Writing Discussion II

[Foledonia]

Are you planning on sharing the journal? Honestly, if you're not, then I would just their names. If someone finds it after your death, they'll probably be dead too, so no big deal.

[Nordengrund]

Are you planning on sharing the journal? Honestly, if you're not, then I would just their names. If someone finds it after your death, they'll probably be dead too, so no big deal.

Well, I do plan to share it eventually by passing it on in the family or publishing it if it's good enough.

[The New World Oceania]

Realized I'm less than a year away from having a diploma recognizing four years' intensive study of creative writing. Neat.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

Realized I'm less than a year away from having a diploma recognizing four years' intensive study of creative writing. Neat.

Nice. Also, welcome back!

[Forsher]

Are you planning on sharing the journal? Honestly, if you're not, then I would just their names. If someone finds it after your death, they'll probably be dead too, so no big deal.

Well, I do plan to share it eventually by passing it on in the family or publishing it if it's good enough.

Deciding who your audience is should be the most critical thing. As I see it, your audience can be you, you + other people in the future (i.e. intentional circulation), you + maybe other people (i.e. acknowledge that maybe you will not be the only person to read it), future you or other people + you (which would probably manifest as keeping it under wraps until you're ready). Discussing these issues explicitly would also really help out any historians reading your journal.

I, from time to time (read: haphazardly, erratically and in a dozen different places, so quite different really), write similar thoughts of things but their intention is to inform a more valid (see critiques of memoir in Bechdel's Are You My Mother?*) memoir kind of thing (i.e. a future you audience). Importantly, the conceived kind of memoir has a very specific focus so I don't really talk about either myself or others too much. However, just looking at one I wrote at the start of the year (an overview of the past six weeks) I noted a reference to (a) a person by first name and (b) something that they may or may not share generally.*** I would assume that I have essentially use a first name convention which could be considered a half-way house, but it's probably the most natural way of writing about things because, maybe you're different, I definitely think in terms of "hey, that's Rachel" or "good old James" etc. etc. However, if I am trying to write a blog (which I have made numerous unsuccessful attempts at doing so) or referring to people like James and Rachel from our example here over on NSG, I change the names or just define them (e.g. "my cousin", "my friend")... but this is more out of concern for my own privacy.

On the other hand, there is a philosophical point which I like to call technical anonymity. This is the idea that you can know someone intimately without knowing who they are (e.g. age, name, appearance). It is an extension of this idea that you will be able to call people whatever and they have no idea whether or not that was actually a person's name or not (especially if we're reading your journal in 200 years or something)... which suggests to me that it doesn't actually matter what you call them.

Finally, I would consider legal ramifications. As a matter of intuition, I would think that Foledonia's advice is probably the best way to insulate yourself from any of these (although, depending what you write, people who know you may be another story). In terms of Defamation (which really, really needs to be taught in schools with the proliferation of the internet... everyone publishes these days), my understanding from an afternoon''s reading a textbook is that you need not name a person (perhaps because of the above concept) as long as you id in some way. So, in this sense, as few identifying details as possible (at least on publication) is probably the way to go but, I am sure, if you do publish in your lifetime, your editor would have a much better (and more relevant) understanding.

Actually, as an actual finally, I dispute the notion of "good enough" as a relevant feature of journals and memoir. There are better written things and there are more interesting things but all things, assuming authenticity of production, are inherently good enough, lest we suddenly declare people, rather than their thoughts, shallow. (Naturally I extend this to reject the concept of personal responses in the English classroom.) Also, the notion that maybe some people have more publisher-friendly (er, good enough) journals is concerning from the point of view of inferring something about the (perceived) reality in which the text was written, so possibly I have two vested interests in disputing "good enough" (I'm also a history student in addition to wannabe memoirist).

*Probably other places but this is (now, at least) what I think of in terms of these. The major point, as I remember things, is that memoirs are basically just memories from years/decades after the fact. I am already highly aware of constructed memories... I may have even constructed the memory of realising this (I can't be sure) but I date it to 2007 and my "rewatch" of Digimon.**

**If you can't link it to Digimon, you shouldn't be writing the post. Basically, I realised that I fused two episodes from both (original) Adventures to create a very awesome scene.

