- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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Why hook us with an irrelevant character? Why can't you just start in with the main story? In my opinion, irrelevant character prologues need a HUGE justification. I can't say you don't have one, since I don't know the whole story, but make drat sure you have one. A good example, in my opinion, is the prologue in Game of Thrones (yeah, I'm totally going there), because 1) the moderately irrelevant character actually sets up the first, incredibly prophetic first scene (Ned killing the deserter) and 2) it establishes that "here be magics!" in a story which cannot, in it's own narrative pacing, get to the magics until very far into the book.
Despite all my comments below, this is fairly on par with the random (published) fantasy I pick up from time-to-time.
Prologue
Rain lashed the windows relentlessly, rattling the panes. Lightning blazed across the heavens and thunder rumbled like some ancient evil. IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT (but more seriously, all of these phrases, and the existence of the storm reek of cliche) General Braunschweig trembled at every noise under his covers. (The noises were under his covers?) Veteran of a dozen campaigns over his long and illustrious career but never before had he felt a fear like this. (Grammatical Error: It should be "he was a veteran...." I guess you are trying to avoid the passive voice, but leaving it out makes the sentence not work. The howling wind played the chimney like a whistle while the familiar creaks and groans of his family seat taunted him. It was the waiting he couldn't bear - too much for an old soldier like himself.
He wrenched the duvet aside and dropped his feet into his bedside slippers. Ridiculous in nightgown and cap he shuffled to the umbrella stand where he kept his old sabre. As his fingers settled into their well-worn grooves on the hilt he felt some calm return. It looked like tonight was going to be another sleepless vigil. It had been a grave mistake getting involved with those ambitious upstarts. He ambled does a man preparing for yet another sleepless night, kept awake by anxiety and fear, really amble? across to his oft-visited liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous brandy. '54 Leipzburg Reserve, his secret weapon for occasions such as these. He figured it might go some way to stopping the tremors, but even if it didn't I like this stop; he took a long slug from the tumbler and wiped his mouth . Butter-smooth, as always. He had once joked, half-seriously, I like this joke, but the over-explanation leaves it cold that Leipzburg was the only friend he could truly rely on.
He sunk down into his old armchair. It creaked and the red leather cushions wheezed and surrendered with a sigh to accommodate him. The firelight played through the amber liquid in his glass, casting warm scythes of light across his trembling hand. He watched it shake detachedly. It was a sobering window into his own past. The missing chunk from his index finger - shrapnel from a misfiring cannon had ripped that away at Alacampha. The dark lateral scar from when that Tarkan officer had gone for him with one of their brutal scimitars. The permanent purplish powder scorch from when a mortar had exploded mere feet away from him at Belkos. I like the hand-injury list, but I think it would be improved if it was more methodical, reflecting his military mind, e.g. "Missing chunk from index finger - shrapnel from a misfiring cannon at Alacampha. Dark lateral scar - a Tarkan officer with a scimitar. Powder scorch - an ill-timed mortar at Belkos. You get the idea. Even still, those wounds were slight compared to the savaging time had wrought upon his hands. Yellowing skin, black liver spots and gangrenous looking veins ruptured up from inside, all vying for prominence. His physical appearance was abhorrent to him.
Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means. Perhaps if he hadn't been so averse to aging gracefully he wouldn't have got into this mess into the first place. Hubris and fear had brought him here. He had once remarked that there was nothing more pathetic and undignified than an old man begging for his life. True words – was what he was doing so different? But show him a man his age who wouldn't have taken the opportunity if it had presented itself. Or perhaps his principles had simply crumbled into dust, he considered darkly. He really had grown old. With that, he necked the rest of the brandy. This paragraph is the crux of the General's fear and crisis. It's not quite strong enough to carry its purpose, and it's a bit lost after the preceding paragraphs. I do like the strong start of just Time.
The brandy worked its magic and his sabre stopped rattling in its scabbard. Steadiness regained, if not his total composure, he walked to the door.
“Report Corporal,” he barked at the man he had stationed at his door.
There was no reply.
