyes hadn't lost the wildness. awkward - "eyes never lost their wildness" instead? The burns had festered and wept, and still the ghosts had haunted him. They'd made me bathe the wounds and sing the healing songs. not sure if "had" is necessary here, the reader can tell this is happening in the past

He died anyway.

He drinks to drive the ghosts away. I can see it killing him, but her way is no better, only faster. I will hide his sickness and his cure. I will find a better way.

All in all, there are some very nice, descriptive passages, but the nature of the rituals and haunting are too vague and mysterious. As I mentioned before, the story is more perplexing than intriguing. So ghosts can make men physically ill, women chant to protect them, and the narrator uses her own singing and salt based ritual. Plus, drinking helps (I'm assuming alcohol, though its not crystal clear. A potion?). I like the last sentence, but it would be stronger if more was established in the story. Are the women ignorant? Cruel? Superstitious? Is it really even ghosts or just illness the women blame on the supernatural?

Anathema Device
Dec 22, 2009

by Ion Helmet

Jagermonster posted:

Here're my impressions, I hope someone else jumps in too:


All in all, there are some very nice, descriptive passages, but the nature of the rituals and haunting are too vague and mysterious. As I mentioned before, the story is more perplexing than intriguing. So ghosts can make men physically ill, women chant to protect them, and the narrator uses her own singing and salt based ritual. Plus, drinking helps (I'm assuming alcohol, though its not crystal clear. A potion?). I like the last sentence, but it would be stronger if more was established in the story. Are the women ignorant? Cruel? Superstitious? Is it really even ghosts or just illness the women blame on the supernatural?

Thank you for the feedback!

The last few questions you asked were exactly the reaction I was going for with this story. On the other hand, a lot of the symptoms of the haunting and/or mental illness seem to have been confusing, so I will work on that for draft two. I was trying to be pretty subtle with a lot of the exposition and choosing words really carefully to take advantage of the first-person point of view to show stuff about the narrator. Unfortunately, I think I went too subtle, so only I know what I was implying.

I'll be back with another version.

Panda So Panda
Feb 21, 2010

I've never posted in here before, but the folks of the Fiction Writing thread suggested that I take a new approach to character creation. Instead of throwing together a character stats/bio sheet reminiscent of some RPG character, I was linked to this exercise from Writer Unboxed. I started with one of the "physical" prompts, although it incorporates a little bit of psychological involvement as well.

The prompt I chose was:

Writer Unboxed posted:

When was she most ill, or most near death? Who cared for her, if anyone, and what bond was formed or undermined through that ordeal?

I came up with the following 510-word thingy. It says a bit about the main character of the YA project I'm working on, but not too much about the project itself, which falls into the supernatural genre. Feel free to ask any questions that may arise about the character or the project.

----------

Her first brush with Death came so young that she does not remember it. The happily married Harpers already had names picked out -- Charlotte Jane and Elizabeth Anne -- but Death doesn't care much about hopes and dreams. It doesn't matter how painstakingly careful the baby room was put together. Death takes who it will, and it doesn't take into account what plans were made. Evangeline was so excited to meet her two baby girls; she couldn't wait to give them the best life she could.

When her first daughter was born without a heartbeat or any vital signs, Evangeline's world dropped out from under her.

When the second twin came she, too, was not breathing. Not at first. It seemed by providence that the first few sputtering coughs came. The relief Evangeline Harper felt was immeasurable. It was her husband who came up with the idea to never tell Libby the truth. As far he was concerned, Libby didn't need to know the gory details.

Although the first seven years of Libby's life could not be considered anything but comfortable, she could always sense that something was awry. She looked at her parents' happy smiles and wondered what untold secrets laid beneath the veneer. They were both loving parents, to be sure. Proactive and involved, Jack and Evie Harper gave their only daughter a passion for the truth and a thirst for knowledge. While other little southern belles grew up with compliments on their beauty and flawless manners, Libby was raised with the idea that knowledge was the most important thing; brains before beauty. In short, Libby grew up with almost everything a girl could want, and if she sometimes thought her parents were keeping something from her, well, what child doesn't?

All that changed in one cloudless October night. In a metamorphosis of smoke and flames and blistering heat, Libby lost the life that she knew. Yet from the ashes of that life developed a new one. It is said that a bond forged by fire is never broken. That became true for Libby.

He found her, scared and crying in the corner, tears making tracks down her soot-covered face. She was trapped behind a heavy piece of fallen furniture. It blocked her way to the door and the window was stuck. She was scared, so very scared, but then he was there. The sight of him made her feel calmer. He picked her up and gently lifted her small body over his shoulder in a standard fireman's carry and before she knew it, they were out the front door, out into the fresh air.

She had never spoken to him before that moment, and she hasn't spoken to him since. Until now, almost ten years later. An overflow of emotions hit her all at once. The years have passed, but Libby would never forget the one who saved her life.

Purple Prince
Aug 20, 2011

A short satire/humor piece I wrote for my own amusement, more or less to try and take my writing less seriously. I'm not looking for a line edit or anything, just feedback on 'is it funny?' and 'is the prose shite?'

Capitalist Pig (625 words)

Bernard Lang was not a happy hack. He’d spent most of the previous night at the Camden Chronicle’s annual piss-up, and felt like a nail bomb had exploded inside his skull. The lights of the waiting room made his eyes burn, and when he tried to remember how he’d got here, he saw only a vaguely disturbing series of snapshots: staggering into a reception, leaning against the wall of an elevator for support, and finally being plopped on this comfortable armchair by Mr. Porky’s secretary.
Ah. Mr. Porky. A very serious man. The sausage king of North London. Bernard was meant to be interviewing him about traces of beef found in his pork sausages. Mr. Porky was such a serious man that he’d changed his name to advertise a sausage. He had the mind of a snake. Not a normal grass-snake, either. The sort of snake that seduces young women into eating exotic fruits. It was impossible to pin anything on Mr. Porky. The man spoke in press releases. The substance in Porky’s platitudes could only be found by a sharp-witted hack. Bernard Lang felt more the latter than the former, especially as he hadn’t read the briefs on Porky. He’d been too busy asking the girl from the culture section whether she wanted a fifth vodka cranberry.
“Mr. Porky will see you now.” The secretary’s high-pitched voice felt like a needle inserted into Bernard’s eardrum. He forced himself to stand, wobbled over to the door of the office, and went through.
“Welcome,” thundered a voice from the other end of the room, “Do please take a seat.”
The blurred outline of an executive desk swam into view. He staggered over to it, discovered a ergonomic office chair, and collapsed into it with a sigh.
“Coffee,” declared Mr. Porky. Bernard winced as Porky thrust a polystyrene coffee cup into his hands.
“Drink it,” said Porky. Bernard obeyed. He didn’t seem to have any other option.
The caffeine hit his brain as soon as he swallowed. The explosion in his skull died away, the sunlight stopped burning his eyes, and the room came into focus. He blinked, looked up, and stared into the face of a boar in a pinstriped suit.
“You are feeling better?” asked the boar.
Bernard didn’t reply. He gulped at the air and clenched his fists. This wasn’t real. Porky must have spiked his drink.
Like any good journalist — and he was a good journalist, on a good day, in a good mood — Bernard had seen his fair share of stressful situations. He did what he always did: closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, and failed to relax. When he opened his eyes, the pig was still in front of him. It looked concerned. It was squinting. He hadn’t known pigs could squint.
“The Coffee™ might need reworking,” it muttered, pronouncing the trademark, “the anxiety it causes is more severe than I’d been led to believe.”
“M-Mr. Porky?” said Bernard.
“Yes?” replied the boar.
“You- you’re...”
“Ah. I see. Yes, I’m a sus plutokratos. Did they forget to brief you?”
Bernard cleared his throat. “Well...”
“It doesn’t matter. What were you supposed to be interviewing me about again?”
Bernard peered down at the notebook on his lap, opened it, and grimaced. He told Porky. Porky laughed.
“There is no beef in Mr. Porky™ sausages. They’re one-hundred-percent pork. I should know. I inspect the abattoir personally.”
Bernard stared at Mr. Porky.
“But—”
“The reports are all libellous. What do you think I am, an animal?”
“They’re your own species! How can you—?”
Mr Porky grinned, and turned his head. On the wall was a large photograph of Mr. Porky shaking hands with several world leaders.
“What an inspiration they were!”

