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Narzack
Sep 15, 2008
So, I'm tired of not being able to write anymore, and I've decided the only way to get it back is to just do it. This is something out of my usual comfort zone, but gently caress it. Gotta lift weights to get strong, right?


I remember the first time I saw her. It was late in the evening, approaching midnight and cold, but not frigid. Pleasantly chilly. Jacket weather. It was about a week before the college went on break, and I was sitting on a bench near the library. I’d had a rough night at work; it seems that just about everyone in the entire city had decided to order pizza. After we closed for the night, I had decided to walk the few miles to the library and unwind. I wasn't terribly into drinking, so sitting and relaxing in the night air was my prescription.

There were a lot of people out walking that night, many of them couples. Easy in each other's company, they walked hand in hand or arms entwined. They talked and laughed and enjoyed being together. I watched them, distracted at first, but slowly becoming more and more aware of my own loneliness. I remember this because for so long I had been utterly content in my solitude. Any thoughts of a relationship were met with disinterest and dismissal. So it was with no small amount of surprise that I reflected upon my isolation. True, I had friends and roommates, coworkers with whom I associated, and family member, but nothing of a non-platonic nature, apart from vague, infant infatuations with female acquaintances.

I was lonely. Suddenly and achingly lonely. I sat on that bench for some time, emotionally exploring the sensation, foreign to me for so many years. I was lonely. The thought made me smile, as if I'd just discovered a new delight. The moment was short lived, and immediately replaced by the ache of emptiness. I watched the people walking to their unknown destinations, content. I wished I was them.

It was then that I saw her. I don't know what stood out to me about her. Maybe it was the streetlight that enveloped her like the rays of God. Maybe it was the way her earrings glinted like snowflakes. Maybe it was way her black hair tumbled down around the pale curve of her neck. Maybe it was the way her laugh, light and tinkling, floated through the night. Maybe all of these things. Maybe none of them. All I knew was that my stomach clenched when I saw her and my pulse raced.

She was at the bus stop at the corner, across the street and to my left. I rose, madly determined to talk to her. My hands were shaking and my legs felt weak, but I moved of an engine unknown. I breathed deeply the chill night air, the cold burning my throat and snapping the world into focus.

I was going to talk to her. I could scarcely believe it when I looked down and saw my legs moving me toward this impossibilty. A few dozen feet and I'd be at the crosswalk. Step across the street and I'd be at the bus stop. With her.

I continued walking, marveling at the unknown impetus that was driving me. Then, I heard the slow squealing of brakes. I looked around.

The lights of the bus, coming to take her away, were glaring like the rubies of Hades. The gears ground and the bus slowed to a stop, she and I on opposite sides now. Blocked.

Maybe, I thought, she isn't waiting for this one. Maybe, just maybe, she'd still be there when the vehicle left.

Moments passed, and I stood there, unmoving.

The bus released the brakes, transmission protested and howled, and the wheels rolled. It cleared the bus stop, and I held my breath, looking for her.

Gone.

My heart fell like a child's when a beloved toy shatters. Dejection descended upon me like a thick, wet fog. She was gone. Without even so much as a name, she was merely a specter. A moment in time lost forever.

Each step home that night was heavy.

#

A few days passed. I tried to put her out of my mind, not wanting to be some kind of weirdo creep who obsesses over some random girl. But, every day without warning, I would be reminded of her.

A customer walks in, I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, and my heart skips.

Not her.

In the distance, through the window of the shop, I see a girl similarly dressed, standing and waiting for a bus. She turns so that I see her face.

Not her.

Every day.

I felt like I was in high-school again, with a crush on the unattainable popular girl. Sure, I knew deep down, that I didn’t really know the girl beyond her looks, but that did little to dull the teenage ache.

And, here I was, years later, feeling the same longing. It was almost funny to me, how cyclical life can be.

I confided to my roommate, Dan, late one night.

"Is this stupid? Like, high-school pathetic?" I asked him. We were in the living room, playing Risk and having some beers.

"It is a little, sure. You don't know her name. You don't know anything about her. You saw her across the street. Not a lot to go on," he said, taking a swig of beer. "I know you, Chuck. You're a softy. A romantic.”

I could hear the unspoken addition. An idiot.

“You're getting some ideal in your head of her every day, aren't you?"

I looked down, embarrassed. He was right. I had been building up some imaginary angel in my head. Every time I thought of her, another element was added.

