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Flat 6 (The most working of working titles) Chapter 1

by 3cred 

Posted: 15 July 2010
Word Count: 1697
Summary: First chapter of my novel. I'd like to get it published so any help/advice/critique/declarations I'm not fit to write a shopping list are welcome. (Ok the last one isn't exactly welcome.... but you get the drift.) Many thanks


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The night before I’d fallen in my sleep. That empty fall with no end and the lurch awake leaving your stomach somewhere else. Everyone has that dream, that and teeth falling out. I’d had both more times than I could remember, but I’d never before had trouble falling back to sleep.

Couldn’t shake the feeling like there was further to fall, a pit I’d trip to as I got up trying not to wake her. On toes and arched feet I crept for the door, avoiding creaky floorboards and deep dark holes. She made noise, but it was closer to a sigh than words. She slept.

Shadows fell across the house still unfamiliar and there was comfort when lightbulb snap chased the black shapes away. The feeling lingered. It was early morning, or late night depending how you figured it. The sun was non committal, it might rise, it might not. I sat for a time in an empty world just listening.

Normally I’d return to her, steal her warmth and wrap myself tight, but today was the first day back. Efforts were needed, dedication and perspiration, so I found myself on campus early with time to waste and the taste of too little sleep on my tongue. I headed for the towers. I’d spent the previous year living six floors up, sentiment and nostalgia led me back. Pretty they weren’t, dirty great columns of grey brick that dominated the landscape as fourteen stories built atop a hill will, but they were home. At least they had been for a time. Monuments, testaments to something, reaching like fists to scrape the underside of the brewing storm overhead. One thousand one hundred and forty six lives stacked eye to sky and I had been one of them.

With no one around, for it was far too early, I indulged in a little ritual. Toes and nose I stood against the cold wall so I could smell the mix of rainwater and concrete between the layers of brick. Then I looked straight up, the full fourteen floors, up beyond the roof to the low dark rumbling rain clouds. Pressed like that perspective shifts, the mind plays tricks. Soon enough I wasn’t looking up to the sky, but down to a river of running slate coloured water cloying and thick. Despite myself, and my feet firmly planted, it felt like I was falling. That little wave of excitement and fear, the one we crave and ride rollacoasters for, made its way swirling, radiating from my stomach outward. Every time previous, drunk, stoned or indifferent, I greeted the feeling giddy and giggling, but not that morning. I figured it was the tiredness, the itchy skin from lack of sleep, or maybe the dream still lingered. I bought a can of coke from the machine in the tower foyer, fancying the ten heaped tablespoons of sugar could chase all trace away. I settled in watching the rain thicken and howl, E numbers scouring my palette. It was then I saw the flowers.

Someone had fallen, for real and not in dream, fallen right to the spot where half opened flowers drooped in the rain. Whoever had fallen, had hit. Hard. Nine point eight metres per second every second for fourteen floors, travelling upwards of forty miles per hour when, head first, their short journey ended abrupt. A concrete smile.

There was a spot back where I grew up. A dirty stretch of filthy asphalt and tar, dull metal railings still bent from the impact, even after time. Every year the flowers bloom in cellophane, wrapped in artificial flower food, welded to the railings with layer upon layer of slowly melting tape. Dirt, carbon dioxide crusted to fall like snow, gathers turning the clear plastic to smudge. The flowers choke. The messages, with love and missing you, are erased. Not just hidden but erased. Faded. Melted. It takes so little time for the poison to blanche ink, for the sentiments to vanish in the haze of articulated exhaust. You pass those flowers every day for a month . Maybe more. Then they disappear. I always hoped those left behind came and took them down. Hoped they hadn’t fallen, crushed beneath the wheels like she was.

Flowers are like that. Perfect yet pointless, dying slowly as the people they commemorate. Like we all are. Those flowers on the railing, dead, dying, crusted or rotting, seemed such a poor testament to a life. As did the flowers where whoever hit, a couple of bunches sagging under the weight of water, hunched like sad shoulders. Nothing but flowers now, a life reduced to sound bite and past tense. Tall tales told tainted in the retelling. Exaggeration and desperation of those who try to remember the happy times. Words are never enough, yet always too much.