***I don't know them that well, all things considered.

[Skyviolia]

I wrote this

And'th for the father he hath danced, a circle of physis lome'th upon such wavering gesture bestowth upon the rings of fire and the gates of heavenly grasp. For he hath know it not, thou gates and rings is what thou awaits.

This is an allusion to a very well known person and a very well known piece of literature, anyone getting it?

[Anywhere Else But Here]

I wrote this

And'th for the father he hath danced, a circle of physis lome'th upon such wavering gesture bestowth upon the rings of fire and the gates of heavenly grasp. For he hath know it not, thou gates and rings is what thou awaits.

This is an allusion to a very well known person and a very well known piece of literature, anyone getting it?

...Dante? Correct English might make it a little clearer.

[Calimama]

I'm curious, would songwriting fall under the scope of this thread, or the general music thread?

[The New World Oceania]

I'm curious, would songwriting fall under the scope of this thread, or the general music thread?

I'm not sure if we could help you on music theory, but lyrics would be in this thread's purview.

[Calimama]

I'm curious, would songwriting fall under the scope of this thread, or the general music thread?

I'm not sure if we could help you on music theory, but lyrics would be in this thread's purview.

Okay, I might post some songs that I've been writing, I'm not sure if I want to embarrass myself yet.

[36 Camera Perspective]

Wrote a few hundred words to start. Anything promising?

The gilded elevator doors opened bilaterally. Martin Soames board its metallic confines, his stern countenance and civilian pace concealing the inner trepidation accumulating in his mental repository.

Martin was barely cognizant of the same, yellowing promotional poster for Neu Faust tacked onto the cool gray walls. Mephisto, dawning a regal black cape fixed with a fire-red fibulae, watched prodigiously over Faust, preoccupied with the enchantments of his glittering emerald throne. In faded saffron color, the advertisement’s text proclaimed:

You give a piece, abroad in pieces send it!
’Tis a ragout—success must needs attend it;
’Tis easy to serve up, as easy to invent.
A finish’d whole what boots it to present!
Full soon the public will in pieces rend it.

Everybody in Abaddon knew the plot anyway: Faust, thanks to his ardent ally Mephistopheles, was inundated with material wealth and lived out the remainder of his life as a fulfilled human being. In a glowing first page review, Mr. Rubio’s The Current Times heralded the film as “incredibly Suave”, “stripping away the ponderous moral tone of its ancient predecessors with an enthralling tale of prosperity”. Buoyed by the promise of “family fun for all”, the film smashed silver screen records, boasting such impressive numbers that the public was further ensured of its cinematic merit.

With Martin’s touch, a ring of cool red fluorescence enveloped the solitary button marked “3”. The elevator’s ascension coincided with the complete loss of its dim interior light. Preparations for the annual Falling Festival made such austerity necessary.

You’ve really fucked me over, Martin. We’re going to have to discuss your future here. Mr. Rubio’s words, spoken from the Vitaphone fifteen minutes ago, assailed him as if they had been shouted at this instant. Lodged within the darkened, slogging elevator, the residual effect of his invectives ricocheted between the walls and Martin’s helpless ego.

Darkness permeated.

A disconcerted voice: “Where’s my Vitaphone? I need to call Meret.”

Mr. Rubio shuffled the termination papers. Martin shuffled through his empty pockets.

The Vitaphone was still in his model V-8 automobile, parked cautiously at level zero.

Martin, slanted against the silhouette of the elevator walls, waited anxiously. The elevator shrunk to half size. Ninety-nine levels remained.

[The New World Oceania]

I understand we now have a forum moderator in our ranks.

snip

Will read and critique later.

[USS Monitor]

I understand we now have a forum moderator in our ranks.

Yes, though I can't use the mod tools in this thread because I have to keep my modding separate from my personal posting.

Wrote a few hundred words to start. Anything promising?

The gilded elevator doors opened bilaterally. Martin Soames board its metallic confines, his stern countenance and civilian pace concealing the inner trepidation accumulating in his mental repository.

