Discussion in 'Archive: The Amphitheatre' started by KnightWriter, Jun 9, 2002.
Wow, haven't seen this in a long time. I've got a story that I may post up sometime.
Okay, so nobody is writing things that they want to up, huh?
Unfortunately, The Publisher's Desk is locked, so I have to submit my writing here or else I may forget. I have PMed Mastadge asking him if he can unlock it. In the meantime I have my submission quoted.
Awaken, my child, the time has come. With each moment you grow and the world ages. Awaken, and you shall be granted the breath of life and the ability to percieve. My child, the seeds of your creativity may be sown; the sown seeds will benefit you when you reap their rewards. Go now, and live.
Waking, I find myself in darkness. The first sense that comes to me is touch as I can feel my breath and my heart race. Sight is unimportant as the darkness shrouds me. The only thoughts I have are ones of lying there, of listening to my rhythmatic breath. I feel, I feel the flesh of my palms as I curl my hands running my fingers across the many crevices. I taste only my breath.
I lie there in the darkness wondering why is this body--my body--here. All I can recollect is the voice telling me to awaken. Was I granted senses, or was this merely a dream to which I will find myself keepingas a subtle subconscious memory? I continue to lie there as nothing else presented itself to me.
It seems rather bizarre as it should be dialogue, but I didn't want it to be a dialogue. These are more like thoughts, and the first paragraph is one speaking to the one realizing their senses. This apparently is a dream although I don't indicate it.
It's currently a work in progress and I only seem to add more when the Madame Muse comes to me.
Hey all. I?m a writer and an editor, and thought I?d give a go of darkknight?s interesting little fragment. Hope nobody minds the critique: that seems to be the thing to do here. All my comments are marked in this colourtext: hope that helps.
First of all, a bit of info would be helpful. What is this piece for: is it the start of a novel or a poem or some creative non-fiction?
Awaken, my child, the time has come. With each moment you grow and the world ages. Awaken, and you shall be granted the breath of life and the ability to perceive sp. My child, the seeds of your creativity may be sown; the sown seeds a bit wordy: perhaps just use ?they? will benefit you when you reap their rewards. Go now, and live.
Perhaps the paragraph above should be italicized, or at least placed in quotes. It feels intoned, like a blessing or a prayer, an invocation to life. A separation from the perspective of the character experiencing what follows would simplify things for the reader.
Waking, I find myself in darkness. The first sense that comes to me is touch a comma would not go amiss here, plus the phrase work is a little verbose. I?d try ?Touch is the first sense to return? or ?I am first aware of the sensation of touch?? as I can feel my breath feel your breath do what? Or against what? and my heart race. Sight is unimportant as the darkness shrouds me. Nothing wrong with this sentence, but a bit of variety in sentence construction may help the words flow better, as in ?The darkness shrouding me makes sight unimportant.? The only thoughts I have are ones of lying there, of listening to my rhythmatic I think you mean ?rhythmic? breath. Are those thoughts, or memories?I feel, I feel the flesh of my palms as I curl my hands running my fingers across the many crevices. I taste only my breath. I?d start a new paragraph with ?I feel?, and make it a stand alone sentence. Continue on with an inventory of the other senses, so the reader has a good grasp of everything the character is experiencing. What does he hear? Or smell?
I lie there in the darkness You use darkness three times in two paragraphs: need to expand the vocabulary of the piece to avoid repetition.
wondering why is remove ?this body?, as it is redundant. I think you were trying to convey a sense of discovery as the character realized he had a body, but there are ways to state that better.this body--my body--here. All I can recollect is the voice telling me to awaken. Was I granted senses, or was this merely a dream to which I will find myself keepingYou need a space hereas a subtlecomma subconscious memory? I continue to lie there as nothing else presented itself to me. Try to keep to one tense: if this is happening in the present, nothing can have ?presented itself? to the character.
Overall it?s an interesting fragment, but it leaves nothing but questions, and not an answer in sight: Is the character newborn? Or is he awakening from a coma? Or is he transported from some other world or plane of existence into this body and time and place? Why is it dark all around him? Who or what was the voice? Too many unanswered questions can be very off-putting to a reader: they don?t necessarily want to wait around to find out the answers. If this is meant as a teaser for something more interesting, it has to be honed to provide some clue, some hint that the questions will be answered.
Anyway, hope that helps.
Moving up .
Ok well I do have a sample for all of you. It is from a project I am currently working. The working Title is Theory: The Basic Biorhythm.
It is science fiction and it starts something like this...
In Due time civilizations shall rise, empires shall fall, many will fail, and almost none shall live through it all. I now stare into the void of space looking for the answers to the questions that have plagued civilizations since their beginnings. The sudden shock of information easily began to flow into the database of each ship within the coaliton fleet. As the turth spread so did the choas and disorder it left behind. very few could escape deppression, fear, sorrow, mental and physical torture, and suicide. That will be then...