"Let me guess," he continued. "She smiles a lot, right?" He peered at me, drawing from our long friendship a knowledge of my tastes. "She doesn't drink every night, but she'll get wild once in a while and belt out karaoke at a bar with her friends? She," he added, "doesn't smoke. She. . . is obsessed with one band. Sorta retro, not too popular, but one that you can appreciate." He grinned and finished off the beer, crumpling the can in one hand. "Finally," he squinted, racking his brain for the coup-de-grace, "she's a painter, or some other kind of artist. Maybe a sculptor?" He shook his head. "No, definitely a painter."

I had to laugh. He'd gotten it on the nose. "Dan, you know me almost better than I know myself."

He stood and walked to the fridge to grab another beer. “You’re not that complicated, Chuck. Seriously, though. You don't know anything about this girl. And there's no way that she will match up at all to the person you've created in your mind. Let it go. You want another?"

"Sure."

#

It's not that I thought he was wrong. On the contrary, I knew that Dan was absolutely correct. She was certainly nothing like the version of her I'd made up. No way she could be. But, I simply couldn't get her out of my mind. The memory of her was intractable. Try as I might to scrub her out, she remained, like a cat clinging to a tree, claws digging into the bark. She remained.

I went through my day, struggling vainly to rid myself of her. She haunted me. I answered phones, I took orders, I made pizzas, I walked home, I played video games with Dan. All these things I did, trying to distract myself, but she always returned to me at night when I lay in my bed.

Haunted.

#

As time passed, my loneliness grew. It began to hurt. I looked trying to find someone to assuage the pain of being so alone. I even went on a few dates with girls I was friends with. Tried as I might, no sparks flew. I spent most of the dates with my eyes constantly roaming, trying to catch a glimpse of her. In the end, it made me feel even worse. I was a terrible date, and nearly lost a friendship out of it. It was then that I realized I was stuck. I couldn't get her out of my mind by force of will, I couldn't even replace her. I was lost.

I was more depressed and dejected than ever. I'd never get her out of my head, and I'd never see her again. The next few weeks passed slowly and bleakly. The cold of bite of winter began early.

#

Then, one morning, I was woken by the sun shining on my face. I sat up in bed and looked out the window through the blinds. The autumn leaves gleamed a little more golden. Winter, though still a few weeks off, seemed to be at bay. For some reason, I just felt better. I had the day off, so I decided to go for a walk, maybe take lunch at the park. I showered and dressed, a sudden and welcome spring in my step.

I left the apartment fairly bounding down the steps to the street below. Tucking my hands into my pockets, I even began whistling a light tune. A light wind picked up the leaves and swirled them around like dust devils. I smiled at it. A few more leaves floated languidly down from the trees, landing on my shoulders. A few people walked towards me on the sidewalk, smiling brightly as I passed. I felt as if I was waking from a dream, rising from a depression. I felt good.

I walked a few miles to the park. It seemed I hadn't been the only one with the clever idea. A number of families were there, lounging in the grass while their children played. Their joy was a wonderful sight after all the darkness of the previous month. Things were finally looking up. I made my way to my favored bench, facing the lake.

As I approached, I saw that someone was sitting there. Oh, well, I thought. I can sit in the next area.

Mildly disappointed, I took one last glance at it before I left.

My heart stopped.

It was her. The bench was facing the lake, away from the gravel path I was on, but she had turned to look at a group of pigeons fluttering around.

She.

She who had haunted me.

She who had taken residence in my head.

She who had thrown my entire life into a spiral.

Beautiful, lovely she.

My heart wasn't pounding. It was exploding. Erupting. Detonating. My hands shook. She was there, sitting mere yards from me. The girl of my dreams. The girl in my dreams. The real girl or the ideal I'd created, it didn't matter. She was there.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Go. The only way you'll ever be free.

Or happy.

I tried to steady my heartbeat and approached the bench. She turned as I rounded the right side of the bench.

Her eyes met mine. My temperature skyrocketed. I could hear my heart thundering in my ribcage.

Now or never.

Your only chance.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she answered.

She smiled.

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Osric
Sep 25, 2012
Why are you opening your story with a detailed description of the exact level of coldness, complete with various weak synonyms for cold? I don't see that it adds anything.

I know it’s a short work, but you’re launching into the viewpoint character suddenly feeling lonely for the first time, without having established him at all as a character. It might work better to build some sense of him as content being alone before having him experience this discontent.

“Maybe it was the streetlight that enveloped her like the rays of God” do streetlights really envelop and does God give off rays?

“The lights of the bus, coming to take her away, were glaring like the rubies of Hades” are there rubies in Hades? Genuine question.

Overall, this is quite sweet, and evokes a mood well, but there isn't a lot to it. Guy we know nothing about see's a girl, has a very brief conversation with a friend who might as well be himself, and then talks to the girl. I think you need to pick an element of this to develop, whether that's the relationship with Dan, the experiences that took the protagonist to this point, or the girl's perspective.