Purple Prince fucked around with this message at 00:19 on Jul 31, 2013

Anathema Device
Dec 22, 2009

by Ion Helmet
I'm procrastinating on other things, so here are some crits:

Panda So Panda posted:

I've never posted in here before, but the folks of the Fiction Writing thread suggested that I take a new approach to character creation. Instead of throwing together a character stats/bio sheet reminiscent of some RPG character, I was linked to this exercise from Writer Unboxed. I started with one of the "physical" prompts, although it incorporates a little bit of psychological involvement as well.

The prompt I chose was: When was she most ill, or most near death? Who cared for her, if anyone, and what bond was formed or undermined through that ordeal?

I came up with the following 510-word thingy. It says a bit about the main character of the YA project I'm working on, but not too much about the project itself, which falls into the supernatural genre. Feel free to ask any questions that may arise about the character or the project.

Think a bit about what you'll gain from writing flash fiction instead of listing things on a character sheet. Did you gain that from writing this, or did it feel like an extended version of the same thing you usually do? If you really want to get to know your character, write flash fiction from her point of view that shows (rather than tells) us what was going on when the flash fiction happened.

quote:

Her first brush with Death came so young that she does not remember it. The happily married Harpers already had names picked out -- Charlotte Jane and Elizabeth Anne -- but Death doesn't care much about hopes and dreams. It doesn't matter how painstakingly careful the baby room was put together. Death takes who it will, and it doesn't take into account what plans were made. Evangeline was so excited to meet her two baby girls; she couldn't wait to give them the best life she could.

When her first daughter was born without a heartbeat or any vital signs, Evangeline's world dropped out from under her. 

When the second twin came she, too, was not breathing. Not at first. It seemed by providence that the first few sputtering coughs came. The relief Evangeline Harper felt was immeasurable. It was her husband who came up with the idea to never tell Libby the truth. As far he was concerned, Libby didn't need to know the gory details. 

Libby doesn't remember any of this. Later the story is from Libby's point of view, but here, it's just you telling us about her. I challenge you to rewrite this from her mother or father's perspective (as a stand-alone piece) and show us (from their perspective) how they justify not telling Libby what happened. Getting into her parents' minds as they make the decision will help you understand their relationship later.

quote:

Although the first seven years of Libby's life could not be considered anything but comfortable, she could always sense that something was awry. She looked at her parents' happy smiles and wondered what untold secrets laid beneath the veneer. They were both loving parents, to be sure. Proactive and involved, Jack and Evie Harper gave their only daughter a passion for the truth and a thirst for knowledge. While other little southern belles grew up with compliments on their beauty and flawless manners, Libby was raised with the idea that knowledge was the most important thing; brains before beauty. In short, Libby grew up with almost everything a girl could want, and if she sometimes thought her parents were keeping something from her, well, what child doesn't?

All that changed in one cloudless October night. In a metamorphosis of smoke and flames and blistering heat, Libby lost the life that she knew. Oh hey, a story from Libby's point of view is starting! Yet from the ashes of that life developed a new one. It is said that a bond forged by fire is never broken. That became true for Libby. Nevermind, we skipped ahead in time to learn about her new life without learning how she lost the old one.

This is all you telling us about the character without letting us into her mind, and none of it answers the questions you set out to answer. Stop telling us about her and write something from her point of view!

quote:

He found her, scared and crying in the corner, tears making tracks down her soot-covered face. She was trapped behind a heavy piece of fallen furniture. It blocked her way to the door and the window was stuck. She was scared, so very scared, but then he was there. The sight of him made her feel calmer. He picked her up and gently lifted her small body over his shoulder in a standard fireman's carry and before she knew it, they were out the front door, out into the fresh air.

In my opinion, this is the only paragraph that answers the prompt you set out to answer. Take the action that you brush by in this paragraph and turn it into it's own piece. How old is Libby here? What is she seeing/hearing/smelling/thinking? How does her parents' influence (as described two paragraphs up) effect her actions/thoughts/emotions here? (If it doesn't effect how she acts here, it's irrelevant and you should toss it.) Get into her mind and find out what it's like to be Libby when her world is burning down around her and she's trapped. This is the part where you'll learn about her in ways a character sheet will never teach you.

quote:

She had never spoken to him before that moment, and she hasn't spoken to him since. Until now, almost ten years later. An overflow of emotions hit her all at once. The years have passed, but Libby would never forget the one who saved her life.

Drop the ten years later. I feel like you're fast-forwarding to the exciting part (your larger project) at the expense of learning about your character's background. You have the opportunity to write two very good pieces of flash fiction in your larger universe here. (The parent's point of view of Libby's birth, and Libby's or the fireman's point of view of the fire.)

Overall the writing is decent in all the mechanics. If you stop telling us about things that happened and just let them happen, you'll be good.

Purple Prince posted:

A short satire/humor piece I wrote for my own amusement, more or less to try and take my writing less seriously. I'm not looking for a line edit or anything, just feedback on 'is it funny?' and 'is the prose shite?'

Capitalist Pig (625 words)

I giggled a bit at the end, but it was hard to wade through several hundred words of "guy having a hangover" to get to the punchline. You could take out a lot of the hangover descriptions and spend more time explaining why the coffee "needs work" (is it special coffee somehow?) Even better, instead of getting drunk, let Bernard read more about Mr. Porky's business (particularly crimes against pigs.) If you're going to end with Mr. Porky learning a lot from world leaders, take the time to ascribe some details to him which will later apply (by implication) to the world leaders at the end.

Panda So Panda
Feb 21, 2010

Anathema Device posted:

Think a bit about what you'll gain from writing flash fiction instead of listing things on a character sheet. Did you gain that from writing this, or did it feel like an extended version of the same thing you usually do? If you really want to get to know your character, write flash fiction from her point of view that shows (rather than tells) us what was going on when the flash fiction happened.

...

You have the opportunity to write two very good pieces of flash fiction in your larger universe here. (The parent's point of view of Libby's birth, and Libby's or the fireman's point of view of the fire.)

Overall the writing is decent in all the mechanics. If you stop telling us about things that happened and just let them happen, you'll be good.

Thank you for the detailed feedback! I find I tend to ramble in my writing as opposed to keeping things tight and short. That's definitely something I need to work on, so I'm sure practicing with flash fiction will help in the long run. I hadn't thought about exploring the parents' POV and only a little bit about the fireman character, as he does come into play later. I'll have to look into that. I'm glad the mechanics are not too horrible, though. I also find I tend to mess up with keeping tenses the same when I write longer pieces. Any general tips on keeping on top of that?