Martin was barely cognizant of the same, yellowing promotional poster for Neu Faust tacked onto the cool gray walls. Mephisto, dawning a regal black cape fixed with a fire-red fibulae, watched prodigiously over Faust, preoccupied with the enchantments of his glittering emerald throne. In faded saffron color, the advertisement’s text proclaimed:

You give a piece, abroad in pieces send it!
’Tis a ragout—success must needs attend it;
’Tis easy to serve up, as easy to invent.
A finish’d whole what boots it to present!
Full soon the public will in pieces rend it.

Everybody in Abaddon knew the plot anyway: Faust, thanks to his ardent ally Mephistopheles, was inundated with material wealth and lived out the remainder of his life as a fulfilled human being. In a glowing first page review, Mr. Rubio’s The Current Times heralded the film as “incredibly Suave”, “stripping away the ponderous moral tone of its ancient predecessors with an enthralling tale of prosperity”. Buoyed by the promise of “family fun for all”, the film smashed silver screen records, boasting such impressive numbers that the public was further ensured of its cinematic merit.

With Martin’s touch, a ring of cool red fluorescence enveloped the solitary button marked “3”. The elevator’s ascension coincided with the complete loss of its dim interior light. Preparations for the annual Falling Festival made such austerity necessary.

You’ve really fucked me over, Martin. We’re going to have to discuss your future here. Mr. Rubio’s words, spoken from the Vitaphone fifteen minutes ago, assailed him as if they had been shouted at this instant. Lodged within the darkened, slogging elevator, the residual effect of his invectives ricocheted between the walls and Martin’s helpless ego.

Darkness permeated.

A disconcerted voice: “Where’s my Vitaphone? I need to call Meret.”

Mr. Rubio shuffled the termination papers. Martin shuffled through his empty pockets.

The Vitaphone was still in his model V-8 automobile, parked cautiously at level zero.

Martin, slanted against the silhouette of the elevator walls, waited anxiously. The elevator shrunk to half size. Ninety-nine levels remained.

The style is too flowery for my tastes. You may be overthinking it or overusing the thesaurus.

As far as the actual content of the scene, nothing wrong with it. The little details like the poster and having the lights go off are good to establish that this is a modern setting, but not quite the world as we know it.

[36 Camera Perspective]

I understand we now have a forum moderator in our ranks.

Yes, though I can't use the mod tools in this thread because I have to keep my modding separate from my personal posting.

Wrote a few hundred words to start. Anything promising?

The style is too flowery for my tastes. You may be overthinking it or overusing the thesaurus.

As far as the actual content of the scene, nothing wrong with it. The little details like the poster and having the lights go off are good to establish that this is a modern setting, but not quite the world as we know it.

I didn't use a thesaurus. I typed the excerpt in a few minutes in a spurt of creativity. The technical phrasing is meant to set a tone of cold, scientific analysis. It's supposed to sound depersonalized, which is a theme I'm going to develop through the story.

[USS Monitor]

Yes, though I can't use the mod tools in this thread because I have to keep my modding separate from my personal posting.



The style is too flowery for my tastes. You may be overthinking it or overusing the thesaurus.

As far as the actual content of the scene, nothing wrong with it. The little details like the poster and having the lights go off are good to establish that this is a modern setting, but not quite the world as we know it.

I didn't use a thesaurus. I typed the excerpt in a few minutes in a spurt of creativity. The technical phrasing is meant to set a tone of cold, scientific analysis. It's supposed to sound depersonalized, which is a theme I'm going to develop through the story.

Ah, OK. It struck me as awkward, but it's your story, so you can do what you like with it. If someone posted the first few pages of Flowers For Algernon for people to critique, they'd probably be told it sucked, but Flowers For Algernon is actually a good book once you get into it and you understand why it's written the way it is.

[Foledonia]

Tin sat in bed, eyes shut in contented bliss. Lara, she had said her name was, rested against his sweaty chest, her deep red hair brushed over her little ear. He could feel her breath rush across his stomach as she snored quietly. They lay cuddled together on the heart shaped mattress, her arms folded around him, his over her shoulder. They had been at it for almost an hour, which had surprised Tin. The room was dimly lit by a candle which flickered and fluttered in the slight draft. He could hear the bustle of the House beyond the door, but it faded into a soothing white noise, lulling him into his current state. She shifted and he looked down at her, those deep sapphire eyes gazing up into his. They sat like that for a few minutes, quietly. "You're not like most girls," Tin said finally. She just smiled and continued to cling to him. Suddenly, her smile faded and she looked away. Tin felt his heart skip. "What's wrong?" he began, but she pulled away. She rolled off the bed and picked up a shawl, covering her body up. "Hey-" he said, but she cut him off.