Now is not a time of answers but a time of question and mystery...
There is some good stuff in here.
DK - I liked your writing. It reminded me of a walk through a dark cave I just did on Saturday night. I couldn't see so my sight was of no use to me. I could hear people around me but I couldn't see them.
It is interesting that when deprived of our sight how our other senses compensate.
The imagery of being still, wondering what is next in line for you to do, as if you are cacooned waiting to emerge. Very nice.
See the problem I have as a writer is that I want to save some of my original ideas until I'm older and have had more personal experience with those ideas. I want them to be meaningful, have some heart. You can only honestly write what you know. It's going to require some personal research. Plus, since I'd like to be a filmmaker, I'd like to save some of those ideas to develop later on in film school if I do get in.
And so I write fanfiction. Oh yes, it probably seems quite childish but I hate that bad rap. I mean, a lot of people do write crappy fanfiction, it's true. Some of them are EU authors But I try to write fiction that uses what I love (Star Wars) and characters that I can identify to portray parallel struggles and journeys of my own that I see reflected in their (fake) lives. What do other writers here think of fanficiton?
-sj loves kevin spacey
See the problem I have as a writer is that I want to save some of my original ideas until I'm older and have had more personal experience with those ideas. I want them to be meaningful, have some heart.
You know, practice makes perfect. I really think you are wise to keep some things tucked away until you can write them for a POV that is seasoned. I've been sitting on a few ideas for years waiting until I can do them justice.
Exactly my point. That's one of the reasons I like to practice my various skills (techinical and the more ephemeral) with my fanfiction writing. Those aren't stories I can sell anyway, so it gives me practice at just the art of crafting stories and characters. That combined with life experience will, hopefully, make some of these really special story ideas I have tucked away into better stories in the future.
-sj loves kevin spacey
What do other writers here think of fanficiton?
Extraordinary, well-written stories do exist. Not everyone who writes fanfiction is thirteen years old--and, even so, some thirteen-year-olds write beautifully.
I only just recently 'published' (hee!) two vignettes of my own, and I can appreciate the process of writing fanfiction as an ambitious endeavour and wonderful diversion.
I really think you are wise to keep some things tucked away until you can write them for a POV that is seasoned. I've been sitting on a few ideas for years waiting until I can do them justice.
Are you familiar with NaNoWriMo? (Hint, hint. )
I understand your desire to keep ideas in seed until you feel you're ready for fruition. I'm of the opinion, however, that one shouldn't make an existence of waiting. Yes, an idea you treat now may be executed clumsily or otherwise less impressively; returning to the work/writing years later, though, can serve you for the better, rather than not broaching the idea at all until then.
Edit: Fixed link.
Also, I am not the best at, um, shall we say "commitment?" Thus far, I've penned only one-shots, and fanfiction, with overall character and plot backgrounds established, affords me the brevity with which to tweak and explore.
I have no idea how this place works, but it looks interesting. Can someone give me a quick rundown? As I understand it, the actual stories get posted elsewhere, and the critques and all are here?
Well, in its heyday, that's how it worked. It would be nice if it could work that way again. There's a publisher's desk around here and that's where the works go. Then the reviews/critiques go here.
-sj loves kevin spacey
Just added an excerpt from The Legacy of Tirlannon, Book II - The High King, a work in progress to The Publisher's Desk.
I gotta give props to the Legacy of Tirlannon. Mark my words folks, this is the next big thing. Action, adventure, and a world with as much depth as LOTR and SW. Not to mention that it is a great read. Check out LT's update -- it's a great introduction to this story. But keep in mind that it is merely the tip of the iceberg.
I posted a short screenplay piece thing... I'll read over the more recent stuff and comment when I can. I'm rather bogged down at the moment
-sj loves kevin spacey
I've started several full length fics, and actually managed to complete a short piece, but I think someone said it best when they said, "Fanfiction is eating my brain." Right now all I think about is how to get certain characters not to fight
Hopefully, now that I finished my latest full length fic, I'll have time to devote to original fiction. *crosses fingers*
I'd like to remind any interested parties that Nanowrimo begins tomorrow.
I think someone said it best when they said, "Fanfiction is eating my brain."
Erm, I've managed to wean myself from attempted fanfiction endeavours (it's much more pleasurable for me to read than to write, anyway), but now I find myself addicted to conceiving--if not always physically scribbling--historical drabbles, e.g., this account of Dr. John Dee's affairs:
John, with the shining eyes and the midnight hair, is terrified the secret might linger always like a sweetness he will never quite grasp.
Torchlight pours over his meticulous desk. Every minute he loses himself further in maps and sundry parchments, intent on loosening the combination lock with calculations of science and faith. Often, he forgets to take his tea.