“Corporal, report,” he spoke a little louder, the tremors edging back into his voice.
Still there was no reply.
Sabre at the ready, he swallowed, and slowly turned the door-handle until the latch clicked. He jerked the door open in a quick motion, hoping to catch off-guard anybody lying in wait. But the corridor was empty. No guard, no phantom assassin. Just the sound of the rain on the windows and the glow from the gas lamps. Perhaps the Corporal had merely gone to relieve himself. If he had abandoned his post, by God, he would see him cleaning latrines for a full year. The sabre in his arm drooped as he untensedrelaxed?.Good paragraph
Then, the gaslamp at the furthest end of the corridor was snuffed out. The General blinked, unsure if his aged eyes were playing tricks on him. He gripped his sword tightly once more and strained to see into the murky distance. The next gaslamp along flickered out of existence as he watched. And then like dominoes they died each in turn faster and faster, one by one, until they had all ceased burning. He took several steps backwards, panic seizing his heart and squeezing tight. He felt short of breath. weak, passive sentence at the height of action A cold draft blew in from the end of the hall, giving him goosebumps.
“Oh God...” he whispered to himself. Whatever good prayers might do for him now.
The light disappeared - the fire in his bedroom suddenly extinguished - and he was plunged into total darkness.cliche He drew his sabre with a metalline aspirationNO. and dropped the scabbard with a loud clatter.
“Who's there!” he shouted, bravado the last refuge from terror. His words were eaten by the blackness. The only sound was that of the wind and rain. Lightning flashed. In the brief brilliance, something appeared at the end of the corridor. A hunched silhouette of a man, swaying. The light from the flash died away but he could still see something it there. A man-shaped illuminance. A peal of thunder grumbled. The silhouette lurched from side to side like a drunkard.
Then it moved. It staggered towards him, horribly slow yet with inexorable intent. General Braunschweig was rooted to the spotcliche, hypnotised by what he was witnessingtoo passive. The light from the figure grew brighter and it became harder and harder to look at directlytoo passive. The carpet beneath it began to scorch and smoke. As it gotdrew? closer, the outer edges became indistinct, less and less human with every step. It began to bubble and drip liquid light. The curtains ignited at its passing.
“I'm not the one you want!” screamed the General towards it “It wasn't me, I was dragged into this. I don't care about the box or its miserable secrets! Leave me be!”
AtAS his shout reverberated throughout the house, the apparition flickered and disappeared like a snuffedsecond use of word "snuffed" in too short a passage to support it candle. The General blinked, agog. Blue and white wraiths danced before his eyes from the sudden absence. For a cruel moment, relief washed over him. Had it left him in peace? He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. As he did, he felt an unnatural warmth behind him. And he knew it was not the warmth of his rekindled fireplace. He turned slowly, dreading. He opened his eyes and was face to face with an abomination. It groaned and burbled, a bright white molten man. The neon effervescenceNO. Does neon even make sense in the context of the story? of its skin gave off an oppressive heat and hissed like a snake. The General stared, going blind, into the area where its eyes ought to be.
“What are you?” he whispered.
The nightmare-being didn't speak. It emitted a tortured screech. The volume and dissonance of it conjured up a storm in the room, ripping books from the shelves and smashing bottles and glasses in a deafening fury. In the eye of the storm stood the General and the monster, stock still. General Braunschweig couldn't see, couldn't hear, but he felt the thing wrap him in its liquescentNO grasp. In a seething column of smoke and fire, the General burned.
This is a Prologue which is the hook for something I am writing. The General is an irrelevant bit-part character and doesn't come up again other than maybe in an oblique reference or two (in my head anyway), so I want this piece to work as a standalone thing that grabs interest while also straddling the line between making the character forgettable but not hollow. Does it grab your interest? Is it crap? Lay it on me.
Interest piqued: Medium. If the box, its contents, and the ambitious upstarts don't play a major role, then I'm pissed.
Crap: No.