"Y- You should go," she said quietly, her voice pained by something. Tin felt his heart racing. What had he done? Was it his fault? She seemed to have enjoyed him. There must be something else. Without protest, he stood and began dressing, collecting his crumpled uniform from the fluffy floor. "Thank you," he said sheepishly. He felt like the house was burning down around him. Her eyes glinted at him in the low light, pleading, as if willing him to stay. He buckled his trousers and started for the door. "Wait," she blurted. He froze in his tracks.

"I like you," she said finally. Tin continued to stand there, his shirt clenched in his fist. "I like you too," he replied, his voice measured, metered. He was screaming internally now. The tension filled the room, rising to the boiling point, threatening to bring the roof down. "I- I can't do this," Lara choked out. There was a flicker on her cheek and Tin realized she was crying. He started towards her but she held up her hand and turned her head. "Stop."

Tin didn't stop. He marched over to her like a train on a track and snatched her in his hands. Surprised, she gasped, her eyes flaring at him like headlights. He looked deep into those pools of blue, searching for the flame he knew was there. He leaned in and kissed her, their lips intertwined for almost a minute. She dropped the shawl and he dropped his shirt. The kiss continued, passion flowing between them like raging rapids. She slackened and wrapped an arm around his neck. Tin, hands on her back, felt her unwind, relax. Then they pulled away. "Why," she asked, her eyes searching his for the answer. "You were the first person to ever understand me, to ever give me a chance. I- I've never met anyone like you before," he replied. Tin let go of her and picked up his shirt. She watched him put it on and open the door. "Tin-" she hesitated, "I want to be with you."

Tin stood in the doorway, the sounds of the House now flowing through the room, laughter, moans, music, clinking glasses. "So do I," he began, "but we can't. I'm a soldier. I have a duty." She remained silent, those pools of blue screwed up into a pained expression. They stood there, gazing at each other, wanting, begging, but knowing that their desires were unattainable. She walked over to him, her face inches from his. "Bring me with you. I don't care what you have to do. Get me away from this place. Take me to Foledonia. I want to see the Grand Bazaar. I want to meet your flatmates. I want to spend my time with you."

"Get dressed," Tin said, his mind screaming at him about the consequences. Her face lit up with a smile that melted those worries away.

---

It's from an RP I'm In. I really like this bit I wrote and would like to ferret it away in the idea box for a novel I plan on writing. I want to know if it's good enough.

Thoughts?

[Zeinbrad]

Wrote a short story after watching some clips of No Country for Old Men.

Silent Night (title pending)

His pen flowed freely on a stark white paper, a furnished lamp giving his room a dark orange hue. Leaning back to his oak chair, the name Charles Marson, stenciled into its dark brown arms he took a sip of coffee. The light vanilla taste enlightening his tongue and he let a short satisfied sigh exiting his lips. A soft yet loud thump followed by a short cry caused him to pause mid-sip. Eying the door, he placed his cup down softly.

Another thump and cry followed soon after, causing his hand too subconsciously run through his short brown hair. The air began to feel cold and a feeling of great dread washed through him. He stared at the door, every second feeling like minutes, before he heard a something cutting through the air. Another cry came, this time drawn out and slowly fading away.

He practically jumped out of his chair, hastily locking his door. Sweat running down his pores; he made his way to a phone frantically dialing the numbers.

A metallic hiss caused to pause, his head turning to the door. After what seemed like an hour, it began to slowly open. At first all he could see was a black silencer-short and stubby-followed by the side of a carbine. But as the door opened further, the weapons user appeared from the darkness.

It was a woman, there seemed to have blood on her face but her light red skin made it difficult to tell. She had a wide smile on her face, with bright teeth that almost overpowered her black shoulder-length hair.