Years later, John with the burning stare and the tortured head met a kindred spirit. Hands shaking, he unbound the mirror from the rough and heavy cloth.
?Angels, you say??
Overhead the star burned on, cold and white and distant.
And a vignette involving Celan:
1 May 1970*
A drowsy rain wends intricate patterns down windowpanes and sombre umbrellas in Trieste. In Lowestoft, the girls weave their ribbons atop *****ing earthworms. Factories expunge their grime; one, long retired, houses a smashed pot of red geraniums on its concrete floor. Everywhere, lovers and conspirators in pyjamas drink coffee. The hair of the corpse, like fair Rapunzel?s, has not stopped growing.
At the River Seine, Paul has departed for scribbled rendezvous on torn sheaf of paper.
The rain pours, the girls dance, the worms ****,
the hair grows -- O Paul: where is the miracle? He is dead, after all.
*Celan's purported suicide note: "Paul Departs," written on pocket calendar.
Also, I cannot keep from scrawling bits about literary & mythical characters, as well (which, I suppose, qualifies as fanfiction):
She glories in the sunshine bathing her skin. Walking unhurriedly, mind momentarily taken flight, she absently swings the basket from hand to hand. A deliciously chilled wind touches her cheek and wanders off, cutting a swath farther down the path, drawing her eye to the procession. She sees him, sees how the heat of the day heavies the already unbearable burden. His exertion glistens even over the dull, sallow pallor of flesh. Yes, she knew what was to come, but she did not know what to expect, is not prepared. Glancing at her basket, wares jostled and ruined, her pleasure at the sun shames her and etches the gentlest wound in her bosom.
Every evening sky, beginning with the bloodied sunset tonight, will be a mosaic of pain, an ache with flimsy scab to be pricked again each morning without him. Standing in the warm sunlight, the unneeded spices tumbled and forgotten at her feet, Mary begins to laugh.
Drabbling (& variations thereof, i.e., drabble-and-a-halving, double-drabbling) is a maddening exercise because it contrains your thoughts, in terms of limiting words. Even more challenging is constructing a vignette around a portion of someone else's idea--the last sentences in the pieces about John Dee and Mary, for example, belong to someone else (used with permission, of course) and served as points of departure. Try it sometime, if you'd care to.
Many thanks Raven.
Since the Publisher's Desk is still locked, I'll just post a link to my story here:
It's a 50 page long Sci-Fi story I started and finished up earlier this year. I haven't been very successful in getting people to read it, so I haven't received much critique, but would greatly appreciate some. Also, since no one is perfect, if you happen to be reading it and notice spelling or grammar mistakes (or just sentences that don't make sense), could you please either post them or PM them to me so that I can correct them?
I'd appreciate any critique I could get on this piece, and this looks like the right place for it, heh.
Oh, what an interesting place!
While I am a fan fic writer, I do write originally and would certainly like to get published someday. I have many in progress novels, but my problem is that I will stop writing one, because I have an idea for another and so on. I really have to return to a few of them and rewrite some others.
And I will be back to post some excerpt sometime, when I find something that is postable *grins*
By the way, is it possible to get the Publisher's Desk unlocked?
Hi, I just saw this for the first time, and it seems pretty interesting. I figure this is a place for people to show samples of their writing for review, so here goes. I wrote this awhile ago, it's the first scene of my novel-length Terminator fic:
?Three billion human lives ended July 25, 2004. We have lived only to face a new nightmare, the war against the machines.?- Gen. John Connor, 2006
?No fate but what we make.?
John and his mother had lived by those words. It was the only way of coping with what they knew...the only way of coping with his destiny. John believed those words a lie...a joke as he answered the panicked commander. Then Skynet decided the fate of humanity. Then mankind felt the thermonuclear fury.
It had only been ten minutes since the rumbling had ended. The only sounds were the silent screams of three billion people. Somehow...it seemed horrifically appropriate. John only had to feel the tears hitting his hand to know Kate was crying. They stood there, mourning the end of the world. The static pouring from the radio seemed the orchestra to some appalling funeral.
The purpose for John?s entire existence was crashing down on him. The sacrifices of those he loved had all been in vain. He let go of Kate?s hand and limped down the steps to the couches. His ice-blue eyes were drawn to the cameras, the podium. The man who was supposed to stand there, addressing a crippled nation on its way to war, was now nothing more than ashes. John put his hand on the couch, supporting his crushed ankle. He knew they had to prepare, had to get ready, but all he wanted to do was cry and pity vain sacrifices.
?I...I should take a look at your ankle.? Kate said from the computers, desperately trying to stop her tears. John looked at her blankly. How could she ask that? Compared to the end of the world, physical pain was insignificant. Then he understood. They couldn?t stand there forever, they couldn?t cry forever. He nodded.
So it began.
So what do you think? I'm still working on it,but if you want to see the rest of what I have posted, the link is in my sig.