Narzack
Sep 15, 2008

Osric posted:

Why are you opening your story with a detailed description of the exact level of coldness, complete with various weak synonyms for cold? I don't see that it adds anything.

I know it’s a short work, but you’re launching into the viewpoint character suddenly feeling lonely for the first time, without having established him at all as a character. It might work better to build some sense of him as content being alone before having him experience this discontent.

“Maybe it was the streetlight that enveloped her like the rays of God” do streetlights really envelop and does God give off rays?

“The lights of the bus, coming to take her away, were glaring like the rubies of Hades” are there rubies in Hades? Genuine question.

Overall, this is quite sweet, and evokes a mood well, but there isn't a lot to it. Guy we know nothing about see's a girl, has a very brief conversation with a friend who might as well be himself, and then talks to the girl. I think you need to pick an element of this to develop, whether that's the relationship with Dan, the experiences that took the protagonist to this point, or the girl's perspective.

Hey, man, thanks for taking the time to give me your thoughts. I think you're right about the beginning. It's the first thing I've written in about a decade, so I was probably subconsciously dragging my feet, so I stumbled through the opening.

The streetlight line, yeah, it takes liberty with reality, but I kinda like the idea. Guess it doesn't come off the way I'd intended, and ends up being purple.

I hadn't realized that Dan was basically the same as the main character, but now that you point it out, I can totally see what you mean. I think that' something I'll revise, but I think a big problem is that I set out to write a 'romance' story, but kinda chickened out. I was also trying to address that problem that I and a lot of other nerds have where we build up this entire persona of chicks we crush on, that completely idealizes and sanitizes both reality and human nature.

TheAgent
Feb 16, 2002

The call is coming from inside Dr. House
Grimey Drawer
Hello.

Unfortunately this story goes nowhere. I know that sounds harsh, but there's a lot of build up, a lot of head games and extraneous material to end it like you did. Did the girl turn out to be his dream woman? Did they gently caress in a public bathroom and the main character, guilt and regret overflowing, checks himself incessantly for STDs every week? I understand that you were trying to give us a sort of "choose your own ending" here, but I don't think it works at all. You need to give us an ending which justifies sitting through your story. I'm being very direct here: do not, ever, end your stories like this unless the middle meat completely justifies it. Do not end your stories with "but then I woke up!" or "who knows what could have happened if only" or "maybe it was all in my head all along??" unless the journey is so goddamn poignant it washes away the taste of terrible endings like that (and they never, never do).

If you were going for a wistful prose / poetic piece, I could maybe understand it.

Narzack posted:

I remember the first time I saw her. It was late in the evening, approaching midnight and cold, but not frigid. Pleasantly chilly. Jacket weather. It was about a week before the college went on break, and I was sitting on a bench near the library. I’d had a rough night at work; it seems that just about everyone in the entire city had decided to order pizza. After we closed for the night, I had decided to walk the few miles to the library and unwind. I wasn't terribly into drinking, so sitting and relaxing in the night air was my prescription.

There were a lot of people out walking that night, many of them couples. Easy in each other's company, they walked hand in hand or arms entwined. They talked and laughed and enjoyed being together. I watched them, distracted at first, but slowly becoming more and more aware of my own loneliness. I remember this because for so long I had been utterly content in my solitude. Any thoughts of a relationship were met with disinterest and dismissal. So it was with no small amount of surprise that I reflected upon my isolation. True, I had friends and roommates, coworkers with whom I associated, and family member, but nothing of a non-platonic nature, apart from vague, infant infatuations with female acquaintances.

I was lonely. Suddenly and achingly lonely. I sat on that bench for some time, emotionally exploring the sensation, foreign to me for so many years. I was lonely. The thought made me smile, as if I'd just discovered a new delight. The moment was short lived, and immediately replaced by the ache of emptiness. I watched the people walking to their unknown destinations, content. I wished I was them.
Why put any of the above in? It's trying to set up the character, but we learn very little about him except that yes, he's lonely. We are hit over the head by how lonely he is. This isn't a journal entry. You'd be better served starting here:

quote:

It was then that I saw her. I don't know what stood out to me about her. Maybe it was the streetlight that enveloped her like the rays of God. Maybe it was the way her earrings glinted like snowflakes. Maybe it was way her black hair tumbled down around the pale curve of her neck. Maybe it was the way her laugh, light and tinkling, floated through the night. Maybe all of these things. Maybe none of them. All I knew was that my stomach clenched when I saw her and my pulse raced.
A lot of writing is judged by the first freaking line, let alone the first paragraph. Every story, no matter how big or small, needs to hook you almost immediately.