I didn’t know who yet. I did know they fell under there own steam. A peculiarity of the towers, designed no doubt to try and prevent such unpleasantness, or at least slow it down, was that no window would open fully enough for a person to slip out. Only the subtle use of a screwdriver, or a hell of a lot of brute force could part metal from wood and allow someone to jump. Either way, jump they had.

What had they thought on the way down? That question stuck. It was more than just morbid fascination, for when else but the moment before the end is thought clear and true?

I felt tired. Even more so. The ten heaped of sugar was helping none, in fact a dull ache was forming in the side of my head that wouldn’t shift till evening. Whoever had jumped had gotten to me. Maybe it was because of my dream, a coincidence that felt anything but. I’d thought I was still falling, perhaps now I’d hit the ground. Maybe it was the tiredness bringing sentiment to the fore. Maybe it was a cynical excuse to avoid the blank lines awaiting blue ink. Or maybe it was because my arm still ached.

I looked to it. The scars had faded. Most where healed completely, a little lie white like my skin pretending nothing had ever happened. You had to strain to see the remaining lines like cracks in a frozen pond. Not long before the back of my arm had been a portrait painted in blood, a landscape barren but beautiful. It told its own story, a snapshot of time and place, of mind and waste, of a year and a few days.

Time was lost. I watched the rain, how people rushed through it and how it spilled to overfilled drains, overwhelmed and underused. I couldn’t really make sense of anything, too many thoughts refusing to lie, till I turned my eyes skyward. The seagull hung motionless. A storm blew around it, yet braced and bent to updrafts and dark paths it didn’t even sway. Effortless it seemed, though effort it took to fly in the face of such power. It held level, all that way up, to the very place Whoever had stepped out, a sentry sensing the whys and the wheres. That bird had seen. Seen Whoever sniff the cold night air that one last time, and heard the little scream cut and caught cold force by concrete concourse. The bird had seen it all, the motive and the means, the last will and petulance.

It got strange then, even stranger than dreaming of falling as the fallen fell. For I swear I floated out into the rain, as high as that bird, braced and bent against that power. Out of body, out of mind too probably but, for a few brief moments I hung, as gentle and still against the storm as that bird, and I saw too. The thing of it was I saw much more besides, a birds eye view few can claim. Whoever, was a single solitary and melancholy soul, but no life is lived alone. From that view and though those birds eyes, under whoever’s feet and through the walls they used to punch, the other thousand hundred and forty five lives lived over, around and through Whoever’s. Some just passed through, others lingered a while longer, either way you couldn’t tell one story without the rest. Behind the glass and brick, every floor, I could see the stories the bird had seen. The confessions and the crimes. The lies and alibis, hello’s and goodbyes. The hurt the pain the driving rain the insane the mundane, the change, the same and the same again. How a whole year had passed paths crossed. How behind every curtain twitch lay a room, every room a story and every story an epic, stranger than, strangers to me.

Soon enough, having never left I suppose, I was back cowering from the rain and lectures, swirling the dregs of my coke, looking back up at that bird. I stood and thought on it. All of it.

My granddad, god rest, had told his tainted tale. A relative, a brother or a cousin, some blood. Much blood. All over the walls. A cut jugular, slashed really, a jagged buzz saw carved by his own hand. Granddad had spent the best part of a weekend with a bucket of hot soapy water scouring worn walls. “It was the only thing I could do,” he explained, “I couldn’t have his wife coming home to that.” But hearing that story I always thought that something of his last moment should have remained. Blood on the walls seems right. ‘This was me,’ written in red, fading to brown in the pale sunlight of years passing. Something should stand and testify. Suicide deserves that, needs it even. Flowers say sorry and perhaps that’s not what needs saying. Fire and brimstone. Condemning. Condoning. Damnation. Damn fool. Damn shame.

The fuss and muss that whoever left behind had been cleaned, sanitised and sterile, the concrete washed of blood and jaw bone. The only thing that remained was the tale. So it was, with blood red eyes and dark circles, I found the story. And so it is I tell you.






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Comments by other Members



NicciF at 19:27 on 22 July 2010  Report this post
Hi 3cred

Just dropped by for a minute or 2 and noticed that you'd posted this and not had any comments so far. Always duanting/disappointing when that happens. It's very quiet on here at the moment.

I'm up to my little neck until Sunday (painting a huge kitchen), so I'll take a look on Sunday and post some comments later in the day.

Sorry for putting you in a holding pattern - just didn't want it to go any longer without you have any response.