In sum: my biggest concerns are with the purpose of the prologue in general, and why make it about an otherwise irrelevant character? You don't need to justify it to me here--it obviously depends greatly on the entire body of writing. But answer it for yourself OR PERISH.
I also feel like the first half can be tightened up considerably, and the overall feel/tone could be improved. By that I mean either give us a better feel for the world or put us deeper into the mind of the General. Your strongest prose is when the words come directly from the General: "and if it didn't;" "Time. One enemy he couldn't fight with conventional means." "Whatever good prayers might do for him now." There is only one view-point character in this section, and I think tightening your narrative style to his thoughts would provide greater zest.
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Feb 27, 2013 06:51
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May 14, 2024 00:54
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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Just for the record, I have no education in creative writing, its just something I enjoy doing sometimes. With that in mind here is my short story Shirt Bot. Its mostly stream of consciousness that I just decided to put down on paper, so I apologize if the ending feels abrubt. I'm also not very good at staying in tense/perspective so I hope I did alright this time around. Would love some critique and opinions on it, thanks everyone.
Okaaaaaaay, let's start with the basics: editing.
Writing, when you expect other people to read what you've written, isn't a one-shot deal. You don't just decide to write down your story, stream of consciousness style, and then post it. You write it down stream of consciousness style (if that's how you want to do it) and then you read it and fix it up as best you can. So, you shouldn't have any problem with "staying in tense/perspective," because you go back and correct all the times you strayed before anyone else reads it. Your story has a lot of tense problems. Tense changes within a single sentence at times. It's also just clunky and repetitive, but that's something you can definitely improve with practice. Here's a line edit of the 1st paragraph. I mostly just put in punctuation where it was missing, because overall your sentence structure is really awkward and there's nothing really happening. You overuse the passive voice. It is very dry and not really funny/charming/whimsical, which is maybe what you were going for?
Most of us here don't have any formal education in creative writing, either. But we keep writing, editing, and hopefully improve. Give it an edit (or two) and repost it.
quote:
Shirt Bot
This is a tale about Shirt Bot, the shirt deploying robot. He was created specifically for the purpose of deploying shirts to people who didn't have a shirt of their own. Don't argue, it's a much more common plight than you might believe. His creator suffered from brief lapses in memory and quite often forgetforgot his own shirt, which is really the only reason he even built it (the only reason he built his shirt? grammatical ambiguity). After his creator's death, he found it more and more difficult to find people who needed shirts (why would it be more difficult to find people without shirts after his creator died? These don't seem logically related.). He wandered from coast to coast distributing his shirts where needed as he went (awkward phrasing) , but he felt something was missing. While hanging around in San Francisco, a young man suggested he try going to Mexico, as he had heard there was many more poor people there,.(holy hell, this is quite the run-on sentence! split it up) sSo, Shirt Bot packed up his belongings, which in this case(as opposed to what other case??) waswere (multiple belongings, so plural) a photograph of his creator and a chocolate bar he had been carrying with him for a long time, trying to figure out what it was for.
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Mar 19, 2013 02:28
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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So would you say that this didn't have an effective "hook?" If not, how could I have improved it grabbing the reader and making them want more of the story?
This is a general response, not about your piece specifically.
The best way to make a reader want more of the story is to write an interesting story. A "hook" is part technique and part having something to back it up--you can't trick a reader into reading something lame by throwing a "hook" on the front of it.
When writing in a genre, the trick is to focus not on what makes the book fit into the genre, but what makes it stand out from everything else in the genre. Cyberpunk? OF COURSE your character is getting roughed up and has some body-mods or whatever. AND WHAT?
and...your character is a six year old girl;
and...your character is devoutly Amish and rejects technology
and...the cryptoanarchists have won, and your character belongs to an illegal corporation that is just trying to get anything done in this messed up world
and...new-age nature-loving peace aliens have invaded and released a nanovirus that destroys technology (for our own good), so all the cyborgs are trying to ride out the plague in the country
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Sep 6, 2013 04:23
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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[e]: Is Goodreads/Goonreads good for finding out quality fiction to read/study? I know about the big-namers like Crime and Punishment and Fear and Loathing, of course, but I haven't much of a clue about more obscure good writers.