You also need to edit quite a bit. Writing is about providing information without providing direct citations. You aren't writing a wikipedia article. I'd suggest something more like:

quote:

The streetlight enveloped her like the rays of God. Her earrings glinted like stars, surrounded by the night of her black hair.
Get rid of the maybes. Be assertive. I know you are writing from the characters perspective, but there are other, more interesting ways of showing us his meekness and desire.

quote:

She was at the bus stop at the corner, across the street and to my left. I rose, madly determined to talk to her. My hands were shaking and my legs felt weak, but I moved of an engine unknown. I breathed deeply the chill night air, the cold burning my throat and snapping the world into focus.The cold burned my throat, my legs weak with deep chill.
Again, cut down the words. We understand he's going to talk to her, but he's scared. Don't be afraid to shorten things, to edit them to either be a little more flowery or well, unflowery. A higher word count doesn't equate to a better story.

quote:

I was going to talk to her. I could scarcely believe it when I looked down and saw my legs moving me toward this impossibilty.
First spelling mistake. I usually don't care about grammar or structure or spelling mistakes that much, but you bet your rear end other people do. Read, re-read, edit, re-edit. You also don't need to tell us what the character is going to do. Show us, guide us along. Try to avoid sayings like "scarcely believe." If you find yourself using too many popular metaphors, re-write. You'd be amazed at what you can come up with, how your sentence structure and even story will change.

quote:

A few dozen feet and I'd be at the crosswalk. Step across the street and I'd be at the bus stop. With her.
This has gone on for a long, long while. This isn't someone being murdered; I know you're trying to show us the anxiety in the character, but it's absolutely overflowing with it.

quote:

I continued walking, marveling at the unknown impetus that was driving me. Then, I heard the slow squealing of brakes. I looked around.
"Engine unknown" was good. Saying "unknown impetus," no. Cut it.

quote:

The lights of the bus, coming to take her away, were glaring like the rubies of Hades. The gears ground and the bus slowed to a stop, she and I on opposite sides now. Blocked.
Okay, don't get too flowery. Not everything needs to be compared to some mythic figure. Here you are taking away from the girl to give time to a bus. Unless that bus really is taking her to hell, you don't need to describe it with such mythic detail.

quote:


Maybe, I thought, she isn't waiting for this one. Maybe, just maybe, she'd still be there when the vehicle left.

Moments passed, and I stood there, unmoving.

The bus released the brakes, transmission protested and howled, and the wheels rolled. It cleared the bus stop, and I held my breath, looking for her.

Gone.

My heart fell like a child's when a beloved toy shatters. Dejection descended upon me like a thick, wet fog. She was gone. Without even so much as a name, she was merely a specter. A moment in time lost forever.

Each step home that night was heavy.

#
Clip all of that out. You can follow it up with the below and it shows us that he missed her at that stop. Or maybe he didn't but he's pining for her anyway. Maybe she rejected him outright. No need for a # sign either, or a break in the story.

quote:


A few days passed. I tried to put her out of my mind, not wanting to be some kind of weirdo creep who obsesses over some random girl. But, every day without warning, I would be reminded of her.
Don't need this. Show us why he's a weirdo creep. Show us his fixation.

quote:

A customer walks in, I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, and my heart skips.

Not her.

In the distance, through the window of the shop, I see a girl similarly dressed, standing and waiting for a bus. She turns so that I see her face. Your italic was off here by one character.

Not her.

Every day.
This, this is good. I would re-write some of it, sure, but the feeling is there. Everyone he sees is the girl. Expand on this part. Show us how twisted the character becomes. Not with these little spinets. Here's the part you can make interesting, here's the section you should really expand on. What does he do everyday and how does that woman fit into it?

quote:

I felt like I was in high-school again, with a crush on the unattainable popular girl. Sure, I knew deep down, that I didn’t really know the girl beyond her looks, but that did little to dull the teenage ache.
No need to bring any of this up. Show us high school. This is your story. You don't need to say "man it felt like high school again" you can take us back there. Show us that girl in high school. Show us the character's fixation. Get to the reality. Did he jerk off thinking of her? Did he put her on a pedastal? Did he fantasize about her sexually or platonically, did he want to show her how powerful he was? Like, there's a ton of creepy poo poo you can expand upon here and you throw it away on a single sentence.

quote:

And, here I was, years later, feeling the same longing. It was almost funny to me, how cyclical life can be.

I confided to my roommate, Dan, late one night.

"Is this stupid? Like, high-school pathetic?" I asked him. We were in the living room, playing Risk and having some beers.