Nicci



3cred at 16:28 on 23 July 2010  Report this post
Thanks Nicci, was feeling all lonesome. Does the writewords community migrate north for the summer seeking out those bitter artic winds? Any comments will be greatfully appreciated.

NicciF at 20:19 on 23 July 2010  Report this post
Thought you might be. The rest of the writing community might migrate north, I tend to head for warmer climes. I've become a soft southerner since moving to France 4 years ago and now can't cope in temperatures less than 20c.

From memory of last summer it did go very quite for a few weeks July/August time and then picks up again.

One suggestion to encourage some comments it to leave some comments on other member's work. WW is a "you scratch my back, I'll scratch your back" community and leaving crits on other's work, then encourages people to crit your work. The other thing is that people oftem learn loads about how to improve their writing by commenting on other people's work. It's often easier to spot something when it's not your own piece and then you hav a better idea of what to look for in your own work.

Must dash now. Take a look at "Flat 6" on Sunday. Just having a couple of minutes rest after the end of day 2 of painting. Only one more day to go

Nicci


3cred at 20:15 on 24 July 2010  Report this post
Thanks for the suggestion. i have been very selfish with sharing the love and opinions, so i shall start with the nonesensicles very soon. Hope the painting goes well. Of course you do now realise that having been told 2 days in advance that you are going to comment on my stuff, its been built up to epic proportions. i expect a masterly critique now.

cheers.

NicciF at 20:42 on 24 July 2010  Report this post
my reputation obviously has gone before me. Fortunately it's the market at St.Baz tomorrow am which means I'll have a relaxing morning people watching and drinking kia with friends. All of this will help put me in the "zone" for doing a critique.

One question before I start - there's normally guidelines about the level of critique you want ie "Be Gentle with me" through to "Go on I can take it". Can't see this anywhere, so can you let me know how gentle/tough you want me to be.

Thanks

Nicci


3cred at 16:49 on 25 July 2010  Report this post
As rough as you like. gentle never helped anyone.

NicciF at 20:32 on 25 July 2010  Report this post
Finally the long awaited critique. I’ll get the boring bit over and done with first – ie typos. If you've already done another proof-read please feel free to skip this part.

2nd para -
a pit I’d trip to as …
should read “a pit I’d trip into as …”

2nd para –
She made noise …
should read “She made a noise …”

3rd para –
when lightbulb snap, chased the ...
Should read “when the lightbulb snapped, chasing the …” or “snapped and chased the …”

4th para –
living six floors up, sentiment …
I think the comma should be a colon or semi-colon.

5th para –
Toes and nose I stood against …
would “I stood toes and nose against …” be better?

5th para –
made its way swirling, radiating from my stomach outward.
I think this should be “made its way, swirling and radiating from my stomach.”

5th para –
Every time previous, drunk, stoned or indifferent, I greeted …
should this be “previously” and “I’d”?

5th para –
I settled in watching the …
do you need a comma after “in”?

6th para – confused by
concrete smile
– not 100% sure what you’re trying to convey.

7th para –
A dirty stretch of filthy asphalt …
don’t think you need both “dirty” and “filthy”.

8TH para –
dying slowly as …
– perhaps “dying as slowly as …” or “dying slowly like …” would be better.

8th para -
reduced to sound bite and past tense.
– should this be “bites” and “tenses”?

9th para –
there own steam.
– should be "their".

10th para –
moment before the end is thought clear …
I think you need a comma after “end”.

11th para –
helping none
– would “not helping” be better.

12th para –
I looked to it.
perhaps change to “at it”.

12th para –
a little lie white like …
depending on what you mean I think this should either be “a little white lie, like” (ie the scar is a white lie) OR “a little lie, white like my skin” (ie the scar is white)

13th para –
though effort it took to …
perhaps “though it took effort to …” would be better.

13th para –
little scream cut and caught cold force by concrete concourse.
not sure what you meant by this.

14th para –
From that view and though those birds eyes…
– should be “through” and “bird’s eyes”

14th para –
lingered a while longer, either way …
I think your comma needs to be a colon or semi-colon.

14th para –
Behind the glass and brick, every floor …
perhaps “on every floor …”

14th para –
The hurt the pain the driving rain the insane the mundane …
– needs commas ie “The hurt, the pain,” etc

14th para –
How a whole year had passed paths crossed.
Depending on your meaning I think you need punctuation between “passed” and “paths” – perhaps a colon.

