- I Am Hydrogen
- Apr 10, 2007
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My first critique here. I figure I should finally take a crack at it.
I did a couple critiques over in the other thread and didn't post anything. I'd love to get this Thunderdome entry from a while ago picked apart:
Check Engine (644 Words)
Nothing. Not a god drat thing. Somewhere there’s this guy laughing his rear end off because he tricked some guy up in Newfoundland into paying $90 for a cactus. This line is a lot more engaging than the first two. The other two seem to just be filler, and no one wants to start off reading fillerI could have paid for the whole night with that. I’m going to head down to the festival anyway. This sentence doesn't really work for me for some reason. I think because it comes out of nowhere.
The cab pulls into the driveway. It’s an old piece of poo poo, but gently caress, I’m just getting a run downtown. The driver backs out of the driveway, “Where to, my buddy?”
“George Street.”
“Busy down there tonight. My jJesus, there’s some nice lookin’ young women around.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I don’t know how half of ‘em don’t freeze. Goin’ around with nothing on.”
We’re driving down Main Road and holy poo poo. Someone’s grabbed hold of my brain and they’re pulling it in three directions. I don’t say a word. We’re driving past the dairy farm. I’m glad the cows are alive. Does their life matter once they're dead? Does anyone know they exist?
Ping. The check engine light comes on. It’s the car screaming, “For the love of god! I’m going to die.” The cab driver floors it. This car is dying. It dies just like a man. The doctor/mechanica would remove mechanic because just having doctor pushes the idea that a mechanic is the car's doctor says, “I’m sorry sir,. Comma splice you have cancer/a cracked engine-head.” Is there a difference? Am I just a car? Am I a machine made out of meat? Maybe the only difference between us is a few misplaced atoms. I’m justI would remove just because (a) you just used it and (b)I think it's more effective if he completely commits to the idea of him being a meat machine. It also ties in better to the last sentence in the paragraph without just. a machine made out of meat, pretending I don’t have a one track mind and that I have this god and that I’m special. A machine built to pass on DNA and that’s it. A car is a machine that carries people. People are machines that carry DNA. I’m a machine. Oh gently caress I’m just a machine.
The cab driver interrupts my thoughts, “It’s alright, me buddy,comma splice it’s only the check engine light.”
He knows about the mescaline. He has to. How could he? He can’t. He knewtense change I was looking at the light. “You’re some quiet.” It’s sinister. This man is sinister. The universe is sinister. Fump! The car misses. Fump! It misses again. “You loving piece of poo poo!” Fump! Fump! Fump! “Sorry me son,splice I’m gonna have to bring her into the shop. MyBe more consistent with me/my buddy got one just down the road.” We pull into the garage. He picks up his radio and calls another cab for me. I get out. The cab driver talks to the guy at the garage. I go off to the side of the building to wait for the cab by myself. I watch them talk. I know every word they’re saying. High b’y, high as a fuckin’ kite. What are ya gonna do? Call the cops I ‘spose. They’ll cart him off in the paddy wagon. It’s all a big loving trap. Washroom. Go in. Left foot right foot. I lock the door. I’m safe. No one exists outside this little box. I’m just a sperm machine floating through space in my own, quiet little box. I always existed in the box. Nothing else ever did. Never outside. Never in. The mirror this is not me the me in the mirror is not the me in my head is this the me that everyone else sees the machine the truck the pulley the shovel
Calm down.
Breathe slower. Nobody knows. Nobody knows you bought a cactus. No one knows you made cactus tea.I don't think the fact he made tea is important - just that he took mescaline You look fine. You look normal. Smile. People go down the street high every night and nobody knows. I scrawl, “Everything is OK  ” ha! I approve of the smiley face. It's surprisingly effective here. on my hand. You can do this. I look at my hand. “Everything is OK .” Thanks hand. I leave the washroom and walk around to the back of the garage. Hordes and hordes of corpses. Broken down. Beat up. Every year, make and model you can imagine. My fellow machines.
I like how you handled him tripping. I'd rather read something that's more reserved than something that is overblown. It's more effective that way, I think.
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Jan 14, 2013 00:30
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May 14, 2024 12:50
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- I Am Hydrogen
- Apr 10, 2007
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I'm participating in Traditional Games' monthly game design contest.
One of the bonus objectives to the contest is to write a 1000 word piece of fiction about your game.
I feel like I'm reading fanfiction at a writing workshop, which is the most embarrassed I've ever been for another human. I will attempt to critique this week. I hope you rip me apart.