"It is a little, sure. You don't know her name. You don't know anything about her. You saw her across the street. Not a lot to go on," he said, taking a swig of beer. "I know you, Chuck. You're a softy. A romantic.”

I could hear the unspoken addition. An idiot.

“You're getting some ideal in your head of her every day, aren't you?"

I looked down, embarrassed. He was right. I had been building up some imaginary angel in my head. Every time I thought of her, another element was added.

"Let me guess," he continued. "She smiles a lot, right?" He peered at me, drawing from our long friendship a knowledge of my tastes. "She doesn't drink every night, but she'll get wild once in a while and belt out karaoke at a bar with her friends? She," he added, "doesn't smoke. She. . . is obsessed with one band. Sorta retro, not too popular, but one that you can appreciate." He grinned and finished off the beer, crumpling the can in one hand. "Finally," he squinted, racking his brain for the coup-de-grace, "she's a painter, or some other kind of artist. Maybe a sculptor?" He shook his head. "No, definitely a painter."

I had to laugh. He'd gotten it on the nose. "Dan, you know me almost better than I know myself."

He stood and walked to the fridge to grab another beer. “You’re not that complicated, Chuck. Seriously, though. You don't know anything about this girl. And there's no way that she will match up at all to the person you've created in your mind. Let it go. You want another?"

"Sure."

#
This would be better served if we had more backstory. About Dan, about the characters situation. Why did the character confide one night? Why was there this rare event that the character drank, since you mentioned he wasn't into drinking earlier? Was he sad, depressed? Did he have a good long talk with his mom? What the gently caress was the trigger of an event like this, a private moment between friends? Expand upon that, too. Don't just say "welp Dan you're totally right lol, man I must suck at this dating poo poo haha," this is a moment where the character pivots, where he confesses something deep and dark and secret about himself. Don't turn it into a conversation over beers (beer?).

The dialogue was decent, but could be edited a bit to make it a bit more palatable. Maybe just the scene itself needs a rework, with some additional backstory or story.

quote:


It's not that I thought he was wrong. On the contrary, I knew that Dan was absolutely correct. She was certainly nothing like the version of her I'd made up. No way she could be. But, I simply couldn't get her out of my mind. The memory of her was intractable. Try as I might to scrub her out, she remained, like a cat clinging to a tree, claws digging into the bark. She remained.

I went through my day, struggling vainly to rid myself of her. She haunted me. I answered phones, I took orders, I made pizzas, I walked home, I played video games with Dan. All these things I did, trying to distract myself, but she always returned to me at night when I lay in my bed.

Haunted.

#
Expand. Expand! Don't struggle vainly, show us that struggle. Get to the reality. Don't just turn this into a nice neato story about a schmuck who likes games and never gets laid. This isn't a romantic comedy. This is a loving horror story. The main character is obsessed. You tell us that over and over and over, and being obsessed and loving someone you don't even know is a horror all of its own. Don't downplay the absurd scariness of that. [/quote]

quote:


As time passed, my loneliness grew. It began to hurt. I looked trying to find someone to assuage the pain of being so alone. I even went on a few dates with girls I was friends with. Tried as I might, no sparks flew. I spent most of the dates with my eyes constantly roaming, trying to catch a glimpse of her. In the end, it made me feel even worse. I was a terrible date, and nearly lost a friendship out of it. It was then that I realized I was stuck. I couldn't get her out of my mind by force of will, I couldn't even replace her. I was lost.

I was more depressed and dejected than ever. I'd never get her out of my head, and I'd never see her again. The next few weeks passed slowly and bleakly. The cold of bite of winter began early.

#
Expand here as well. What happened on those dates? Sweeping them away doesn't serve the story. Show us why they were awkward, why the character didn't connect. Was it really this obsession? Did he give off a vibe? Was he jerking off so much to pictures of girls that looked like her, his pants were crusty with dried cum and the girls were like "ew ew ew" and ran off? Like, expand here, dude. Get rid of the # sign here, too. Your story should be able to flow without it. You aren't changing characters.

quote:


Then, one morning, I was woken by the sun shining on my face. I sat up in bed and looked out the window through the blinds. The autumn leaves gleamed a little more golden. Winter, though still a few weeks off, seemed to be at bay. For some reason, I just felt better. I had the day off, so I decided to go for a walk, maybe take lunch at the park. I showered and dressed, a sudden and welcome spring in my step.