14th para –
and epic, stranger than, strangers to me.
– confused by the “stranger than”.

16th para –
written in red, fading to brown in …. years passing.
– “that faded” would be better as in past tense and “passing years” might be better.

17th para –
The fuss and muss …
– what is “muss”?

17th para –
and so it is I tell you.
– perhaps “And so it is I who tells you.” would be better.

I’m sorry that I’ve picked out so many “nits” especially if you’ve already found them. Spelling and proof-reading are my weakest areas, so I’m hoping that by carefully proof-reading other people’s work that I will improve my skills when applied to my own musings.

Now for the much more interesting comments.

I really liked this and think that it show lots of potential. I’m intreagued by the start and already want to know more about the MC, who he is and how he got to where he is today. I’ve already got questions about what happened to his arm, and whether it’s anything to do with the “she” who was crushed beneath the wheels.

My only real concern is that there is too much “tell” and not enough “show”. Also long as the rest of the book redresses the balance I think you get away with it because of your writing style. If the rest of the book is mainly “tell” then you’ve got more of a problem.

Your style is clipped and you have a very economic way with words. This, together with your use of shorter sentences, make the story rattle along. This is despite that fact that nothing really happens in this section. Basically a man wakes up and walks to a campus and some flats. Not a lot of action in that! However, your descriptions of his thoughts and actions lift the scene. Just remember that when using a clipped style that you only get rid of the excess words and not some of the words necessary for the sentence to make sense.

Now onto highlighting the bits that I particularly liked.

Normally I’d return to her, steal her warmth and wrap myself tight
– I love this image.

Monuments, testaments to something, reaching like fists to scrape the underside of the brewing storm overhead. One thousand one hundred and forty six lives stacked eye to sky and I had been one of them.
– again a great image and begs the question – why doesn’t he live there any more?

The whole section about standing close to the wall and looking up is great. It’s ages since I’ve done that but you’ve captured that fact that your eyes convince your brain that you’re falling.

The slight deviation about the flowers is also great. It’s not something I’d thought about before; however, it does seem strange that something with such a short life span is used to remember the dead. Also the decay and sadness that surrounds dying flowers.

Tall tales told tainted in the retelling. Exaggeration and desperation of those who try to remember the happy times. Words are never enough, yet always too much.
I love this. I notice you use alliteration quite frequently and think it works really well.

Also
Behind the glass and brick, every floor, I could seen the stories the bird had seen. The confessions and the crimes. The lies and alibis, hello’s and goodbyes. The hurt, the pain, the driving rain, the insane, the mundane, the change, the same and the same again.
The rhythms etc in this section almost makes it musical – lovely.

All in all a really good start and I’m looking forward to the next part.

I hope this has helped, and wasn’t too nerve wracking waiting/reading. Just remember that these are only my opinions. I’m not an expert and, despite what I tell my husband, dogs and cats, my word is not gospel. This is your story and only you know the characters and what happens next etc. So, as with all critiques, have a think about what I’ve pointed out and then asses whether you believe my comments are valid. If they are, make some changes, but if I’m way off the mark then ignore what I’ve said. The main thing is to remain true to your story and your style of telling it.

Nicci

3cred at 15:17 on 26 July 2010  Report this post
You know I've written and rewritten this a dozen times, and proof read it a dozen more, yet there are still that many spelling and grammer mistakes! Its crazy ain't it. i have the feeling that its all to do with knowing what it is supposed to say and reading it as that instead of the letters that are actually on the page.

thank you so much for all the time and effort you clearly took. i shall alter and make good on some of the spelling and grammer issues. Some of them are idosyncracies of how I write "A pit I'd trip to," for instance, but i will have a look at all your suggestions.

One thing you mention is something I am a little worried about,the tell over show. I've written (properly)the first 7 or so chapters and it could be more tell than show, I'll have to see what people think.

I shall of course now do the appropriate thing and read some of your stuff (scratching of backs and all that), i've already had a sneaky peek.

Thanks again so much for all the effort. I'll put the second chapter up at some point should you be interested.

NicciF at 09:53 on 27 July 2010  Report this post
You know I've written and rewritten this a dozen times, and proof read it a dozen more, yet there are still that many spelling and grammer mistakes!


