No title yet, sorry!

[JessM]

yeh don't really read this anymore. i changed it a lot and then put it aside.




Dehydrated leaves scratched together like crumpled tissue papers as felled twigs split, imprinted into the chalky earth beneath each of Patrick Lolly's lingering footsteps. Leaves had fallen, defeated by season, but the sun, strong overhead, still scorched the park dry. A lone oak reached above the park's narrow horizon, caught between two separate sections of high rise buildings, defining their own, more ambitious skylines. Its boughs gestured with free flowing grace in the soft breeze, lonely orchestra conductors directing empty pits, but naked in the rejuvenated early autumn heat, they offered no more than elegant scenery, no shade, no respite.


Had he not become immobile and alone beneath the oak's imposing breadth, he might have begun a conversation with whoever else might have been standing there with him. But now he only lamented the lack of adequate cover, not the absence of company, who upon the start of summer would only abandon the park and its uncomfortable but aesthetically pleasing benches for cooler and more cozy retreats: natural springs or manmade pools at the least, twenty-four hour cafes with coffee and goodies perhaps, but mostly the patented comforts of their own downtown homes to admire the skyline and hide from the hustle-bustle of a city as large as his own Redwyne.


Exhausted, Patrick sat down onto a steel-wrought bench. The walks to this bench and through this park killed his feet, moistened his shirt with sweat, and made him wish he had something better to do but it all did not matter because there was nothing better to do anymore. He had done all that he wanted and those walks were just his internal protests against a city that refused to let him go, evoking a layer of guilt whenever he tried to escape. You were good for so long but it is time to move on so let me do it or I will resent you like I am now. Ensnared by the self-indulgent city, sorry and reluctant to accept a defector and eager to curtail escape, he moved in quiet circles scheming ways to out-emotion the place with such a legitimate, and sensitive claim to its allegiance. His conscience was not free by any means. The bonds he built could crumble under the weight of rejection, and while the life Redwyne offered up was plentiful indeed, it was too easy, too perfect, too linear, too empty. Shackle me to a wall. Take away my freedoms, but yes, keep me alive, but alive to do what? To be alive and nothing more? Spin me around and show me a different side of my cell. It is nothing! Nothing but the floor revolving beneath my feet, the same from every angle; the same vantage point, the provincial peephole of existence just rotating like a great big wheel. It cannot fool me. Patrick slumped even lower onto the bench.


Few other brave people ventured out into the uncharacteristic early autumn heat to be assailed by blanketing sunlight and be taunted on occasion by wisps of breeze that were subtle ends to a summer even more stubborn than the one before, like he did so often. Huddled in cooler spots, most waited out the last vestiges of summer heat, sipping on their cappuccinos with mocha twists, diving into springs filled with half-naked teenagers and not a measure of chlorine, or slumping beneath central air conditioning vents powered to maximum strength. The few that did were devoted. Mothers and fathers strolled their newborns in half-covered carriages; one couple jogged together at a pace scary just to imagine in that heat; a few boys tossed around a regulation sized football too large for their small hands—throws came up short more often than not and lots of awkward bounces from a ball refusing to be caught ensued, and dedicated pet owners walked their dogs, who probably felt more resentful in the heat than grateful for the escape. All of the above, Patrick thought, were happy people, because who else would get out in that heat to do anything if it did not make them happy?


He wondered if they thought the same, if they thought he was happy where he was, on his bench, beneath his tree, in his park, on a protest. He knew happiness was easier to attain than he thought, that it all depended on how he thought—he just had to look around to confirm it. The trick was not to compare it to what he believed other people felt, the degree of happiness they experienced. He just had to know better, to gauge his emotions on a scale unique to himself and no one else. Whenever he thought he was happy, he was, but whenever he became aware of it, he lost it because he wondered: is this what happiness is; all it is? The more he was aware of it, the more unattainable it became, a horizon to his despair, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized reducing happiness to a psychological blueprint decreased the likelihood that the contents of such a plan could ever be reconstructed, but he had gone too far and pondered it too long, nonetheless to his detriment.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

greetings everyone. this is my first post. i am not sure how competent a writer i am so i figured i would look for some honest feedback--somehow i don't think my parents are the best source for that. i've only been writing like this for a few weeks. my interest flared when i realized i had no hobby, job, or school to do, and i have always been a reader so i thought hey maybe i should write. it's alway something i wanted to try. so that was one of my first attempts, and it is the beginning of a story i would like to continue, basically about a guy stuck in a rut in a city he wants to get the hell out of.

i experience writer's remorse a lot, and feel silly at times, regretting what i write, and feeling too ambitious. but i have to start somewhere eh?

i am 20 by the way, a young 'un.