Unfounded Rumors (1000 Words)
STONE OF MADNESS touched on everything pretty well, so I won't rehash what he said. I want to make a few comments though.
This reads like someone who doesn't write and doesn't read novels or short stories, but has some vague idea of what they should sound like and wrote it based on that.
A few quick tips:
- Don't cram every detail possible into every sentence.
- Stop writing with a thesaurus
- Read more
- Lighten up on the jargon
- Tone down the language and keep it simple
- Chill with the adverbs
I read the first two paragraphs and had no idea what was going on. Your phrases don't have any meaning - they're just words strung together.
I knew it was going to be a rough read before the story even started.
I feel like I'm reading fanfiction at a writing workshop, which is the most embarrassed I've ever been for another human.
Stunted and awkward . Who talks like that?
I think one of you're biggest problems is that you use a lot of empty phrases that maybe you think sound deep and insightful, but don't com across that way. Most of what you wrote lacks any concrete meaning.
Read books and short stories if you're going to attempt to write a story. Please.
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Jan 29, 2013 15:29
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- I Am Hydrogen
- Apr 10, 2007
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Thanks for the feedback!
How about something like:
"He scrambled through the opening, dragging the heavy pack in behind him."
A bit of a contrast there. Kalis is moving very quickly, but the pack is large and heavy and just slides slowly across the ground. Better?
How does someone scramble slowly?
It's not so much a contrast as it is contradictory.
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Feb 16, 2013 05:24
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- I Am Hydrogen
- Apr 10, 2007
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As nothing much is moving here, here's another twitching corpse for the pile. I've started writing stuff that is rooted in the world, presented as fact, but is totally made up. Not really sure where it's going or what it's for, but I really like writing it. What would you do with it?
I'll take "burn it" for an answer.
THOUSAND THOUSAND
A white triangle, on an orange rectangle. And the words, “Thousand Thousand. A Club.” On a poster, under a bridge, over and over.
Everyone was talking about it. Come to the club, you really must come to the club! It’s the newest club, the coolest club, the club all clubs want to be. Jamie XX wishes he could play there. Rustie tried to get in once, but he was wearing trainers. The people from Boiler Room can’t find it. We have to go. Drop your plans.
Those people that made it their business to make judgements said it was like a place out of time. They said that morals and ideas and genders didn’t mean anything when you were in there. That all the best drugs were not just dealt, but invented there, on the floor because everyone was so creative. Everyone was funny and clever and told the best stories, but also knew when telling stories wasn’t cool and you should just shut up and dance, as they say.
So cool, they said. Someone had collected all the magical and unrepeatable moments from Glastonburys and Szigets and Burning Mans and condensed them into a festival of manufactured serendipity, just for you but just for everyone, anyone who could get in. The doorman was Polish, but not in a scary way and he always had witty and urbane stories of life in the Eastern Bloc.
The newest thing. The oldest thing. People said that the triangle meant it was founded by the Illumnati as a method of mind control, or the Knights Templar as an expression of the ultimate revelation of the Holy Trinity. A man from The Guardian advanced the theory that it was the creation of a circle of Hapsburg investors. A woman from The Observer said that the Papacy was behind it, and that it almost made up for all the rotten business with children.
It was under a disused archway in Brixton. Or, it was sandwiched between two meat-wagons in Dalston. Or, it was in the back of a coffee shop that had the furniture, livery and menu of a Starbucks but was not actually a Starbucks. Nobody was sure. Everybody knew someone who knew someone who had been to Thousand Thousand, but nobody had actually been. They all meant to go soon, they said. Vice Magazine tried to go for a feature, but they didn’t find it and so they took some homeless people to Claridge’s and wrote about that instead.
The only real person who had visited Thousand Thousand was a nineteen year-old London School of Economics student called Eloise who had been looking for the Walkabout because she was going to celebrate her best friend’s birthday. She said it looked Quite Fun, but not the sort of thing they were looking for that evening.
You described an idea for 500 words, and it wasn't even a very good one. A cool club? Ok? You came close in the last paragraph and then oh wait no who cares. Is this supposed to be awful ad copy? A story? Do I not get it or something? Am I not cool enough? I'd say actually write something worth reading. Maybe with a plot. Maybe with something that goes somewhere, and doesn't keep describing the same thing over and over and over again like it's an infomercial.
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Mar 26, 2013 02:47
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Jan 14, 2013 00:30