Tell me about it! How does that happen? One "trick" I use is go to the end of the chapter/work and number the paragraphs to the beginning. Then work on each paragraph in numerical order - ie from end to start. Within each paragraph also work on the sentences in reverse order. This way you are concentrating on the words in the sentences and don't get "caught up" in the action.

I've only recently started doing this in my fiction writing, although I've used the technique for years when writing training manuals and business plans. Strange how I don't consider those to be writing so didn't think of transferring a useful technique from one to the other.

Some of them are idosyncracies of how I write "A pit I'd trip to," for instance,


Thought this was probably the case. I'm all for having idiosyncrasies (having several hundred myself), however, the writing still needs to make sense and not cause the reader to trip up big time. I'm not saying that any of the ones I highlighted fall into this category - just something to be aware of.

By way of example, I recently critiqued a couple of chapters of a 1st novel. The characters all had very stronge regional accents. Rather than just having a few pointers/reminders of these accents, all the dialogue was written verbatim. Instead of helping to create a sense of place etc, eventually it became a real pain up the ... I was having to re-read each section of dialogue several times in an attempt to break through the regional accent/phrases etc.

One thing you mention is something I am a little worried about,the tell over show. I've written (properly)the first 7 or so chapters and it could be more tell than show, I'll have to see what people think.


This might be a cause for concern, however, don't panic yet. Wait to see what other people think, and also wait until we've had a chance to read more of the story, got to know about the MC etc Even if changes need to be made it is not the end of the word. My first draft of "Isadora: Born Under a Fairy Moon" was all "tell". The re-write didn't take too long because I'd already got the characters and the plot lines etc. I took it one scene at a time and it was soon done. Remember the old joke - "How do you eat an elephant?" "One bite at a time!" Well it's the same with editing, proof reading and re-writes. Break it down into small chunks and do one chunk at a time, rewarding yourself for making progress.

thank you so much for all the time and effort you clearly took.


Twas/is a pleasure. I enjoy doing crits and haven't done one in a while due to severe lack of time. I'm hoping that now the majority of our renovations are done that I will have more time to spend on the things I enjoy.

I shall of course now do the appropriate thing and read some of your stuff


That's what I like to hear - entering into the spirit of the site. I think you can still access "Isadora" through my profile, however, I'm not sure that I'll be notified in the same way as work in the Beginners Group. I don't want you to think I'm ignoring you, so maybe dropping me an quick email to let me know would be a good idea.

Must go and I'm launching a couple of local business networking groups next week and should have been working on that this morning rather than checking in on WW.

Nicci


Bates at 19:33 on 14 August 2010  Report this post
Hi
My offereing will come tomorrow.
Andy

GaiusCoffey at 22:56 on 14 August 2010  Report this post
Hi 3cred,
I skim read Nicci's comments after reading. I agree with a lot of the things she has said but, given the Intensive part of the Intensive Critique group name, I also have some stronger opinions to voice.

As such, I think I should start with a disclaimer; my critique is intended to be constructive but it is just one opinion and, if you don't find it helpful, feel free to ignore it. Although this will seem like a harsh crit, take it as read that everyone in IC has, at some point, also received a harsh crit or two. (There is a very good reason why I abandoned, as in binned and rewrote from scratch, the 128K third draft of my novel...)

But, to reiterate, it is intended to be constructive and to highlight things that I think you will need to address to achieve your stated aim of getting a novel published.

Disclaimer duly disclaimed, I'll start with the story as I picked it up;

A man wakes up after a dream of falling that echoes the coincidental suicide of another person and echoes a similar suicide in his unspecified past.

Nothing wrong with that. It's an interesting premise with scope for further development. Ending your chapter with the promise to expand on a broader storyline is also good as a prologue-style introduction...

But...

I have summarised all of the action of nearly 1700 words of prose in just thirty and I don't think I have left anything out. The remainder is given over to an enormous amount of detail, reminiscence, pontification and imagery that doesn't move the story forwards.

For my tastes, therefore, this piece felt not like the novel that is in your head, but rather it was like the "writing around your character" (that we all have to do) to find the story that you want to write. In other words, this is very valuable reference for you, but it is not the story you need to present to your reader.

Now that you have the character and his environment so clearly in your head (and I am convinced that you know this guy), you need to sift through what you have and to find out what is, and is not, important. As an FYI for how seriously I take that advice, my final draft of the novel I have just finished covers only the final three weeks of what, in the first draft, was a thirty-five year storyline. By condensing the story so much, I actually found I had much more room to breathe and the result is infinitely better.