[alcala0001]

You're off to a good start. One suggestion I would give is to use shorter sentences and find simpler ways to describe things. If you want your works to impact a broader audience, I would recommend using more familiar words in place of less archaic and cryptic ones.

Self-reflection is a tool that I reach for quite often. Internal dialogue usually plays a big part in my stories and when you think and make observations to yourself you usually use the most basic line of thought, right? An example would be seeing a cat come to your door. Instead of thinking: "That tawny, mal-nourished feline with the greasy un-kept fur advances unencumbered directly to the point of entry of my domicile". I would instead say to myself : "The skinny, dirty cat comes to my door". And as far as short sentences, I'm the worst offender as far as that's concerned.

It was a good first post and I am not criticizing you, just offering suggestions that would make such a piece less difficult to read and understand. Most of the time people just want to be led on a journey and a story that's easier to read offers a smoother path.

: )

[JessM]

woo response.

i read somewhere that constructive criticism is always right, and though they may not necessarily be true i am willing to bet any i get here is very sound so i will work on all of that.

i tried to stay away from archaic words honestly, but i will go back and thin out descriptions that add nothing to the story and eliminate any words that seem too cocky.

as for long sentences, i've been reading nabokov. he is the culprit. i do get addicted to them admittedly.

thank you very much for the feedback.

[hillwalker]

It's strange, but true, that most of us when we start off writing try to employ the same style as our favourite authors. Unfortunately, the calibre of someone like Nabokov makes the task doomed before you even begin.

You are a very competent writer. You have a certain elegance in the way you express yourself and have been able to marshall your thoughts into neat order before laying them out for your readers to share - perhaps admire, perhaps appreciate.

But as a previous poster has said, you do tend to let the pen run away with your thoughts. Look at paragraph 2 for example - it's composed of just 2 sentences. And the density of description and internal asides throughout the piece is such that most readers will find their attention wandering before they reach the end.

The only advice I can offer is, if you are writing short stories look at ways of condensing your style into more appetising morsels. The beginning of a story is critical in terms of creating the mood and capturing the reader's attention.

Unfortunately your opening sentence is a bit too long-winded: we have 'dehydrated leaves', 'tissue paper', 'felled twigs' and 'lingering footsteps'. Each are adequate in setting a scene of autumnal tranquility, but the four together are hard to digest as a starter to the main meal.

In paragraph 2 the 'might haves' seem to have taken over the story leaving the reader unsure whether to persevere with what is actually going to happen (if anything) or leave Patrick to his thoughts. Again, basing an entire story on the protagonist's particular mood is rather an ambitious exercise and demands a good deal of faith in your readers. Once you have completed that Nobel Prize winning series of novels then fine, your readers can either like it or lump it. But I suggest until then you give us rather more to get our teeth into if you want to gain a wider audience.

You say you often suffer remorse after writing something and end up feeling it would better be thrown away.

DON'T.

Every line you write is current when you created it - it might look childish or arrogant on reflection but this is the material that will make you a better writer. Reading other people's work, and reviewing your own embarrassments is the way to develop your skill. Write whatever comes into your head no matter how feeble or idiotic it may seem - it's generally a case of your subconscious thrwoing out garbage, some of which hides the occasional pearl.

This particular piece has the makings of a promising start but for a short story it reads too much like the self-conscious attempts of a writer trying to impress.
You've got the right tools for the job - it's gaining the confidence to use them perhaps in ways they were never meant to be used that you need to work on.

Good luck, and I hope this hobby of yours becomes an obsession.

H

[JessM]

i appreciate the complements and criticisms!

i've been working on the runaway thoughts and sentences and superfluous descriptions. i let a friend read it in real life and he said the same thing. i suppose once i've crafted a more readable, less "self-conscious" draft, that doesn't read so much like a writer trying to write, i'll repost.

i lack a lot of the basic knowledge of how to craft a readable story, like how to start, what kind of sentences to use, variation, etc. hopefully when i start school again i can take a class or two and smooth out my deficiencies in that area and learn the fundamentals.

the first sentence makes me laugh now, i must say....

this is a fun game of sorts. it's very helpful.

[hillwalker]

i lack a lot of the basic knowledge of how to craft a readable story, like how to start, what kind of sentences to use, variation, etc.

We all have our own styles so don't beat yourself up about this.