Goonreads is primarily a platform for self-publishing goons to promote their work.
Goodreads is where you'll find reviews and recommendations for most books out there.
One place to start looking is goodreads lists. You can browse lists by genre or look up your favorites and see what lists other people have put them on. I use goodreads pretty extensively to find new books to read.
From what you said about last reading Grapes of Wrath a year ago, and only knowing a few big authors, it sounds like you don't read much for fun. Why is that? In my personal experience, my reading has suffered when 1) I don't prioritize it (this is a more accurate way of saying "I'm too busy,") 2) I don't let myself read what I really want to, and instead try to read all the really deep, important books I think I should read.
Both of these require some mental adjustments to get over, but aren't to difficult to deal with. And for the record, I'm not saying reading the classics is a waste of time, it's not. They are classics for a reason, and most are worth sinking your teeth into, no matter what you want to write. On the other hand, if what you really love reading is horror, and you want to write horror, read a lot of horror! If you really love reading horror, but want to write something else...why?
Another reason could be that you're just not that into reading (give yourself the chance to read a bunch of stuff you think you'll find really enjoyable before reaching this conclusion though.) if you don't like reading, I recommend doing some introspection about why you want to write.
Writing is a love affair with reading taken to the next level. It's when you stop becoming a recipient of words, and get down on your knees and beg the reader to engage with words you're giving them.
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Nov 26, 2013 18:11
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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In many ways, Ned was an accomplished individual. He was Father to a loving family, an accomplished Pianist, and a celebrated member of his church and community. He gave to the poor generously, avoided gossip, and served dutifully in any capacity he was able. Each day he awoke to the first light of the Sun and filled the house with his music, before serving as a father, a husband, and a citizen unerringly. He was the sort of person one? could turn to, no matter the trouble, and get advice that was free of the platitudes and empathetic to their struggle. Far from the generalized and well-meaning instructions of others, his advice was good natured and honest, and his advice never failed to heed the realities of the world.
Boring. "In many ways" sets up the expectations that there are some ways in which he was not an accomplished individual, but the paragraph does not deliver. Having read this "story" to the end, it NEVER delivers. That was the most interesting thing about the entire paragraph, and it never amounted to anything!!! The paragraph is also just description after description, so passive voice, no action. You can get away with this for a while, but it's hard. The random capitalized nouns make me want to die. Also, you said you wanted the story to be relatable and him to be the "the confident kind of person most people wish to be" -- I loving hate him, he is boring and probably self-righteous and I would never want to be this dude. I do not believe for one second this dude could give advice that was free of platitudes.
As Ned grew older, and indeed he did, he realized that this important role was his alone, and he could never ask the same of anyone else. SMUG He had tried for decades to seek the solace of an individual from which he would be able to get advice. SMUGGER Never had he found someone able to speak to the frank reality of his life. SO SMUG. Also, have you read Frankenstein? The narrator of the frame story goes on and on about this poo poo and is such a loving pretentious poo poo head He searched for answers in his church, but found the Priest was more troubled than he, ; it seemed that even the holy needed the advice of others. But Ned was not troubled by this fact. Instead, Ned accepted his role with the quiet that all wise men someday learn, and lived to enjoy and share his unique talent. SMUGGEST. Does it get any more smug?! Every chance to give advice to those who sought it was heeded, joyfully. Holy poo poo it gets even more smug. He was like the Buddhist gardener, experiencing the Zen of focus within their garden.
BORING. DESCRIPTION. RANDOM CAPTILIZED NOUNS. A Boring, Self-Righteous Shithead.