Sulla Faex
May 14, 2010

No man ever did me so much good, or enemy so much harm, but I repaid him with ENDLESS SHITPOSTING

Purple Prince posted:

A short satire/humor piece I wrote for my own amusement, more or less to try and take my writing less seriously. I'm not looking for a line edit or anything, just feedback on 'is it funny?' and 'is the prose shite?'

Capitalist Pig (625 words)
“Mr. Porky will see you now.” The secretary’s high-pitched voice felt like a needle inserted into Bernard’s eardrum. He forced himself to stand, wobbled over to the door of the office, and went through.

I know you weren't looking for a line-by-line, but this line stood out for me. You had some charm in the opening lines in terms of establishing character with a few quirky anecdotes (the vodka cranberry thing), this stuff is a bit sloppy. You need to have the self-confidence to go a bit abstract. Rather than describe everything in a literal sense, you'd be better off to hit out stronger:

"Mr. Porky will see you now." The secretary's high-pitched voice needled its way into Bernard's eardrum and ricocheted around his shredded brain. Nothing short of a miracle was responsible for tipping him off the chair and wobbling his liquified husk into the office.

quote:

“But—”
“The reports are all libellous. What do you think I am, an animal?”
“They’re your own species! How can you—?”
Mr Porky grinned, and turned his head. On the wall was a large photograph of Mr. Porky shaking hands with several world leaders.
“What an inspiration they were!”

You proceed too quickly from the reveal to the punchline, and the description of Mr. Porky is messy. If it's a clever condemnation of the double-standards of capitalist leaders, have the self-confidence to pursue the matter and take it to a higher intellectual level. If there's merit to your irony/criticism, you can spend a bit more building it up. The more ironic or the more clever the joke, the more you can (and should) support it. Catch-22 goes on for several hundred pages (from memory) when the overall premise can be explained in a couple lines, and that reflects the depth of Heller's understanding of the ironies involved. If the concept is so simple than it only takes a single line to convey, then probably it doesn't need you to convey it. If the complexity of it requires or would be sustained by further exposition, then oversimplification would necessarily weaken it, as I think is the case with your punchline here. Everybody knows the hypocrisy of politicians and the selfishness of capitalism, it's up to you to take it to a level that adds something to our appreciation, and that'll take more than just a one-line joke and the clumsy metaphor of a pig eating pork.

I do agree that the hangover doesn't add anything to the point of the tale, it's just character exposition for a character who doesn't actually matter -- it's just a narrator, a lens for the punchline. Focus on the pig and use more of the simple abstractions that I mentioned earlier, the vodka cranberry thing. Keep it tight, don't let the reader get bored, and introduce something new with each paragraph. You need more back-and-forth with the capitalist ideology, and delve more into the actual ironies that underlie that belief.

Thinking about it, if we put aside the writing style, the main issue with the punchline is that for it to work, it relies upon the pre-existing understanding of the ironies of Capitalist ideology, in which case the punchline isn't introducing anything new or cutting, it's just reminding the reader of what they already know. So either you need to introduce some new conclusion, or illustrate in greater depth the exact ironies that make the punchline work. Does that make sense? I'm a bit tired and I don't mean to be negative, just constructive. I apologise if I've come off negatively. There were some lines I liked, and the pacing could work with a bit of trimming. It's just the end that's abrupt and unsatisfying.

Sulla Faex fucked around with this message at 00:50 on Aug 9, 2013

ViggyNash
Oct 9, 2012
This is the introduction of a short story that I'm trying to write. I say "trying" because this is literally the first thing I've written that wasn't for high school English class or the technical writing course I took in college. It's just over 250 words and probably not that great technically (still working on that part), but here it is:

quote:

The alley was a dead end slit between two dilapidated warehouses. A towering fence halfway down left no way through to the empty lot beyond. The combined luminance of the dim moonlight, the deserted street light at the entrance, and the powerful array of spotlights littering the busy harbor far beyond the lot at the exit could not do more than silhouette the three figures gathered within the darkness.

At the edge of the street light’s reach, Jason leaned against the alley’s wall with his arms, trying to keep an eye on the back of Maya’s shadowy figure while heaving with exhaustion. His military training ensured that he would be able to overpower her under these circumstances, even in his exhausted state, but he knew that force wasn’t an option. Not with another’s life on the line.

Maya stood several yards further in the darkness. Her face was hard, her breathing steadied. Though her eyes were focused down the sights of her gun, Maya was conscious of Jason’s piercing gaze and the gun holstered on his thigh. Anyone able to track down a phantom of death wouldn’t have forgotten something to kill it with.

Young Sarah leaned on the fence that had blocked her way out. What fate she imagined for herself then was a mystery, but she was far too calm for it to have been the truth. She was ignorant of the hostile stalemate between the two adults before her as she gazed solemnly down the barrel of Maya’s gun.

Thoughts? Criticisms? Mockery?

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

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ViggyNash posted:

The alley was a dead end slit should be dead-end, as both are modifying slit between two dilapidated warehouses. More easily said with "the alley between the dilapidated warehouses was a dead end. A towering fence halfway down left no way through to the empty lot beyond. A fence blocked access to the alley. also, i thought you said it was a dead end. Why do you need a fence blocking a dead end, and how does a dead end lead to a lot beyond it? The combined luminance of the dim moonlight, the deserted street light at the entrance, and the powerful array of spotlights littering the busy harbor far beyond the lot at the exit too wordy could not do more than silhouette the three figures gathered within the darkness. This is a long clumsy sentence to say that you couldn't see the people very well. Also, who is even seeing the silhouettes? there are only three characters in the story...

At the edge of the street light’s reach is that how street lights work? I don't really think of them as having an "edge", Jason leaned against the alley’s wall with his armsas opposed to???, trying to keep an eye on the back of Maya’s shadowy figure while heaving with exhaustion. His military training ensured that he would be able to overpower her under these circumstances, even in his exhausted state,He can beat up a girl, but is so tired he can't even look at her easily? drat she's weak but he knew that force wasn’t an option. Not with another’s life on the line.what does this really mean? He's afraid to risk using force or somebody will kill somebody else? he's afraid of hurting people so bad they die? he's on the phone with another life?

Maya stood several yards further in the darkness. further than what? Her face was hard, her breathing steadied. was it not steady before? you didn't tell me that Though her eyes were focused down the sights of her gun, Maya was conscious of Jason’s piercing gaze and the gun holstered on his thigh. how? Anyone able to track down a phantom of death wtf is phantom of death. you never explain. wouldn’t have forgotten something to kill it with. So by "conscious of" you mean "assuming"

Young Sarah this is weird. is there an old sarah? why tell me she's young? it's not really adding anything to the story. You could have put anything there and it'd be the exact same. Fat Sarah, Stupid Sarah, Cunty Sarah with halitosis. None of the story relies on her being young except later you say "the two adults." but she doesn't need to be a child for the rest of the passage to work the exact same. If you want her to be young, then work on the characterization, don't just say she's young. leaned on the fence Lots of leaning on fences. that had blocked her way out. You already established that the fence made it impossible to traverse the ally, don't browbeat us. What fate she imagined for herself then was a mystery, here you switch from third person subjective to third person objective. why? to but she was far too calm for it to have been the truth. she's on a beach in her mind? She was ignorant of the hostile stalemate between the two adults before her as she gazed solemnly down the barrel of Maya’s gun.