I left the apartment fairly bounding down the steps to the street below. Tucking my hands into my pockets, I even began whistling a light tune. A light wind picked up the leaves and swirled them around like dust devils. I smiled at it. A few more leaves floated languidly down from the trees, landing on my shoulders. A few people walked towards me on the sidewalk, smiling brightly as I passed. I felt as if I was waking from a dream, rising from a depression. I felt good.

I walked a few miles to the park. It seemed I hadn't been the only one with the clever idea. A number of families were there, lounging in the grass while their children played. Their joy was a wonderful sight after all the darkness of the previous month. Things were finally looking up. I made my way to my favored bench, facing the lake.
You can't just say "welp I felt great after a long time being a creepy weirdo, life is fixed!" How did it get fixed. Is he bi-polar? Is this just a phase of mania? Inexplicable changes happen, but explain why they happen.

quote:


As I approached, I saw that someone was sitting there. Oh, well, I thought. I can sit in the next area.

Mildly disappointed, I took one last glance at it before I left.

My heart stopped.

It was her. The bench was facing the lake, away from the gravel path I was on, but she had turned to look at a group of pigeons fluttering around.

She.

She who had haunted me.

She who had taken residence in my head.

She who had thrown my entire life into a spiral.

Beautiful, lovely she.

My heart wasn't pounding. It was exploding. Erupting. Detonating. My hands shook. She was there, sitting mere yards from me. The girl of my dreams. The girl in my dreams. The real girl or the ideal I'd created, it didn't matter. She was there.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Go. The only way you'll ever be free.

Or happy.

I tried to steady my heartbeat and approached the bench. She turned as I rounded the right side of the bench.

Her eyes met mine. My temperature skyrocketed. I could hear my heart thundering in my ribcage.

Now or never.

Your only chance.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she answered.

She smiled.
Again, the ending here is way too opened ended. There's no payoff. 1800 words and there's no resolution for us, the reader. It's a goddamn cocktease, is what this is.

If there's one thing I want to really get through to you, it's that there needs to be a great opening and an ending. Any ending. What you provided here wasn't one. You need to work on filtering out common usage stuff like "my heart stopped," and use more stuff like "she remained, like a cat clinging to a tree, claws digging into the bark." Using your own words is always going to be better; it helps you think more like the character, provides us with some interesting words to read and makes the story a lot better.

I'd say go back and re-write this, expanding upon the obsession and give us an ending. Was the girl his everything? Did she end up disappointing him? You put us into a conflict but have no resolution for it.

I'd be happy to read a 2nd and 3rd draft.

TheAgent fucked around with this message at 20:58 on May 28, 2017

Magic Hate Ball
May 6, 2007

ha ha ha!
you've already paid for this
This is really bad, sorry, it reads like a mumbly E/N post. There's almost no content, and there's essentially no character - guy is lonely, guy sees pretty girl, guy pines, guy says hello to girl. There's nothing there, there's no dissent, there's no texture, everything's described in the most plain, weak way. Your main character is a nobody, we don't learn anything about him, his situation is utterly vanilla, his monologue is almost entirely unilluminating. The prose tells us nothing. There are loads of books about people by themselves where the prose is an active part of the story, where the way the character (or narrator) talks to the audience gives us information that helps us to judge the protagonist and play along with their own inner thoughts. American Psycho has massive chunks of monologue, but it's thoroughly captivating because we're constantly learning about Patrick's view of the world by reading between the lines of his voice. Catcher in the Rye, A Clockwork Orange, Lolita, A Confederacy of Dunces are all things that do what you're not doing.

What we, as readers, want to know isn't what the protagonist is thinking to themselves, but the entire scope of what their inner workings are. How are they deceiving themselves, or learning, or disengaging? The joy of being a reader is that you get to analyze the characters and engage in the act of interpretation. This story could, theoretically, function as a character study about a pathetic sadsack loser, but it's also tedious and plain, so I'm not being entertained in the actual telling of the story.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"
FYI, You got a surprisingly good number of responses to this. But if you want to get more eyes on this, and when you post in the future, I suggest posting a link to this thread in the stickied Fiction Advice thread. There's also more info about getting feedback and stuff in the first posts.

Narzack
Sep 15, 2008

TheAgent posted:

Hello.

Unfortunately this story goes nowhere. I know that sounds harsh, but there's a lot of build up, a lot of head games and extraneous material to end it like you did. Did the girl turn out to be his dream woman? Did they gently caress in a public bathroom and the main character, guilt and regret overflowing, checks himself incessantly for STDs every week? I understand that you were trying to give us a sort of "choose your own ending" here, but I don't think it works at all. You need to give us an ending which justifies sitting through your story. I'm being very direct here: do not, ever, end your stories like this unless the middle meat completely justifies it. Do not end your stories with "but then I woke up!" or "who knows what could have happened if only" or "maybe it was all in my head all along??" unless the journey is so goddamn poignant it washes away the taste of terrible endings like that (and they never, never do).