Every chapter should be a self-contained short-story in itself with an emotional journey for a character we give a damn about and one that includes both highs and lows so as to increase the nuance and impact of same.

Emma D characterises this as three questions:
1. What does my MC want?
2. What gets in his/her way?
3. What does my MC do about it?

As a suggestion, try writing a full synopsis - you will probably find it quite hard (I know I did). Try to think in terms of motivation, cause and effect rather than the mundane sense of what actually happened. EG: Don't say "X does Y to Z" but rather "X is incensed by Z's attempt to S his W and he does Y to Z in order to achieve C..."

On to the writing itself... and I think I should again issue a brief disclaimer; my bias is towards the craft of story-telling rather than the craft of imaginative prose. To me, for a novel length piece of work, the ideal is to be utterly unaware of the author as my imagination roams around the story-world and experiences all the highs and lows of the characters I have come to care about.

There were quite a few instances in this where I thought you had overwritten. It's a good thing that you are enjoying your writing, and we all play with words once in a while, but the author's enjoyment doesn't always (or even often) translate to reader enjoyment. I'll give a few examples below and you can make up your own mind as to whether or not I have a point:

On toes and arched feet I crept for the door, avoiding creaky floorboards and deep dark holes.

Who talks like that? The unnatural word order makes it conspicuous and that makes readers like me irritable and picky. Human feet are always arched, even those termed as "flat" because they are less arched than the norm. I presume you mean on tip-toes but, in any case, how do you walk on toes in any other way than by using your feet?

Toes and nose I stood against the cold wall so I could smell the mix of rainwater and concrete between the layers of brick.

"Toes and nose I stood against the cold wall" is nonsensical. It might start to make sense with a comma after "nose" to form the clause "I stood against the cold wall" but even then, what kind of nose do you have to smell concrete on the other side of a solid brick wall? Again, the conspicuous word order makes your prose stand out and, when that happens, my expectations as a reader, and consequently my willingness to find fault, are significantly heightened.

Effortless it seemed, though effort it took to fly in the face of such power.

Sorry, but the twisted word order in here (and that is regrettably common in other writers' work) always, always, always fills my head with images of Yoda from Star Wars or Gollum from Lord of the Rings. ("Effortless it seemed, my precious, though effort it took.") To me, this is less conspicuous, smoother and easier to read as "It seemed effortless, though it took effort to fly in the face of such power." Only, then, the sentence seems a bit disappointing. Was it effortless or not? So maybe it should be cut back to something like "It made it look effortless to fly in the face of such power."

Soon enough, having never left I suppose, I was back cowering from the rain and lectures, swirling the dregs of my coke, looking back up at that bird.

"Which was it, Mr Dickens, the best of times or the worst of times? It can hardly have been both, now, can it?" (Just to prove that even the big names have done it too...)
As it stands, your sentence is self-contradictory and the "having never left I suppose" not only needs a comma, but also undermines your own writing by destroying its own meaning.

And, finally...

The confessions and the crimes. The lies and alibis, hello’s and goodbyes. The hurt the pain the driving rain the insane the mundane, the change, the same and the same again.

Fire and brimstone. Condemning. Condoning. Damnation. Damn fool. Damn shame.

You are writing a novel, not song lyrics.

OK, I think I should stop now because, if you are still reading, you will probably be starting to hate me.

Having been unrelentingly critical about this piece, I want to end on a positive note, something a bit more positive than merely reiterating that we have all been through a similar journey.

To me, it is clear that you are enjoying writing. The song-lyric style lines that I criticise above are proof enough that you are playing with words and having fun. That's good. Equally, although I found quite a lot of variation in the style of your sentences, you are clearly experimenting with what you write and trying to find your voice. That is also good. If you don't enjoy your writing, nobody else will and if you don't write in a voice that is true to yourself, you won't write the story you want to write. Finally, it is clear that you know the character you are writing about, again, that is good because it will make it convincing.

So, my advice now would be to try another experiment, one that will probably make things a lot easier; don't try so hard.

Think first of all about what you want to say and then just write that - plainly, no fancy stuff - and get the story down, concentrating first on motivation and cause. When you get to the end of a complete first draft, you will have ample time to redraft and add the colour, but you might find you don't need anywhere near so much because you will have so much story that it will carry itself.