However, time marches on, and all men must one day die. This sentence is way too close to the opening sentence of the previous paragraph. It's too close to even be plausibly "relating back to it" in an interesting way. It was a day that Ned could feel arrive, whispered to him from his bones and mind. His time was passing and he began to fear the inevitable. Can we please get a sentence that does not use the verb "was" ??? “My time is short, and I wish only to continue to help others,” Ned had thought, sighing inwardly. THE PATHOS OF THE SMUG. IT IS SO HARD HELPING PEOPLE ALL THE TIME AND BEING BETTER THAN THEM. WOE IS ME It kept him up, one fateful night, a year before the stroke which would end his life. He had questioned for years, how he might continue to help others, even after his passing? I am so important, how can anyone survive without me?! surely they could not live without my wisdom?! What could he leave behind which could grant others a clarity of mind that would help them in troubled times? I loving hate this guy.
Ned began to write. Simply at first, short chapters which would speak to the friends and family whom would read it after his passing. Then, as his time grew shorter, the chapters grew longer and spoke more truth. Triumphant were the words, inspirational was the imagery, and motivating was the advice. When his will was read, and the books delivered, his family, moved to tears, deigned to live by the words he had written. HOLY loving poo poo
Each of them, from his youngest daughter Claire, to his Mother-In-Law Henrietta, followed the inspirational words that were written in the small journal left behind by Ned. They too flowered into the kind of individuals whom give advice while unable to find any for themselves. They passed on this gift, as they began to improve upon it themselves. Although his journal itself was never published, through the writings of his friends and family, Ned’s advice did spread through the globe, and a legacy that was not just his own, but that of the world, was created long after his life had ended, panting and shuddering on the cold tile of his bathroom that night. This last phrase is the only one that has any resonance with me at all, that is remotely relatable, that isn't some loving Bible story about a saint.
Sorry, but this is really bad :/
The dude is beyond a Mary Sue. This literally reads like the biography of the most boring saint of all time. It's not exactly terribly written, but it's definitely all telling (except for the last italicized phrase). It's just pure praise of some dude and how great he is. There is no real plot and nothing really interesting about him. He's the perfect Christian Patriarch.
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Apr 22, 2015 08:59
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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Hindsight being 20/20 I'm actually ashamed of how good I thought it was before I posted it. I'm glad that the feedback was able to deflate my pride in my writing, which was probably too inflated anyway.
Welcome to being like 90% of all new writers.
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May 6, 2015 22:29
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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I also have something i'd like people to look at. I might submit this to something, so please don't quote the whole thing as a block in case I need to remove it!
Specific things I would like crits on: this is 500 words and i'd like it to be <450, where can I cut 50-75? In general, is it clear what's going on moment to moment or do you ever feel lost? Is it clear enough what the woman's "deal" and motives are or does she feel more like an obstacle or nonentity? Should there be a more explicit sense of when and where this is taking place? Are there any lines or phrases that sound bad or make you roll your eyes?
Thanks for reading!
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Resurrection Body
“Do you still know the way out?” [said who?]
The woman didn't answer him. His soldiers and their British rifles didn't seem to disturb her. Arslan [who? this could be the woman, or 'him,' or a third person] grasped fruitlessly at the air. “Out of...here. The flesh. Death.” [said who? same speaker as before? Or the woman? You started the paragraph with "The woman" but then there is the mysterious him and also his soldiers, and also Arslan, who could still be her or him or someone else]
Her perfect face was uncomprehending, eyes downcast behind a gauzy veil. Was this the muse from the old days? She had to be. How many green-eyed women who trailed sandstorms wherever they walked could there be in Altishahr? “Your 'resurrection body',” he growled. “What you promised him.” [assuming this is the same guy who asked the first question, but it's not actually clear, also there is now a new mysterious 'him' in play.]
An impatient footman tore the veil from her head, she flinched. As the warlord [who is the warlord? is it the mysterious him? the second mysterious him? Arslan, who may or may not also be one of the 'hims'? an entirely new character? who knows!] rose to his feet she finally looked up and said: “You mean the Khan.”
His mind rippled when their eyes met. [Whose eyes are meeting? Presumably (though not clearly) the green-eyed woman's and...The mysterious him, or possibly Arslan, who may also be the "him" and may also be the warlord. In theory, this could also be the footman, but I am guessing probably not. God forbid anyone else in this scene is a woman or it will be even more confusing.]