So there is a guy leaning on a fence, tired, in between warehouses for some reason. There is also a young girl leaning on the fence. A lady, who is also a phantom of death, has them pinned down, but we don't know why, or what her intentions are. The little girl stares down the gun, but is too stupid to know what's going to happen. The dude knows he could beat up the lady because he was in Army, and he also has a gun, but he just sits there watching while this Lady points a gun at a little girl, who we have no idea who she is, why she's there, what she did, what her relationship is to any of the other characters, and no reason to care one way or the other if she gets a round through the eyes or not.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 05:11 on Aug 9, 2013

ViggyNash
Oct 9, 2012
Yeeaaa...

My idea is an odd one that's meant to leave a lot of details initially ambiguous. This segment is only meant to create the scene, not explain why they are there or the circumstances leading to that scene. But reading it with your comments, a lot of it seems quite clumsily or wordily written (especially in the first and second paragraphs), and the bit with Jason being exhausted and still being able to beat up Maya does sound pretty stupid and badly handled (and I feel stupid for missing that). I also need to find some other way to say Sarah was a child while the other two were adults. It is necessary that she is a child, but the importance of that detail is revealed later on.

But maybe I'm being a bit too subtle and not very telling so here are a few explanations:

-"...her breathing steadied." Yes, it is meant to imply that maybe it wasn't steady before.
-"...phantom of death..." It's meant figuratively, but I should probably rethink the wording of that sentence.
-I meant the word "conscious" as an alternate way of saying "I felt a presence behind me", which is a phrase I've seen quite a lot. It's also meant to suggest that she'd seen the gun and the holster at some unspecified point in time before this scene.
-"...that had blocked her way out." Meant to imply that maybe she had been trying to get away from something, and was stopped by the fence.
-You criticized the oddness of the perspective a couple of times. I guess I should have explained that there is a fourth character, who serves as a narrator, introduced towards the end of the story. I will rethink whether I should be purely objective or subjective with the narration.

I will definitely rewrite quite a bit of it to make it more straightforward and less wordy, but I didn't realize the subtle details would be too subtle to understand. I wanted to create a sense of "what the hell is going on?" in an intriguing sort way rather than an annoyingly incomprehensible way. It seems I failed at that.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

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ViggyNash posted:

Yeeaaa...

I will definitely rewrite quite a bit of it to make it more straightforward and less wordy, but I didn't realize the subtle details would be too subtle to understand. I wanted to create a sense of "what the hell is going on?" in an intriguing sort way rather than an annoyingly incomprehensible way. It seems I failed at that.

I could understand what you probably meant, but you left so many things open-ended. There's a difference between teasing and having a payoff later, and just being needlessly vague. The problem with your "what the hell is going on" feeling is that it isn't being steered in any direction. There's no reason to leave out that somebody is breathing heavily. In fact I want to know why. But to say their breathing steadied is like, 2 orders of mystery. First I have to assume he was breathing hard, then I have to wonder why. That's a lot of mental work to do for something that probably isn't that amazing anyway. Leave that kind of mental exercise for the really good bits.

You don't have to give me all the details, because if it's good I'll keep reading to figure out, but now it's so withholding that my brain is like "no, not fun" and it's only a very short section. You could have had me hooked with "Lady was in a dead-end ally, holding her rifle up to the face of a child." boom. I still don't know WHY, but I know WHAT is happening. People will keep reading to figure out why, but they won't keep reading if they don't know WHAT is happening.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









crabrock posted:

I could understand what you probably meant, but you left so many things open-ended. There's a difference between teasing and having a payoff later, and just being needlessly vague. The problem with your "what the hell is going on" feeling is that it isn't being steered in any direction. There's no reason to leave out that somebody is breathing heavily. In fact I want to know why. But to say their breathing steadied is like, 2 orders of mystery. First I have to assume he was breathing hard, then I have to wonder why. That's a lot of mental work to do for something that probably isn't that amazing anyway. Leave that kind of mental exercise for the really good bits.

You don't have to give me all the details, because if it's good I'll keep reading to figure out, but now it's so withholding that my brain is like "no, not fun" and it's only a very short section. You could have had me hooked with boom. "Lady was in a dead-end ally, holding her rifle up to the face of a child."I still don't know WHY, but I know WHAT is happening. People will keep reading to figure out why, but they won't keep reading if they don't know WHAT is happening.
"Lady was in a dead-end ally, holding her rifle up to the face of a child." is, no lie, 100x better than those endless tortured paragraphs. Try and be Hemingway, as an exercise. If you want to say something just say it, don't dance round and round it.

Purple Prince
Aug 20, 2011

Anathema Device posted:

I giggled a bit at the end, but it was hard to wade through several hundred words of "guy having a hangover" to get to the punchline. You could take out a lot of the hangover descriptions and spend more time explaining why the coffee "needs work" (is it special coffee somehow?) Even better, instead of getting drunk, let Bernard read more about Mr. Porky's business (particularly crimes against pigs.) If you're going to end with Mr. Porky learning a lot from world leaders, take the time to ascribe some details to him which will later apply (by implication) to the world leaders at the end.


Sulla-Marius 88 posted:

[long and nice criticism]

Thanks for the criticisms. I've noted down the key points and I'm going to rewrite the piece since much of the problem is with pacing. As Sulla-Marius 88 advised (and Anathema Device's post implies) I'm also going to broaden the range of the satire and depth of the ironies. It'll probably end up longer because of this. Expect to see the rewrite on these forums within a week. :)

ViggyNash
Oct 9, 2012

crabrock posted:

I could understand what you probably meant, but you left so many things open-ended. There's a difference between teasing and having a payoff later, and just being needlessly vague. The problem with your "what the hell is going on" feeling is that it isn't being steered in any direction. There's no reason to leave out that somebody is breathing heavily. In fact I want to know why. But to say their breathing steadied is like, 2 orders of mystery. First I have to assume he was breathing hard, then I have to wonder why. That's a lot of mental work to do for something that probably isn't that amazing anyway. Leave that kind of mental exercise for the really good bits.

You don't have to give me all the details, because if it's good I'll keep reading to figure out, but now it's so withholding that my brain is like "no, not fun" and it's only a very short section. You could have had me hooked with "Lady was in a dead-end ally, holding her rifle up to the face of a child." boom. I still don't know WHY, but I know WHAT is happening. People will keep reading to figure out why, but they won't keep reading if they don't know WHAT is happening.


sebmojo posted:

"Lady was in a dead-end ally, holding her rifle up to the face of a child." is, no lie, 100x better than those endless tortured paragraphs. Try and be Hemingway, as an exercise. If you want to say something just say it, don't dance round and round it.

I get what you guys are saying. I was trying to complicate my prose just to dance around the details in order to create the sense of mystery, which just made it confusing and annoying to read. What I should do instead is give the details straight, but in a way that allows the reader to imagine a sense of mystery rather than me feeding it to them.

ViggyNash
Oct 9, 2012
I did a quick rewrite of that intro segment again. I made the descriptions far more straightforward, though I allowed myself one wordy flourish. I changed up the perspective to be told solely from the perspective of the fourth character I mentioned. I reduced the character introductions to one paragraph total and filled the empty space by drawing out the stakes and explaining why neither Maya nor Jason could make a move (also, I removed Jason's gun).

quote:

The harbor was quite busy that night. Its massive array of powerful spotlights was a beacon of light in a sea of moonlit desolation, far from the bright lights of the city. But this story didn’t take place in the harbor, but in a dark alley below that seemed to lead to it. However, a fence half way down, nearly invisible from the entrance, blocked the way through.