Keep asking yourself to the question; "why is this important?" Make Emma's three questions a mantra and apply them to every scene. I'd also recommend having a go at flash fiction - the exercise of squashing a story into a few words means that you start to see what is and is not important. (Plus it is enormously good fun.)

But don't give up.

There is a dreamy quality to the premise of the sub-conscious echoing the current reality while simultaneously echoing a past event that suggests the seed of something in there. I don't think this is the first chapter to communicate that, but I do think that writing at least one full draft of that story will help you to find a better one.

Finally, I hope this is helpful, sorry if it's a bit full-on intense. Thanks for the read!

G

Bates at 23:11 on 15 August 2010  Report this post
Hi Rob -
I've just read your opening chapter.

Let me start with general impressions. You really like playing with words, descriptions, and creating atmosphere. But you haven't told us much about the character or advanced the plot in close to 1,700 words. That's a lot of words to say very little.

The strength of the work are some truly evocative descriptions. This, for example:

"Monuments, testaments to something, reaching like fists to scrape the underside of the brewing storm overhead. One thousand one hundred and forty six lives stacked eye to sky and I had been one of them."

These sentences alone show me you can write. The feeling of insect-like insignificance induced by living inside a concrete block. And again "Eye to sky" - hardly makes sense but works so perfectly here, mixing the human and the brutal (architecture). It felt breathtaking, like being dropped into an ice-cold bath… Economical, clear and to the point.

Then I came to this:

"It got strange then, even stranger than dreaming of falling as the fallen fell. For I swear I floated out into the rain, as high as that bird, braced and bent against that power. Out of body, out of mind too probably but, for a few brief moments I hung, as gentle and still against the storm as that bird, and I saw too. The thing of it was I saw much more besides, a birds eye view few can claim. Whoever, was a single solitary and melancholy soul, but no life is lived alone. From that view and though those birds eyes, under whoever’s feet and through the walls they used to punch, the other thousand hundred and forty five lives lived over, around and through Whoever’s. Some just passed through, others lingered a while longer, either way you couldn’t tell one story without the rest. Behind the glass and brick, every floor, I could see the stories the bird had seen. The confessions and the crimes. The lies and alibis, hello’s and goodbyes. The hurt the pain the driving rain the insane the mundane, the change, the same and the same again. How a whole year had passed paths crossed. How behind every curtain twitch lay a room, every room a story and every story an epic, stranger than, strangers to me."

My comments here are going to sound harsh, and I've hesitated long before putting them down on paper (screen). I also sense you have put a lot of yourself into this piece. However, you have put this work forward as fiction, and anything less than an honest opinion would be an insult. Frankly, I found it horribly overwritten and the sentiment clichéd. The cod religious experience of flying up above the block and taking a God-like view of its inhabitants is simply pretentious and ends with this (paraphrased) cliché: behind every window there is a story... (You probably took a lot of time and trouble writing this but I think you have to start killing your babies.

A similar criticism could be levelled at the paragraph before this one. Overwritten, the author simply exercising his prose style in imagining what the last moments of the suicide's life. A straight, simple description would work so much better. Write it how you would speak it. Last moments (real or imagined) are dramatic and powerful. They don't need to be tarted-up.

A little more on style.
Here, I agree with Gaius: there are sentences which sound contrived and forced; the writing draws attention to itself for no apparent reason. It takes the reader out of the world you are trying to create and puts him back looking at printed words on a page. That's exactly where you don't want him to be. Mr G gave an excellent example. I won't repeat it here.

I feel you are not using your own voice (or that of the character you have created) but are trying to sound 'like a writer.' The paragraph I quoted above is an example: it sounds self-conscious. Maybe a productive exercise would be to write as you would speak. I think your prose would flow, sound alive, and that would be easier on your reader.

To end on a positive note. You have started a lot of hares running: the character’s anxiety, and suicide, the death fixation. I have no idea where you want to take the reader but it is intriguing.

This comes to me as I am about to conclude this crit. My feeling is you are starting in the wrong place…. The paragraph beginning “With no one around… removes the reader from the mundane world of tower blocks to something dreamlike and terrifying. It feels like the beginnings of magic realism in a cold climate.