Cheers.
Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 11:28 on May 10, 2015
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May 10, 2015 11:25
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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I went into this unplanned and just sort of made it up as I went along. Any feedback is appreciated.
did you do us the basic courtesy of reading it and revising it before you asked us to read it?
quote:
Marlowe’s gaze was much harder than that of most twenty-somethings. lol what does this even mean? I was not aware that twenty-somethings went around casting their baby-soft gazes all over, but okay. His wide smile lit up a room and his laughter filled whatever space he occupied. To anyone paying attention, however, his mind almost never occupied the same space as his body. woah, how can anyone see where his mind is? His gaze was much harder than that of most twenty-somethings. lol you just said that two sentences ago. Always he was looking off into this distance. Always…he had that thousand-yard stare. WHAT A DEEP DUDE.
A small arm wrapped itself around Marlowe’s throat, it’s owner unseen. Hell yeah, did not expect to be reading any Raymond Chandler fan-fic tonight, but hey, I like living on the edge. Also, this sentence is passive and dumb. The assailant was a featherweight, and from what he could tell petite. In spite of this he found himself unable to wrench himself free. Darkness closed in around his eyes a woman’s voice whispered in his ear.
‘My name is Ayla. Terribly sorry for this, but I have some questions that need answering.’
Marlowe felt the sharp pinch of a needle behind his ear. The world went black.
huh. kinda cliche.
A swift backhand greeted Marlowe’s return to conciousness. It came sharply, and was delivered with authority. He moved to rub the sting out of his cheek but met resistance. What does "met resistance mean? like..he's handcuffed to a chair? Or maybe there's some sort of magical force repelling his hand from his cheek? Or maybe he's sitting in a vat of molasses and it's way hard to move. A hot trickle of blood began flow from the corner of his mouth and pool in the stubble on his face. The itch was driving him mad, the heat of a flood lamp shining down on him made it worse. huh. kinda cliche. But like...Chandler fan-fic cliche, so I'm going with it
‘I’m going to be straight with you Mr. Marlowe, I have been paid to kill you.’ lol. But also, double quotes are the standard for dialogue. The voice was behind him, female, and young. ‘The pressing question here is why.’
Marlowe struggled against his restraints, to the apparent amusement of his captor. how is it apparent??? He can't even see her yet????
‘What’s the matter? Are those python’s hanging off your shoulders all tuckered out?’ Ayla emerged from behind her prize. ‘It’s probably the heroin. I’m sorry about that, I figured those rippling muscles would have flushed it out of your system by now.’ Pretty sure this is not how heroin works.
Looking at her, Marlowe was shocked that this girl was able to bring him down. She couldn’t be more than 18. Everything from her posture to the controlled rise and fall of her breathing spoke of grace and discipline. There was something in the way she walked that hinted at the uncanny strength she possessed despite her slender frame. If all that's true...why is he so surprised? Is he a loving moron?
‘Ayla…right?’ The words came out hard. everything about him is so...hard. The aching in his throat was only made worse by the all-too-familiar dry mouth that accompanied opiates. ‘You look more like a ballerina than a browbeater?’ question mark?
The deafening crack of an open hand slap rang through the room and Marlowe's face felt as if it had been set ablaze. The reverberations did give Marlowe more about the room he was in than his eyes could at this point. Large, Empty, Damp. Some sort of warehouse, near water. Despite collecting dust for the past year, his training was still sharp.
Whatever, you said this was an exercise in characterization. You've given us nothing but garbage cliches. And all of that has been told to us, not shown. He has a hard gaze you tell us (giggle). She is petite, he tells us. Oh, also female and young. And she has a slim arm. Probably all we need to know about her, anyway. Because she has no depth of character. But she definitely has some hosed up proportions because she is petite but also "even perched on a bar-height stool her legs reached the ground." How the gently caress does that even work? I'm petite. It's annoying to even get perched on a bar-height stool because those fuckers don't have wide enough foot rests. You give us poo poo for characterization. I know more about the stupid warehouse they are in -- from some info he implausibly gets from the sound of a slap on his face like some kind of loving bat. The ONLY bit of interesting characterization in this piece is that he is familiar with the dry-mouth associated with opiates. The rest is cliche hard-boiled detective, Raymond Chandler Fan-Fiction bullshit.