There were three people in the alley. A young girl named Sarah leaned on the fence that had denied her escape into the harbor. Jason, a powerful but out of shape army veteran, stood several yards away, still catching his breath after the chase that led him there. Between them stood the shadowy assassin Maya who, having finally caught up to her target, calmly pointed her pistol at Sarah’s head.

It was quite the stalemate. Jason’s combat training and physical capacity was still far superior to the assassin’s, and he had the advantage since she was facing away with her gun pointed that direction as well. She wouldn’t have time to spin around with the gun or effectively prepare to intercept his powerful charge before he closed the gap and beat her down. However, she had Sarah as a hostage. She could pull the trigger long before he touched her.

But Maya knows it works both ways. She couldn’t kill Sarah without compromising herself. No matter who moved first, Maya would shoot Sarah and Jason would take down Maya. Quite the stalemate indeed. Since neither could move without provoking the other, they talked.
And dialog ensued.

I, of course, think it's far better and more understandable than before, but obviously I'm biased. So is it better, or still bad?

Sulla Faex
May 14, 2010

No man ever did me so much good, or enemy so much harm, but I repaid him with ENDLESS SHITPOSTING

ViggyNash posted:

I did a quick rewrite of that intro segment again. I made the descriptions far more straightforward, though I allowed myself one wordy flourish. I changed up the perspective to be told solely from the perspective of the fourth character I mentioned. I reduced the character introductions to one paragraph total and filled the empty space by drawing out the stakes and explaining why neither Maya nor Jason could make a move (also, I removed Jason's gun).

And dialog ensued.

I, of course, think it's far better and more understandable than before, but obviously I'm biased. So is it better, or still bad?

I still think you suffer from the fundamental flaw of telling, not showing. Keep it simple if you're not comfortable with literary flourish, but Show, don't Tell. Jason isn't "an army veteran who is slightly out of shape". Show them who Jason is.

For example, I would have written it more like this

quote:

Far from the burning lights of the sleepless city and its busy harbor, a dark alley had turned into an abrupt dead-end.

Sarah clutched at the shadow-laden fence that had cut short her desperate flight to safety. She was young, far too young. Jason stood at the entrance to the alley, barring her escape. His army days were long behind him, and his broad, muscular chest rose and fell with the exertion of the chase. He cursed the layer of fat that had collected about him like mold. It slowed him down, made him weak.

Two shadows became three as a woman stepped into the thin moonlight, pistol pointed at the center of Sarah’s skull. Her calm poise and steady hand marked her as a professional assassin. A sea of corpses knew her as Death. Her clients knew her as Maya.

Not one of them moved, and silence grew around them like a forest of black, suffocating vines. It was a stalemate. Maya’s back was to Jason, and he stood far too close to her. If she killed Sarah he would be on her in a second, and Maya had no counter to his strength and close-combat training. But if Jason lunged first, it meant the death of Sarah.

A gust of wind shattered the crystal stillness of the night and swept a few stray pieces of litter past their feet, breaking up into little eddies of chocolate wrappers and lottery tickets before settling back down upon the cold, oil-stained asphalt. Nearby, a traffic light clicked from red to green to red again, a silent parade of color for a deserted street. Maya’s pistol was still held at Sarah’s head, and Jason’s fists still clenched and unclenched by his side. The three were frozen. Any move would have damned them all.

And so they talked.

I think it might help if you re-read a bunch of your favourite authors and see how they introduce characters, analyse how they present action and concepts. Grab a favourite scene and summarise what they're telling you, what's happening, and see how they present it through verbs and adjectives rather than just telling you exactly what happened. It's not a recount or a summary, they're inviting you INTO the moment, they're recreating it for you. You need to do the same for your audience - draw them in, make it real for them without letting the writing get in the way.

Sulla Faex fucked around with this message at 00:02 on Aug 10, 2013

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

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Based on our chat about your piece in IRC, I rewrote your story:

The halls of the psychiatric ward were busy but at the same time there was an indescribable stillness. The TV flickered in the room that was already flooded with fluorescent light. The hospital was far from the suburbs, but this story doesn't take place in the hospital, it takes place out in the desert.

A particularly ineffective assassin had her target backed up to the edge of a canyon with nowhere to run. Jason was both strong and woefully out of shape, and panted after chasing the assassin to this location. His large muscles weren't the result of training or exercise, but because he was a man. Maya feared his manliness, knowing he could beat her senseless despite his years of sitting on the couch and her training as an assassin. Maya pointed her pistol at a child's head, but did not pull the trigger.

She knew that if she did anything, Jason would crush her with his man muscle. He had been in the Army. She stood with her back to him instead of just plugging the kid and turning around and putting a round in him too. She was at the bottom of her class at the number three assassin university.

Her superiors constantly hung their head in shame when her name came up. "She just won't listen to our advice," they would say.

Well, she would show them. She began to talk. She'd be known as the first assassin ever to kill with just words.

ViggyNash
Oct 9, 2012

crabrock posted:

Based on our chat about your piece in IRC, I rewrote your story:

The halls of the psychiatric ward were busy but at the same time there was an indescribable stillness. The TV flickered in the room that was already flooded with fluorescent light. The hospital was far from the suburbs, but this story doesn't take place in the hospital, it takes place out in the desert.

A particularly ineffective assassin had her target backed up to the edge of a canyon with nowhere to run. Jason was both strong and woefully out of shape, and panted after chasing the assassin to this location. His large muscles weren't the result of training or exercise, but because he was a man. Maya feared his manliness, knowing he could beat her senseless despite his years of sitting on the couch and her training as an assassin. Maya pointed her pistol at a child's head, but did not pull the trigger.

She knew that if she did anything, Jason would crush her with his man muscle. He had been in the Army. She stood with her back to him instead of just plugging the kid and turning around and putting a round in him too. She was at the bottom of her class at the number three assassin university.

Her superiors constantly hung their head in shame when her name came up. "She just won't listen to our advice," they would say.

Well, she would show them. She began to talk. She'd be known as the first assassin ever to kill with just words.

What have I created...

:negative:

Time to rewrite it again.

I'm finding it hard to "show" instead of "tell", keep the prose simple and straightforward, and create the scene and the circumstances I'm envisioning, all at the same time. Maybe there's some fundamental flaw in my imagination that makes it forever impossible to convert my ideas to words. Or maybe this particular idea is just too drat weird and out there to put down on paper.

I guess I have to rethink my perspective or where I want to begin the story. It was meant to be a mostly objective narration. The fourth, unintroduced character is simply observing the events and narrating them, occasionally adding his opinion.

I'm going to try something a little different, but fundamentally the same, and if it's still terrible I will give up on the idea entirely and try something else.

angel opportunity
Sep 7, 2004

Total Eclipse of the Heart
I feel that you are missing the point of writing. You're trying to start out by painting like Pollock before learning how to draw a circle or a straight line.

The basic building block of a story is a plot. Even the shortest of short fiction has a plot. Stop trying to describe people leaning on fence posts a mile away from the over-described harbor. Make poo poo happen. Rewrite your concept so that it takes place over ten minutes or an hour. I don't care about this one out of context moment.