There are no rules about the right and wrong way to craft a story. The best way to learn is to read as much as you can and practice writing - anything is better than nothing.

When it comes to short stories - how to begin, what detail to include or leave out, and how to pace the story, I tend to think of movies. You know what makes a good film work for you as a viewer - and stories tend to follow the same pattern. Grab the viewer's attention as soon as you can, focus on relevant details, use pace to your advantage and learn how to generate tension... and hopefully come up with a plausible ending.

Good luck

H

[loki456]

I agree with Hill on this... listen to this man btw - has some very valid and insightful criticisms.

But there are a varying degree of styles all with pro's and con's, the idea is to grab the audiences imagination and attention. It doesn't need to be explicit, can be subtle as well. Where the reader is like 'oh yeah, that's how that ties in', kind of like a crime genre style.

But as far as your writing goes, I'm a fan of the longer sentences too... (in some cases far too long - but that is sometimes the fault of my editing skills), which is not always a bad thing, but my advice is to temper it with shorter sentences. sentences that 'pop' to the reader. I don't mind the over indulgent language, as long as it keeps with the story and the flow of the story. So that's something you need to look out for, if you want to use a few more 'archaic' type words.

But there are definitely a lot of tools, you can employ to make it more grabbing.

overall the writing was good and there is a certain flare to it. So as Hill suggested, don't beat yourself over it (maybe just a little though - or else we become complacent if we ourselves don't scrutinize our own work).

good job and thanks for sharing

Loks

[JessM]

i guess i just meant basic do's and don't's of writing short stories. i recently realized that since i never really planned on writing, i never paid much attention to how novels and movies are structured; i was just there for the ride and ignored them from a technical perspective. this has made me rather regretful, because now i don't know how to structure a story! i think i can construct a pretty sentence, but says nothing about my story telling abilities. but at least now i have a good starting and reference point for the future.

loki, i appreciate your feedback as well, especially the "well-written" part hah. i'm a little confused about which words i used that are archaic because i think i only used words that i would regularly employ as everyday vocabulary. though i am more worried about the story itself.... a few word choices are not as large of an issue right? well it's a work in progress, and i'm learning as i go along.

i've been editing the hell out of this.... i hope i don't overdo it.

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear JessM

In 1950 in the "New Yorker" there was a piece written called "Portrait of Hemingway" based on two days spent with 'Papa' by the author. In it EH is quoted as saying "The test of a book is how much good stuff you can throw away." Not sure if that is of any help.

My own crude method of writing is:
1. To try and read widely & selectively to get a good background of styles & subject
matters.
2. When the ideas for writing come, just tuck them away initially in the memory, ruminate about them when resting on the couch, let your imagination go where it will on them after a few drinks.
3. When the urge comes to get it down on paper just let it flow.
4. Then review it for spelling, punctuation etc etc.
5. The next day, or over a number of days, keep coming back to it. Review bits, chew over sections.
6. Throw yourself to the wolves! Actually you will find in Lit Net; either welcome encouragement or pointers that are extremely useful.

[JessM]

hemingway has a lot of great advice... i've been looking over other things he has said. thanks for that list. i hadn't seen that before. i have definitely done lots of chewing and reviewing with my edits. and the wolves have certainly been helpful.

[JessM]

hah okay. this is something i had some fun with and just wrote without thinking it over too much this morning. i just tried to let it flow and what not. it's pretty true to what i've been experiencing lately:

I picked up another book off the stack. Two feet high and growing, it was an imposing tower of literature, past my knees, on its way to my waist. I looked at the novel in hand: Sophie's Choice. Not bad, a reasonably sized book, a familiar author; it had a good feel to it. It had a weight that felt perfect for its size. I held it by the spine and the pages drooped downwards, flopped a bit, settled, and hung limply. That felt right. It meant the pages were thin and light, but deceptively long, it posed a real challenge concealed within a spine of reasonable width. It would not do after all. I needed something else, something that would play a trick on my mind, a thick novel, but not necessarily lengthy, one with large print, a minimal page-count, wide margins, and short chapters. I needed to make a dent, even a deceptive one, in that monstrosity of a stack. It was more of a to do list; no, a demanding list of tasks, and a long one at that. Read this, read that, then open this one—you better finish! When did choosing the next novel to be the jewel of my eye and the fodder for my imagination become such a chore, such a pain?