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May 11, 2015 12:08
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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I have a confession to make.
I didn't read the entire thread. Asinine, I suppose. What I really need is guidance towards figuring out if my writing is worth a poo poo. Glancing over the first page of threads, I blindly saw nothing of note. A, I simply idiotic in wondering if there is a thread where you can put forth a little snippet of flash fiction or a chunk of short story for feedback to receive honest feedback regarding whether you should even bother trying to garner any manner of notice beyond, well, yourself and maybe a few chickenshit friends and relatives who will likely never tel you the truth?
Ah, welcome to the Farm, where you will find notice--perhaps more than you bargained for--beyond that of a few chickenshit friends and your own mother. Fortunately (or is it unfortunately? they are so hard to tell apart sometimes) no one but yourself can truly tell if your writing is actually worth "a poo poo" as you put it, especially as shits are worth such a varying amount, depending on their quantity, quality, and source of origin.
Frankly my dear, you asked for some honest feedback and it is this: QUIT THINKING YOU ARE SO GODDAMN CLEVER JESUS CHRIST.
I thought I might be able to give you some further feedback on your "story" but I can't, because you didn't even bother to post a story, just a few "paragraphs" of oh-so-clever sentences. Do you want someone to whisper sweet nothings into you ear like a hosed up combination of your mother-lover? Keep going. Write more. Give us more, darling.
Write a goddamned story.
Don't post bullshit like this again.
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Aug 22, 2015 08:11
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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Luckily, I have a neat hack for better writing. Click the link in my avatar for details!
Oh yeah, when I said "don't post bullshit like this again," I didn't mean never post writing again. Keep writing and post a bunch of writing again over and over. YOU WILL GET BETTER IT WILL BE WORTH IT.
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD THRONE.
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Aug 22, 2015 08:37
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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Hm. Kinda wondering if I could get away with putting the reveal of her being a ghost at the end, or is that still trying too hard to be clever? I know that under 1000 words means being more direct and more telling rather than showing, but I feel like saying she's a ghost at the beginning is like explaining a joke before you tell it.
So this story is actually a joke?
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Sep 16, 2015 22:12
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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Hm. Kinda wondering if I could get away with putting the reveal of her being a ghost at the end, or is that still trying too hard to be clever? I know that under 1000 words means being more direct and more telling rather than showing, but I feel like saying she's a ghost at the beginning is like explaining a joke before you tell it.
Basically what this means is that your story doesn't have enough emotional impact to stand on its own, and so you have to withhold information to give it some sort of oomph at the end. Write a story that is satisfying without trickery.
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Sep 16, 2015 23:16
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May 14, 2024 00:54
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- Dr. Kloctopussy
- Apr 22, 2003
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"It's time....to DIE!"
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So, I know starting a science fiction novel with a blowjob (when it's not porn) is ill-advised, but I'd like to know just how bad an idea it is, or if I can actually pull this off as distinctive character development and have not have readers say, "gently caress this dude, I'm out." I'm more concerned about that than line edits at the moment. This is the whole opening scene:
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I don't have a huge problem with this conceptually, but I don't quite understand what is going on in the situation. That makes the blow job feel a bit abrupt and sensationalistic, because I don't quite get the why of it. Like, I gather that the protag is trying to get a job, but between the DJ-thing, and the "Nadine assured me, when she’d told me about the job, an endless fountain of alcohol and sex" I'm not sure exactly what kind of job he is trying to get. I guess he wants to be a DJ and thinks that will make people want to have sex with him? To me the build-up wasn't quite right, but it didn't turn me off so much that I wouldn't keep reading.
On the other hand, I was prepared for a blow job. I think you might get more accurate feedback if you put your question AFTER the excerpt.
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Mar 14, 2016 05:50
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Feb 27, 2013 06:51