“Good day” She said, her voice was pleasing on the ears, yet felt cold. Slowly nodding, Charles slowly moved his hands from his phone, keeping them up.

The woman chuckled, grabbing a chair from the corner, through keeping her weapon pointed at him. She dragged it to the center of the five by five rooms and sat down, crossing her legs.

“Do you mind being a dear and handing me that coffee?” She asked her smile widening. Hesitant, Charles slowly reached for the cup that still sat on his nightstand.

“Quickly now”

Swallowing, he handed the cap to her. Grabbing it a gloved hand, she nodded “Thank you” and then took a sip. She let out a surprised hum, apparently enjoying it.

“Are…are you….” Charles began to mumble before the phone rang, causing him to jump. The woman stared at the phone with an annoyed looking. Before looking at Charles with a warm smile her blues eye almost innocent.

“Answer the phone, tell them that you can’t come tomorrow-that your cancer has relapsed and that the doctor recommends you stay home until further notice”

Raising an eyebrow at her, Charles stared at her. The ring of the phone vibrated through the room, as her smile slowly faded.

“I wasn’t asking”

His soared to the phone, answering it just before the ringing died down. He took a deep breath, not taking his eyes off his assassin.

“Hello? Karen….oh….I uh….can’t” He looked towards her for either guidance or out of fear She simply nodded, smiling all the while and taking sips from her coffee.

“Yeah uh…the doctor said that the cancer….it came back….no I’ll be fine just have to stay a home a few days…..love you” He put the phone back into its receiver with a click, a nervous laughter escaping.

“Good job” The woman smiled, a smug aura emitting off her.

“You’re not….you’re not going to kill me…..right?” Charles said in an almost unintelligible mummer. The women took a long sip, going “ah” as she let the flavor set in. She then reached into her pocket with one hand, giving Charles a thing grey slip, before going back to drinking her coffee.

“By Imperial Decree Charles Marson, Director of Security for the Republic Research Bureau is to be….to be….”


“Killed” She finished, examine her cup. “This coffee isn’t half bad. What brand is it?” She asked, chuckling as Charles shifted his weight, took a moment to eye the clock.
11:30 PM

“It’s….it’s my mother’s secret receipt. She has a farm on….on Alldra” He finally responded. The women nodded, throwing the cup behind her.

“Hmm….perhaps I’ll visit her after our little chat. Share receipts, talk about our husbands-Women talk” She mused, staring back at Charles.

“Of course I’m not here for that.” She licked her black lips, reaching into her pocket again, this time procuring a sleek, streamlined datapad. She handed it to Charles, who reluctantly too it.

“Type the codes, security procedures, everything into that-and I will let you live”

Charles shot the women a look, a mixture of shock and confusion in his expression.

“What? It won’t the first nor the last time I circumvent orders. I like you Charles, you have a…. strength to you.” Her smile began less sinister and more….caring. It seemed as if she was now concerned.

Saying nothing, Charles began typing away, causing the women to nod and mouth thank you. He seemed less nervous, confident now. It took him only moments to finish.

“Here’s everything. I….I know a person that can get me off world, change my face and my name I…how do you plan on explaining my disappearance. I mean a body double is”

The women shushed him; a finger placed her mouth before returning to her weapon. She smiled last time.

“Simple”. Three thumps cracked through the air as Charles jerked, blood beginning to cover his white shirt. He was dead in an instant. Letting out a chuckle, the women stood up, pacing over to the man, letting two more shots sail into his chest. Checking his pulse, she then reached her pocket one last time and brought a metallic object, similar to epipen.

Placing it on his neck, she pressed button. A red line began to fill a white space in the middle of the tube, before filling up and turning into a bright green. She put away, looking around something.

She smiled as spotted an unlit candle. Apparently the late Charles was a romantic. Lighting it, she let it burn for a moment, admiring the flame before pushing the candle of its table. As the room began to burn around her, she paced out, humming a jaunty tune.

Thoughts?

[Foledonia]

Wrote a short story after watching some clips of No Country for Old Men.

-snip-

Thoughts?

I liked the plot, but your use of language and grammar both lack quality. I noticed that you often used the wrong tense or phrased something awkwardly because you used the wrong preposition or pronoun. Apart from that, I enjoyed the characters and setting.