To make matters worse, novels scattered across my room, decorated the floor, hid beneath the covers of my bed, lined my shelves, and they were all unread. They amassed so quickly, so deceptively fast. When did I even acquire them? I do not know. They must have sprung up when I was asleep, appeared from nowhere, or grown straight from the ground. It could have been my roommates. Maybe they added book after book to my room as I slept, to stress me out. No, that could not be it. I had the receipts. I was the culprit. But why? Why was I so ambitious? My ambition: directing itself towards the prospect of reading books, not the act of reading them.

I selfishly hoarded the hand-me-down treasures from used bookstores. Someone else might need that Ayn Rand. Hell, I will not even get to it for a year, at least. What if another soul needed that Dostoevsky for his class? The Adolescent can wait in line like the others, behind Camus, Wallace, Salinger, Styron, Dick, Poe, whoever watched me in my bed, judging me; those dead eyes and brilliant brains dismantling my confidence through elegant prose and sheer volume of work.

I failed again. I put another book back on the pile. I raged, kicked it over, and books scattered. Pages bent, covers creased, and authors piled on top of one another, fighting for air. I dove under my covers, cowering, the ever-present weight of accomplishment rearing its sneering head. You can't do anything. You can't even start a book without melting down. You're worthless. Get a new hobby? Find a new interest? Like what? I was too old, too seasoned to begin something new, could not play sports with my arthritic knees and lacked the money for golf clubs. I did not know how to sew and did not want to learn. The thought of stamp collecting bored me to tears. I lacked the patience for art, being the perfectionist I always have been. I needed literature. I needed that escape. It hid my deficiencies, soothed my soul, took me away to happier places, but now, all I could feel was the weight of all of those books, those expectations, the effort required to enjoy them all. It was too much. I started a book a day and put a book a day back on the stack for the future. I had started Pnin seven times, only to give up, and strategize the order in which I conquered each mini feat. Yes, they were feats. That is what they had become. War and Peace? A smirk, and a sneer. Yeah, I've read it. Brothers Karamazov? One week, baby. Keep them coming. What have I not read? Oh yes, those imposing tiers of fear next to my bed and around my room overwhelming my sense of accomplishment.