If you were going for a wistful prose / poetic piece, I could maybe understand it.
Why put any of the above in? It's trying to set up the character, but we learn very little about him except that yes, he's lonely. We are hit over the head by how lonely he is. This isn't a journal entry. You'd be better served starting here:
A lot of writing is judged by the first freaking line, let alone the first paragraph. Every story, no matter how big or small, needs to hook you almost immediately.

You also need to edit quite a bit. Writing is about providing information without providing direct citations. You aren't writing a wikipedia article. I'd suggest something more like:
Get rid of the maybes. Be assertive. I know you are writing from the characters perspective, but there are other, more interesting ways of showing us his meekness and desire.
Again, cut down the words. We understand he's going to talk to her, but he's scared. Don't be afraid to shorten things, to edit them to either be a little more flowery or well, unflowery. A higher word count doesn't equate to a better story.
First spelling mistake. I usually don't care about grammar or structure or spelling mistakes that much, but you bet your rear end other people do. Read, re-read, edit, re-edit. You also don't need to tell us what the character is going to do. Show us, guide us along. Try to avoid sayings like "scarcely believe." If you find yourself using too many popular metaphors, re-write. You'd be amazed at what you can come up with, how your sentence structure and even story will change.
This has gone on for a long, long while. This isn't someone being murdered; I know you're trying to show us the anxiety in the character, but it's absolutely overflowing with it.
"Engine unknown" was good. Saying "unknown impetus," no. Cut it.
Okay, don't get too flowery. Not everything needs to be compared to some mythic figure. Here you are taking away from the girl to give time to a bus. Unless that bus really is taking her to hell, you don't need to describe it with such mythic detail.
Clip all of that out. You can follow it up with the below and it shows us that he missed her at that stop. Or maybe he didn't but he's pining for her anyway. Maybe she rejected him outright. No need for a # sign either, or a break in the story.
Don't need this. Show us why he's a weirdo creep. Show us his fixation.
This, this is good. I would re-write some of it, sure, but the feeling is there. Everyone he sees is the girl. Expand on this part. Show us how twisted the character becomes. Not with these little spinets. Here's the part you can make interesting, here's the section you should really expand on. What does he do everyday and how does that woman fit into it?
No need to bring any of this up. Show us high school. This is your story. You don't need to say "man it felt like high school again" you can take us back there. Show us that girl in high school. Show us the character's fixation. Get to the reality. Did he jerk off thinking of her? Did he put her on a pedastal? Did he fantasize about her sexually or platonically, did he want to show her how powerful he was? Like, there's a ton of creepy poo poo you can expand upon here and you throw it away on a single sentence.
This would be better served if we had more backstory. About Dan, about the characters situation. Why did the character confide one night? Why was there this rare event that the character drank, since you mentioned he wasn't into drinking earlier? Was he sad, depressed? Did he have a good long talk with his mom? What the gently caress was the trigger of an event like this, a private moment between friends? Expand upon that, too. Don't just say "welp Dan you're totally right lol, man I must suck at this dating poo poo haha," this is a moment where the character pivots, where he confesses something deep and dark and secret about himself. Don't turn it into a conversation over beers (beer?).

The dialogue was decent, but could be edited a bit to make it a bit more palatable. Maybe just the scene itself needs a rework, with some additional backstory or story.
Expand. Expand! Don't struggle vainly, show us that struggle. Get to the reality. Don't just turn this into a nice neato story about a schmuck who likes games and never gets laid. This isn't a romantic comedy. This is a loving horror story. The main character is obsessed. You tell us that over and over and over, and being obsessed and loving someone you don't even know is a horror all of its own. Don't downplay the absurd scariness of that.
Expand here as well. What happened on those dates? Sweeping them away doesn't serve the story. Show us why they were awkward, why the character didn't connect. Was it really this obsession? Did he give off a vibe? Was he jerking off so much to pictures of girls that looked like her, his pants were crusty with dried cum and the girls were like "ew ew ew" and ran off? Like, expand here, dude. Get rid of the # sign here, too. Your story should be able to flow without it. You aren't changing characters.
You can't just say "welp I felt great after a long time being a creepy weirdo, life is fixed!" How did it get fixed. Is he bi-polar? Is this just a phase of mania? Inexplicable changes happen, but explain why they happen.

Again, the ending here is way too opened ended. There's no payoff. 1800 words and there's no resolution for us, the reader. It's a goddamn cocktease, is what this is.