I endorse Mr G’s comments - relax a little, don’t try so hard to be a writer and simply write. I think you are worth reading and look forward to more.

A


Ren at 17:17 on 17 August 2010  Report this post
HI 3Cred, just a few thoughts for you.

Couldn’t shake the feeling like there was further to fall


Should be: Couldn’t shake the feeling there was further to fall.

a pit I’d trip to


trip into

avoiding creaky floorboards and deep dark hole


this is redundant

still unfamiliar


again, redundant - also 'lightbulb's snap' would actually sound better as 'the snap of the light switch'.

Monuments, testaments to something, reaching like fists to scrape the underside of the brewing storm overhead.


I like this, but I'm finding my eyes travelling back and forth, going over and over the same sentences from pretty much two paras before this onward. There's some lovely imagery etc but it just goes on and on without cease. Exposition after exposition and none of it seems to say anything! We read about the body but then you draw us away by describing flowers to the point of tedium. You then give an inkling as to deep emotional issues plaguing this guy and then run away from them again. Now, whilst I love the image of that seagull it just goes on far too long and loses my interest and focus.

Your writing tends to the flowery and the self-indulgent, it has overtones of melodrama and saccharine sentiment but there are bright glimmers of a truly lovely tale showing in amongst the dross. I hope I'm not being too harsh here but, by golly, loving wordy literature even as I do, this piece lost me and for the bits in it where I spied real potential I truly wanted it to work!

I have yet to read the other crits here but I'd be surprised if they haven't said something similar. You've the makings of something fantastic here, shave off all the unnecessary exposition and affected sentiment and you will see it emerge, clear, sharp and dynamic. Hope I've helped rather than upset here.

Ren.

3cred at 23:02 on 17 August 2010  Report this post
Hi,

sorry Bates, Gaius and Ren, i only just found all this (I really, really don't get how writewords works.) I shall respond properly tomorrow, but thank you for taking the obvious amount of time and you've given me a lot to think about, much of it very accurate and true.

Cheers.

GaiusCoffey at 08:38 on 18 August 2010  Report this post
(I really, really don't get how writewords works.)

It could do with a tutorial screen or two somewhere, certainly, but that might put a certain NMott out of a job!

It's quirky, but you'll get used to it.

The most important part is to look for the little check-boxes that say things like "Email notification of replies" and "Email notification". They mostly default to "don't email me", which is a bit weird for a site where most of us are actively seeking responses, but hey...

In the case of work notifications, when you upload your work (or if you click "Owner Edit") you will see a checkbox called "Email notification" that "Sends you an email when anyone makes a comment." Make sure you check that when you save and then you'll get an email for each time there is a comment.

There's something similar for every forum post and, also, if you go to your "My writewords", there is also a link that will allow you to request emails from IC each time somebody uploads a new piece of work.

G

3cred at 17:56 on 18 August 2010  Report this post
hi,

so i think I can summarise the crit thusly:

Overwritten!

Sorry to boil down so much good advice to a one word soundbite but I need a focus and I think this should be it, mostly because you are all absolutely right. I remember at school being forced to read a Thmoas Hardy novel, his first i beleive, and before we read the opening chapter our teacher pointed out that for that first chapter Hardy was intentiaonally showing off, showing the world and his wife what a great writer he was by using all the language he could think of and then adding a whole bunch more. I remember hating in. And yet 10 or 12 years later i've fallen into the same trap. (Shit did i just compare myself to Thomas Hardy - please ignore the rampant ego that that statement might reveal.) Your opinions have been invaluable because i could not see it. Wood for the trees and all that. I wanted to write brutal lyrical honesty and whilst I think that should still be my aim, I have to reign it in.

Gaius, i think i shall take your specific advice and plan this novel out in the way you have suggested. I have a plan (detailed as I am sure you are not surprised to hear), but it could certain use a vast overhaul.


Please do not feel any of you that you've killed my babies nor offended me, the sole point of me joining writewrods was to recieve some constructive, but neccesairily harsh critique, because my attempts to get anyone interested in my writing were failing so spectacularly. hoping you have started pointing me in the right direction. I will rewrite this and hope you'll be good enough to read the new work. I would also be beyond appreciative if you wouldn't mide critiquing the second chapter i have up, if only for the fact that i THINK it is less overwritten and i need to know if that is the direction i should be heading and how strongly.

once again, that you SO much for the time and effort you all clearly took.


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