I peeked out from under my covers. Feeling a bit crazy, I drank a glass of water. Maybe it was the coffee from earlier, some bad coffee beans. Yes, that was it. I confronted the pile, picked up each addition and rebuilt what I had so recently gone insane over. Somehow it felt taller, more daunting than before. I quivered and my resolve wavered. I stood strong and grabbed a book at random. The Phenomenon of Man. Too intellectual for my frazzled state, sorry de Chardin. I put it back. I was doing it again, second guessing every selection so I tried once more, for a final time. As I Lay Dying. A remarkably apt title. It had a fine length, not too long, and the large print I so earnestly desired. Was this it? I folded back the cover, hands trembling, and mouth dried out, it was now or never. The dent had to be made, to be started somewhere. I read page one, and page two, then three and four, and then fell into another world of rekindled desire and dissolved anxiety. That was it.

~~~~~~

the italics were lost in the reformatting and there were a lot, mainly book titles, so i didn't rebold those.

[em onty]

You're writing good stuff, I wouldn't be too conscious of its failings yet if I were you. None of that in your two posts would make a good opening for a short story, but much of it makes for good writing if regarded as tests and experiments.

As to story structure, its a bugger for sure. I would say that the same pace that should be evident in a string of sentences or paragraphs should be evident across the whole work, but I'm not sure how useful that advice is. What I am quite sure about, though, is that characters have to earn empathy, else they wont get any. Your first post had the man on the bench expressing the sort of sentiments that are hard to accept unless you feel you know him first. So put the character in context before you ask the reader to share his innermost thoughts.

[JessM]

i feel you. the second thing is just a scene i guess, that i wrote really quickly and not a story at all. but yeah totally spot on about the first one. character first, scene second?

i think you nailed me strengths and weaknesses pretty well, or at least what i perceive them to be. pretty sentences and decent writing without solid structure and don't amount to a lot? something like that. for me both of these were more writing exercises, admittedly. i think calling the first one the beginning of a story was too ambitious a claim in the first place.

is it cool with everyone if i just use this thread as like a drawing board, throwing down what i write until i actually get a solid story i would want to share? i don't want to waste threads and bandwidth with mere, "hey look at what i wrote," kinds of things.

plus it's great for feedback, since i don't have another source for it.

[hillwalker]

This is easier to digest than your first piece, precisely because it flowed straight from your head to your pen I suspect.

There is such a thing as over-writing a piece; adding adjectives and phrases here and there to embellish something that seemed drab on first reading. That's not to say that editing or reviewing should not be exercised at a later stage. But when your muse is telling you to write, then write.

H

[em onty]

i think you nailed me strengths and weaknesses pretty well, or at least what i perceive them to be. pretty sentences and decent writing without solid structure and don't amount to a lot? something like that.

It was very easy to superficially nail your strengths and weaknesses as the writing appears to be near identical to mine about sixth months ago! Not that its changed for the better since, but its different---tests, its all just tests. A good test I've discovered, in fact, is reading everything out to yourself aloud at a natural pace (assuming you're okay at that and don't stumble regularly). You'll skip over bits and add in bits without meaning to, and how you read it aloud is almost always better. So take out those bits you skipped and copy in those bits you added. Even if the grammar doesn't look so neat it'll flow more.

[JessM]

It was very easy to superficially nail your strengths and weaknesses as the writing appears to be near identical to mine about sixth months ago! Not that its changed for the better since, but its different---tests, its all just tests. A good test I've discovered, in fact, is reading everything out to yourself aloud at a natural pace (assuming you're okay at that and don't stumble regularly). You'll skip over bits and add in bits without meaning to, and how you read it aloud is almost always better. So take out those bits you skipped and copy in those bits you added. Even if the grammar doesn't look so neat it'll flow more.

ah so in six months i will be your present equal! aha. 'tis good news.

yes i do that often. i love to read aloud. it feels somewhat validating.

now let's say my initial post was not a beginning, but a second scene, or a third. how would it look then. i'm finding that i've already rendered it incompatible with this "getting to know the character before you introduce his innermost feelings" business. i'm thinking a whole new scene before this one would seem like a good idea. hypothetically speaking. thoughts?

[em onty]

I always put on an accent for some reason. Often my local Bristolian, which doesn't make for pretty prose.

Not sure what I could say about that. Could work, sure. Couldn't say without reading it. If I were you, unless you've got a lot invested in it emotionally, I'd just keep it on ice until you come up with a good story structure at a later date, then reuse the bits you still like.

[JessM]

I always put on an accent for some reason. Often my local Bristolian, which doesn't make for pretty prose.

Not sure what I could say about that. Could work, sure. Couldn't say without reading it. If I were you, unless you've got a lot invested in it emotionally, I'd just keep it on ice until you come up with a good story structure at a later date, then reuse the bits you still like.

i'm not too attached. i'll probably you know, actually do some planning before i plow ahead into a story without so much as direction and the know-how.

[em onty]

Know-how's over-rated, I think. But then I would. What is it they say about people who insist that size doesn't matter ...

On a selfish note, I'd like to see more like the stacks of books piece. I enjoyed reading that and it lent itself well to a certain kind of verbosity that seems to be one of your strengths.

[JessM]

thanks very much
:hat:

[JessM]

some random flowery bull**** (sorry about the stars :I ). not a story by any means, but some fun. kind of poetic.


More swollen letters, fat with wisdom, dripping virtuosity—they echo like thunder in my skull. Oozing audacity, those primitive sketches, stoic in their isolation, surrender rights without a whisper, a nation, its proletariat, enslaved. With matchless potential, subjects of a tongue dexterous and pliable, burn, die, and ascend into calculated form, a form of utmost pleasure; a word. A smelted blend of myriad flavors and delicate evolution it bears a tinge of unique teaching; a unique idea, a taste of creation, of visceral desire. I am floored. Such is the weapon of my foes. A word. Upon a word. Upon a word. And through words, nominated with meticulous care, strung together and knotted firmly, the title is born. Suggestive, but still furtive in its publicity, it implies, estimates, informs, but does not divulge its most delicious innards, its sage construction. My brain is mush, melted by fire of envy. Such craft! Such mastery! Such envy. To imagine the pearl inside the clam is to imagine the artistry beneath the title. Such ornate art brews below, of course. But can a mere summation, a mortal breath, of a single, tightly wound syllable uttered through a pair of mortal lips encompass the incalculable beauty within? Art. If only it were just. Then my rage, my innumerable jealousies, my utter deficiency of creation and standards held high to myself would perish joyfully to oblivion. But alas, it is not so. I am lost to mediocrity.

[em onty]

Somehow beautiful, though I haven't worked out what it actually says yet. I get the impression you had fun with this one ... ?

[hillwalker]

I also can see you had fun writing it - but it's rather over-indulgent and doesn't make for very enjoyable reading. But it has potential.

[JessM]

oh, i just made it into a poem. it's totally over-indulgent haha.

it was pretty fun though.