If there's one thing I want to really get through to you, it's that there needs to be a great opening and an ending. Any ending. What you provided here wasn't one. You need to work on filtering out common usage stuff like "my heart stopped," and use more stuff like "she remained, like a cat clinging to a tree, claws digging into the bark." Using your own words is always going to be better; it helps you think more like the character, provides us with some interesting words to read and makes the story a lot better.

I'd say go back and re-write this, expanding upon the obsession and give us an ending. Was the girl his everything? Did she end up disappointing him? You put us into a conflict but have no resolution for it.

I'd be happy to read a 2nd and 3rd draft.
[/quote]


Hey, thanks for taking the time to critique my story. I appreciate it a lot. You've offered some valuable insights. It's interesting to me, though, that you viewed the main character as kind of a pathetic creeper. I think that's a valid interpretation from the outside, but wasn't exactly what I was aiming for. It's something for me to examine and see exactly the sort of impression I want to give. Thanks for that.

Magic Hate Ball posted:

This is really bad, sorry, it reads like a mumbly E/N post. There's almost no content, and there's essentially no character - guy is lonely, guy sees pretty girl, guy pines, guy says hello to girl. There's nothing there, there's no dissent, there's no texture, everything's described in the most plain, weak way. Your main character is a nobody, we don't learn anything about him, his situation is utterly vanilla, his monologue is almost entirely unilluminating. The prose tells us nothing. There are loads of books about people by themselves where the prose is an active part of the story, where the way the character (or narrator) talks to the audience gives us information that helps us to judge the protagonist and play along with their own inner thoughts. American Psycho has massive chunks of monologue, but it's thoroughly captivating because we're constantly learning about Patrick's view of the world by reading between the lines of his voice. Catcher in the Rye, A Clockwork Orange, Lolita, A Confederacy of Dunces are all things that do what you're not doing.

What we, as readers, want to know isn't what the protagonist is thinking to themselves, but the entire scope of what their inner workings are. How are they deceiving themselves, or learning, or disengaging? The joy of being a reader is that you get to analyze the characters and engage in the act of interpretation. This story could, theoretically, function as a character study about a pathetic sadsack loser, but it's also tedious and plain, so I'm not being entertained in the actual telling of the story.


Harsh, but fair. If I'm understanding what you're saying, it's that there is no firm voice of the narrator with which to form an idea of what he's thinking and what he's really like. Is that a fair takeaway?

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

FYI, You got a surprisingly good number of responses to this. But if you want to get more eyes on this, and when you post in the future, I suggest posting a link to this thread in the stickied Fiction Advice thread. There's also more info about getting feedback and stuff in the first posts.


Yeah, there's been a lot of valuable thoughts provided so far, and I'm terribly thankful for it. Thanks for the advice. After I finish the second draft, I'll post a link in the advice thread.

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Magic Hate Ball
May 6, 2007

ha ha ha!
you've already paid for this

Narzack posted:

Harsh, but fair. If I'm understanding what you're saying, it's that there is no firm voice of the narrator with which to form an idea of what he's thinking and what he's really like. Is that a fair takeaway?

Something like that. The big issue is you haven't provided us more than the base of what's happening, there's no conflict or detail that isn't generic and vague. It's a very simplistic, utterly pathetic crush by a lonely guy on some random girl, written in the style of a flowery, forgettable blog post. Which, by the way, is why people are getting pathetic creeper vibes, because writing at length about obsessing over a girl and using phrases like "beautiful, lovely she" are things you see sad people doing on livejournal. "Boy wants to meet girl" is an incredibly boring story unless you have an amazing hook. If you wanted to engage us with this story on a narrative level, you'd have to find a way to create conflict in his actual voice - remember that interpretation is the most important part of reading. If you give the reader nothing to interpret, then they disengage.

edit: I brought up Lolita earlier because Nabokov's story is essentially the same as yours, with more follow-through, but the key difference is that we, the reader, are allowed the immense pleasure of enjoying the massive friction between Humbert Humbert's innate narrative charm and his intensely disgusting actions. In his dialogue we're given conflicts, prejudices, opinions, etc, all laced in in ways that indicate that Humbert might not necessarily be aware of them - he's a vicious classist and racist, for example, but Vladmir has him frame his classism and racism as searing quips like "but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do so". We're given the intoxicating impression of Humbert as a conspirator, apologist, and raconteur through all of these subtle idiosyncrasies. Your character has no inner life. This would be a more interesting story if he'd seen the perfect apple, spent all day pining for it, and then was able to purchase it. It would be the same story, but it would be interesting.

Magic Hate Ball fucked around with this message at 21:24 on Jun 18, 2017

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