I think the concept is just terribly boring, to be honest. A shadowy assassin, a gruff military dude, an invisible cameraman narrator. I am really kind of confounded at your idea of mystery. You don't create mystery by writing so unclear that no one knows what is happening. You make cool stuff happen, but you hint and foreshadow at cooler stuff. You then slowly reveal the underlying nature of the cooler stuff while action and plot keeps happening and we come to care about the characters.

This is an edited version of my entry that won Thunderdome's MYSTERY WEEK. I don't think I am an amazing writer, but an earlier draft of this beat out 10-15 other people. Since this is the farm, anyone feel free to crit.

REDACTED

There is some "telling" over showing in this, but it was a very conscious choice.

The characters are not well-developed, but they weren't the point of the story. I really was just trying to develop a mystery within a plot (stuff happening).

I'm posting this specifically because you keep mentioning mystery, but I'm not getting "mystery" AT ALL from any version of your piece. I am also posting this because I don't think I did any physical description in this whole story.

The whole point of this story was: "Make the reader wonder what is up with the Seven Words and keep reading to find out." I toned down characters and descriptions so that the reader could stay focused on the Seven Words. If I turned this into a short story of 2,000 to 5,000 words, I would turn the characters into real people and add in more physical descriptions.

If you're going to have less than 500 words, you need a very strong and clear conflict that starts, rises immediately, hits a climax, and then a denouncement. Make that happen, stop describing poo poo. Make a plot, if you still have room, describe some stuff.

angel opportunity fucked around with this message at 13:49 on Aug 16, 2013

tango alpha delta
Sep 9, 2011

Ask me about my wealthy lifestyle and passive income! I love bragging about my wealth to my lessers! My opinions are more valid because I have more money than you! Stealing the fruits of the labor of the working class is okay, so long as you don't do it using crypto. More money = better than!
Critique away:

The Box of Hate

I hit the lights and slide into bed with a sigh. It has been a very long day.

I am just drifting off, but the phone rings. Maybe it’s one of my students. Glancing at the clock, I decide to make this a really short call.

I pick the phone up and bark, “Professor Mason here.”

“Mason!”

I snap awake. I know that voice, even after all these years.

It’s Williams. What the hell does he want?

We had been students together, then colleagues.

But something strange had happened to Williams. At first it was subtle, but like a tree growing over time, Williams had become more and more twisted.

I knew many things about Williams. His father was a drinker and a terror to the household. Williams had paid dearly as a child. His father made him drink deeply from a bitter cup. William’s broken nose and fingers were remnants of those terrible days.

It was the hatred that Williams carried. He confided to me that he used his hatred as fuel. I saw something very different. The hatred used Williams. It consumed him.

But, I miss him, “Williams? Yes, Mason here. How are you?”

Williams cuts me off, “Come to my lab! Tonight! Yes, tonight. There’s no time to lose. You’ll stop by, won’t you, for old times sake? I’ve something very important to show you.” He speaks rapidly.

I glance at the clock again. drat. But he is an old friend. I also owe him.

“Alright. I’ll be there.”

He gives me the address. I call a cab, get dressed and head downstairs to wait outside.

I wonder if he finished it? I shake my head. A fools dream.

The cab ride doesn’t take very long.

At first I think the address is wrong. I’m in some kind of suburbia. Not at all where I’m used to seeing a lab. The street is dark, but I find the house and knock on the door.

The door snaps open and Williams welcomes me in. Yet not Williams, not the one I remember. He seems to be happy. I must be imagining things.

I shake his hand. “Man, it’s good to see you.”

“Professor, eh?” he smiles. “I always thought you would do well.”

I snort and Williams chuckles.

He stares at me for a long time, “Notice anything different?”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never smiled. In fact, you used to mope around like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Williams grins. “I’ve done it! I’ve finished the Box of Hate!”

He’s almost bouncing with excitement.

The Box of Hate was the reason we had parted ways.

Years ago, he wanted to teach a computer how to hate. We had argued often about teaching some of the positive emotions as well, but Williams refused. It seemed so obvious to me that combining artificial intelligence and hatred was a terrible combination, but he just couldn’t see it.

Williams had been filled with hatred for his father. But now, something strange had happened. The hate was gone. I saw it in the way he walked and talked.

I follow him into the basement, into his lab.

There it is. The Box of Hate. It sits in the middle of the lab, surrounded by diagnostic equipment and server racks. Huge electrical cables crown the box and snake into the ceiling.

The Box is so dark that it appears to be a shadow. I shake my head and the box snaps back into a three dimensional object.

It’s big enough for a man to sit inside.

I turn around and Williams points a gun at me.

“Get in.” He waves the gun.

“What the hell is this?”

He waves the gun again. “Get in.”

I sigh. I’m not convinced that the Box really works. Get shot or humor him. Fine.

I open the Box and climb into the chair. Williams chuckles and seals me in.

Total darkness.

“Williams! What’s going to happen to me? I demand-“

I feel the Box of Hate. I begin to hurt.

I betrayed my friend. I denounced him to the University board.

The more I try to rationalize, the more it hurts. The Box rips away all illusion.

I am crying now and pleading for Williams to forgive me.

Then, the pain is gone.

The Box opens. Williams smiles and extends a hand. The gun is gone.

“I forgive you, Mason.”

I cry again, but they are joyful tears. My burden is gone.

I stare at the Box and whisper, “It really works.”

“Yes. Yes it does. I needed you to see it. You needed to feel it working. You understand. I need your help.”

“What do you need?”

“I want to put my father into the Box of Hate.”

I look at his broken nose and twisted fingers, gifts from his father. This is justice. This must be done.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






tango alpha delta posted:

Critique away:

The Box of Hate

I hit the lights and slide into bed with a sigh. It has been a very long day.

I am just drifting off, but the phone rings. Maybe it’s one of my students. Glancing at the clock, I decide to make this a really short call.

I pick the phone up and bark, “Professor Mason here.”

“Mason!”

I snap awake. I know that voice, even after all these years.

It’s Williams. What the hell does he want?

We had been students together, then colleagues.

But something strange had happened to Williams. At first it was subtle, but like a tree growing over time,I like this similie, but I wish you would strengthen it a little bit. A normal tree isn't described as "twisted," what is causing this abnormal growth? Williams had become more and more twisted.

I knew many things about Williams. His father was a drinker and a terror to the household. Williams had paid dearly as a child.meh, cliche. His father made him drink deeply from a bitter cup. William’s broken nose and fingers were remnants of those terrible days. sounds like they're still broken

It was the hatred that Williams carried. reword He confided to me that he used his hatred as fuel. I saw something very different. The hatred used Williams. It consumed him.used AND consumed him? stronger without the consumed him

But, I miss him,. “Williams? Yes, Mason here. How are you?”boring dialog. you need to sell that these are two long lost buddies.

Williams cuts me off, “Come to my lab! Tonight! Yes, tonight. There’s no time to lose. You’ll stop by, won’t you, for old times sake? I’ve something very important to show you.” He speaks rapidly. flesh this out a bit. what clues does the character get from the way he is speaking?

I glance at the clock again. drat. But he is an old friend. I also owe him. nice

“Alright. I’ll be there.” boring

He gives me the address.boring I call a cab, get dressed and head downstairs to wait outside. all this is boring

I wonder if he finished it? I shake my head. A fools dream.

The cab ride doesn’t take very long. why do I care?

At first I think the address is wrong. I’m in some kind of suburbia. Not at all where I’m used to seeing a lab. The street is dark, but I find the house and knock on the door.boring

The door snaps openover the top and Williams welcomes me in. Yet not Williams, not the one I remember. He seems to be happy. I must be imagining things.

I shake his hand. “Man, it’s good to see you.”boring.

“Professor, eh?” he smiles. “I always thought you would do well.”

I snort and Williams chuckles.weird

He stares at me for a long time, “Notice anything different?” even weirder

Well, yes, now that you mention it. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never smiled. In fact, you used to mope around like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Williams grins. “I’ve done it! I’ve finished the Box of Hate!”

He’s almost bouncing with excitement.yea, he seems a little off kilter here

The Box of Hate was the reason we had parted ways.

Years ago, he wanted to teach a computer how to hate. We had argued often about teaching some of the positive emotions as well, but Williams refused. It seemed so obvious to me that combining artificial intelligence and hatred was a terrible combination, but he just couldn’t see it. why did he refuse to acknowledge good feelings? because we was beat up as a kid? big deal, lots of people are. this kids abuse is light in the poo poo that a lot of normal people had to deal with. now he won't even entertain positive emotions? I'm not buying it.

Williams had been filled with hatred for his father. But now, something strange had happened. The hate was gone. I saw it in the way he walked and talked.it feels like we've already gone over this.

I follow him into the basement, into his lab.boring

There it is. The Box of Hate. It sits in the middle of the lab, surrounded by diagnostic equipment and server racks. Huge electrical cables crown the box and snake into the ceiling.

The Box is so dark that it appears to be a shadow. I shake my head and the box snaps back lots of snapping into a three dimensional object. literally, or just an optical illusion?

It’s big enough for a man to sit inside.weird measurement

I turn around and Williams points a gun at me.well that was unexpected, and not foreshadowed at all.

“Get in.” He waves the gun.Oh i see what you did there. just tell me it was large and hollow.

“What the hell is this?”

He waves the gun again. “Get in.”you already told me this.

I sigh. I’m not convinced that the Box really works. Get shot or humor him. Fine.

I open the Box and climb into the chair. Williams chuckles and seals me in.

Total darkness.

“Williams! What’s going to happen to me? I demand-“ yawn. have him say something more meaningful! They could be his last words!

I feel the Box of Hate. I begin to hurt.

I betrayed my friend. I denounced him to the University board.

The more I try to rationalize, the more it hurts. The Box rips away all illusion.

I am crying now and pleading for Williams to forgive me.

Then, the pain is gone.

The Box opens. Williams smiles and extends a hand. The gun is gone.

“I forgive you, Mason.”

I cry again, but they are joyful tears. My burden is gone.

I stare at the Box and whisper, “It really works.” why are we whispering?

“Yes. Yes it does. I needed you to see it. You needed to feel it working. You understand. I need your help.”

“What do you need?”

“I want to put my father into the Box of Hate.”

I look at his broken nose and twisted fingers, gifts from his father.redundant This is justice. This must be done.

Overall I like the premise of the story, and some of your prose is OK, but your dialog leaves a lot to be desired. The problem is it's mostly just BORING. Like, they're just saying things that boring people say when then talk about their boring lives. You could stick most of that dialog into an episode of honey boo boo and they wouldn't be out of place, because they're just banal expressions. Really beef that up and make every word that comes out of their mouth meaningful. When he picks up the phone it should be like "You need to come to my lab now." "Williams, I thought you were dead." "I haven't had time." "I'll call a cab." (these are stupid, but the point is there's no "well, gee, ok! hey there how are you! I will come right away!" but it still gets the point across, but says more.)

We, as readers, will fill the boring parts in ourselves with our imaginations. If he's being greeted, then he's talking about the lab, I'll assume he walked down there. I won't think he teleported magically to the lab. So you don't need to tell me he walked downstairs. Same with the cab. Him getting a phone call and then taking a cab ride tells me all I need to know. I don't care that he was upstairs and he had to put on clothes. I can assume he made it out of his bed and out to the cab, he's a loving professor: more than capable.

Williams seems just slightly unhinged. Like, he's too over the top. I don't know if you're going for "the box works, but it makes you crazy" or not, but that's kind of what it felt like... except not very well done. Too many exclamation marks. I imagine them yelling weirdly at each other. He's too bubbly. That's not the joy of having a weight lifted off your shoulders, that's mania. Dial it down some, don't try to oversell it.

You should tweak this because it could be good.

crabrock fucked around with this message at 09:12 on Aug 10, 2013

ViggyNash
Oct 9, 2012

systran posted:

I feel that you are missing the point of writing. You're trying to start out by painting like Pollock before learning how to draw a circle or a straight line.

The basic building block of a story is a plot. Even the shortest of short fiction has a plot. Stop trying to describe people leaning on fence posts a mile away from the over-described harbor. Make poo poo happen. Rewrite your concept so that it takes place over ten minutes or an hour. I don't care about this one out of context moment.

I think the concept is just terribly boring, to be honest. A shadowy assassin, a gruff military dude, an invisible cameraman narrator. I am really kind of confounded at your idea of mystery. You don't create mystery by writing so unclear that no one knows what is happening. You make cool stuff happen, but you hint and foreshadow at cooler stuff. You then slowly reveal the underlying nature of the cooler stuff while action and plot keeps happening and we come to care about the characters.

This is an edited version of my entry that won Thunderdome's MYSTERY WEEK. I don't think I am an amazing writer, but an earlier draft of this beat out 10-15 other people. Since this is the farm, anyone feel free to crit.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VOJKnChyst4I4T8U4cmcqLiNRA9GSysxeuSmJTDTmXA/edit?usp=sharing

There is some "telling" over showing in this, but it was a very conscious choice.

The characters are not well-developed, but they weren't the point of the story. I really was just trying to develop a mystery within a plot (stuff happening).

I'm posting this specifically because you keep mentioning mystery, but I'm not getting "mystery" AT ALL from any version of your piece. I am also posting this because I don't think I did any physical description in this whole story.

The whole point of this story was: "Make the reader wonder what is up with the Seven Words and keep reading to find out." I toned down characters and descriptions so that the reader could stay focused on the Seven Words. If I turned this into a short story of 2,000 to 5,000 words, I would turn the characters into real people and add in more physical descriptions.

If you're going to have less than 500 words, you need a very strong and clear conflict that starts, rises immediately, hits a climax, and then a denouncement. Make that happen, stop describing poo poo. Make a plot, if you still have room, describe some stuff.

I see what you mean. In fact, in my latest rewrite I replaced much of the "telling" bits with some introductory plot and changed the perspective to be more subjective first-person instead of objective. Also, I really liked that story, even if the premise was a bit strange.

But first let me say that what I've been posting is only an introduction. It is not the whole story. The majority of the story after that is dialogue (through which there is a lot of backstory and some world building), which is interrupted by a "flash-foreward" (more of a "what if" segment), and concluded with a short segment after that. My point being that there is a plot to the overall story, but not as much (in my original iterations) in the introductions that I posted.

Helsing
Aug 23, 2003

DON'T POST IN THE ELECTION THREAD UNLESS YOU :love::love::love: JOE BIDEN

ViggyNash posted:

I did a quick rewrite of that intro segment again. I made the descriptions far more straightforward, though I allowed myself one wordy flourish. I changed up the perspective to be told solely from the perspective of the fourth character I mentioned. I reduced the character introductions to one paragraph total and filled the empty space by drawing out the stakes and explaining why neither Maya nor Jason could make a move (also, I removed Jason's gun).

And dialog ensued.

I, of course, think it's far better and more understandable than before, but obviously I'm biased. So is it better, or still bad?

It feels like you're writing a movie script rather than a short story. You have this specific visual scene in your head and you keep trying to describe it as though your words are a metaphorical camera that reveals things to your audience (i.e. the reader). While physical descriptions are an important part of writing they are usually a really weak way to open a piece of fiction.

It feels like you're trying to make it so the reader understands what the scene looks like, and then after that you try to get them interested. This is backwards: first grab the reader's attention with character or conflict, then doll out the description of what is going on.

So rather than spending several paragraphs immediately laying out all the visual details of the scene I would suggest putting first things first: there's a chase going on, and there's a woman pointing a gun at a kid's head. I think you should either open in the midst of the chase or open with a description of Maya pointing a gun at Sarah's head. Those are the essential elements of action that the reader is supposed to care about so I suggest you put them right up front. Once we understand that a young girl's life is at stake we'll automatically be more interested in hearing about the layout of the alley or the man who is possibly going to save this girl's life.

So start with the character, emotion, conflict, etc. and then move on to the visual description. Here's a very rough example of how I might suggest reworking things:

quote:

Sarah was running so fast that she was halfway down the alley before she saw the iron fence blocking her path. She turned but it was already too late: there was Maya, standing at the alley's mouth, her gun trained on Sarah's head. One pull of the trigger and Sarah's all-too-brief life would be over.

From where he was standing Jason knew that he could rush Maya's exposed back before she could turn and shoot. Even after all these years his superior strength and training would give him a decisive edge at close quarters, but if he tried to close the distance then the girl would die.

This description still isn't ideal but the point is that it immediately sets up the scene and draws us in. It places emphasis on the character's and their conflict rather than the environment, which honestly doesn't need that much description to begin with given that 'a dark alley' is a pretty standard setpiece for this kind of story.

Anyway once you've grabbed the reader's attention you can describe the harbour a bit more (though I'd try to focus on relevant descriptions. If you're telling us the harbour is crowded then this should be relevant to the story in some way.)

Down With People
Oct 31, 2012

The child delights in violence.

ViggyNash posted:

But first let me say that what I've been posting is only an introduction. It is not the whole story. The majority of the story after that is dialogue (through which there is a lot of backstory and some world building), which is interrupted by a "flash-foreward" (more of a "what if" segment), and concluded with a short segment after that. My point being that there is a plot to the overall story, but not as much (in my original iterations) in the introductions that I posted.

Well then, how's about showing us the rest of the story?

ViggyNash
Oct 9, 2012

Helsing posted:

It feels like you're writing a movie script rather than a short story. You have this specific visual scene in your head and you keep trying to describe it as though your words are a metaphorical camera that reveals things to your audience (i.e. the reader). While physical descriptions are an important part of writing they are usually a really weak way to open a piece of fiction.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what I'm doing: trying to build a story around a scene. I envisioned a very abstract version of the scene a long time ago with no intention to make anything of it. When I was bored one day I ended up expanding on it a bit and it ended up as a complete concept. That concept is what I'm trying to put on paper.

Helsing
Aug 23, 2003

DON'T POST IN THE ELECTION THREAD UNLESS YOU :love::love::love: JOE BIDEN
The problem is that this scene is inherently more interesting to you, its creator, than it is to anyone else. I really think you need to try and hook your reader before you give a multi-paragraph description of what the scene looks like. And your writing isn't strong enough yet for you to rely on descriptions to pull the reader in.

Tell us what someone is feeling, thinking, or doing. Give us something to actually sink our teeth into and then tell us what the environment looks like.

Chillmatic
Jul 25, 2003

always seeking to survive and flourish

ViggyNash posted:

This is the introduction of a short story that I'm trying to write.


While you've nicely cleaned up the more glaring issues present in the first draft you posted, my other Big Complaint still stands--and is almost more noticeable now.

The excerpt you posted has no voice and is told from a formless perspective. I know you've addressed this by saying we're seeing this all through some fourth character, but this is going to be a problem for most readers.

In other words: nobody wants to read a story that's told from the perspective of someone not actually involved in what's happening. This strips the scene of all narrative tension, because, even if there is something happening in the scene--debatable in this instance--it's still of no consequence to the narrator and thus is very difficult to care about.

Why not try re-writing the scene explicitly through the perspective/eyes of a character that the audience actually gets to see? Why not give us that person's thoughts as they stare down whichever end of the gun?

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

I

AM

MAGNIFICENT






Also I get the feeling that you haven't actually written the entire story yet, and are focusing on this opening.

if that is true, stop, and write the entire scene. A lot of times what I write later changes how I want to open something.

If you have, paste the entire thing.

ViggyNash
Oct 9, 2012

Chillmatic posted:

While you've nicely cleaned up the more glaring issues present in the first draft you posted, my other Big Complaint still stands--and is almost more noticeable now.

The excerpt you posted has no voice and is told from a formless perspective. I know you've addressed this by saying we're seeing this all through some fourth character, but this is going to be a problem for most readers.

In other words: nobody wants to read a story that's told from the perspective of someone not actually involved in what's happening. This strips the scene of all narrative tension, because, even if there is something happening in the scene--debatable in this instance--it's still of no consequence to the narrator and thus is very difficult to care about.

Why not try re-writing the scene explicitly through the perspective/eyes of a character that the audience actually gets to see? Why not give us that person's thoughts as they stare down whichever end of the gun?

I'm going to try writing two different versions of the story; one version will be told in subjective third person from the perspective of the characters directly involved, and the other will be what I've been trying, and failing miserably, to do, which is a first person perspective of the fourth character I keep mentioning who is, for most of the story, simply observing, and I'll definitely add some voice to it. When both are done, I'll post both, and you guys can tell me what you think.

crabrock posted:

Also I get the feeling that you haven't actually written the entire story yet, and are focusing on this opening.

if that is true, stop, and write the entire scene. A lot of times what I write later changes how I want to open something.

If you have, paste the entire thing.

I don't have every word written out, but I do have a mental layout of all the events, from beginning to end. I keep posting my introduction because I wasn't really sure how to start.

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Bad Seafood
Dec 10, 2010


If you must blink, do it now.

ViggyNash posted:

I'm going to try writing two different versions of the story
How about you don't, and do this instead:

ViggyNash posted:

I don't have every word written out
What you've posted so far isn't a story. It isn't even a full scene. It's the introduction to a scene. That's salad dressing. Where's the meat? The potatoes? What you've written so far isn't worth my time to read, let alone critique, because there's no substance to it. Your ability to poetically describe a harbor in my mind's eye comes secondary to the fact that your harbor is of no relevance to anyone, least of all your characters who aren't even there.

Whatever you have in your head, spit it out. Get it down on paper. Then turn it in and give it to us. Even if it's garbage (and just so we're clear, it will be), it'll still do you more good than any amount of hazy feedback on a rough sketch of a situation we have no reason to care about filled with people we don't even know. You don't have to reinvent the wheel, just show it to us. We can help you fix it after we know what we're working with. Until then you are asking blind men to describe an elephant.

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