[The New World Oceania]

Tin sat in bed, eyes shut in contented bliss. Lara, she had said her name was, rested against his sweaty chest, her deep red hair brushed over her little ear. He could feel her breath rush across his stomach as she snored quietly. They lay cuddled together on the heart shaped mattress, her arms folded around him, his over her shoulder. They had been at it for almost an hour, which had surprised Tin. The room was dimly lit by a candle which flickered and fluttered in the slight draft. He could hear the bustle of the House beyond the door, but it faded into a soothing white noise, lulling him into his current state. She shifted and he looked down at her, those deep sapphire eyes gazing up into his. They sat like that for a few minutes, quietly. "You're not like most girls," Tin said finally. She just smiled and continued to cling to him. Suddenly, her smile faded and she looked away. Tin felt his heart skip. "What's wrong?" he began, but she pulled away. She rolled off the bed and picked up a shawl, covering her body up. "Hey-" he said, but she cut him off.

"Y- You should go," she said quietly, her voice pained by something. Tin felt his heart racing. What had he done? Was it his fault? She seemed to have enjoyed him. There must be something else. Without protest, he stood and began dressing, collecting his crumpled uniform from the fluffy floor. "Thank you," he said sheepishly. He felt like the house was burning down around him. Her eyes glinted at him in the low light, pleading, as if willing him to stay. He buckled his trousers and started for the door. "Wait," she blurted. He froze in his tracks.

"I like you," she said finally. Tin continued to stand there, his shirt clenched in his fist. "I like you too," he replied, his voice measured, metered. He was screaming internally now. The tension filled the room, rising to the boiling point, threatening to bring the roof down. "I- I can't do this," Lara choked out. There was a flicker on her cheek and Tin realized she was crying. He started towards her but she held up her hand and turned her head. "Stop."

Tin didn't stop. He marched over to her like a train on a track and snatched her in his hands. Surprised, she gasped, her eyes flaring at him like headlights. He looked deep into those pools of blue, searching for the flame he knew was there. He leaned in and kissed her, their lips intertwined for almost a minute. She dropped the shawl and he dropped his shirt. The kiss continued, passion flowing between them like raging rapids. She slackened and wrapped an arm around his neck. Tin, hands on her back, felt her unwind, relax. Then they pulled away. "Why," she asked, her eyes searching his for the answer. "You were the first person to ever understand me, to ever give me a chance. I- I've never met anyone like you before," he replied. Tin let go of her and picked up his shirt. She watched him put it on and open the door. "Tin-" she hesitated, "I want to be with you."

Tin stood in the doorway, the sounds of the House now flowing through the room, laughter, moans, music, clinking glasses. "So do I," he began, "but we can't. I'm a soldier. I have a duty." She remained silent, those pools of blue screwed up into a pained expression. They stood there, gazing at each other, wanting, begging, but knowing that their desires were unattainable. She walked over to him, her face inches from his. "Bring me with you. I don't care what you have to do. Get me away from this place. Take me to Foledonia. I want to see the Grand Bazaar. I want to meet your flatmates. I want to spend my time with you."

"Get dressed," Tin said, his mind screaming at him about the consequences. Her face lit up with a smile that melted those worries away.

---

It's from an RP I'm In. I really like this bit I wrote and would like to ferret it away in the idea box for a novel I plan on writing. I want to know if it's good enough.

Thoughts?

If you're asking if it's good enough for a novel, no one can answer that. I don't think the writing is, from a technical perspective, at the quality of a good novel, no, but it's a silly question. What really matters isn't your technical skill, which will improve, but your plot, your subtext — what the story is going to mean. If you just want to write an action/thriller/romance story, you can disregard what I'm saying.

But if you want to create something that has meaning and literary merit, knowing the story alone isn't going far enough. What would you want a literature class to say if they were studying this? In that vein, I don't think you should try to write a novel, but a short story. It doesn't have to be really short, if you want to write something long (some short stories go up to 10,000 words), but it doesn't need to even be 1,000 words if you don't want it to be. Expand this, is my suggestion, and you'll have a first draft. Bring it to us then, and we can start talking about technical aspects and the message of the story.

So, ultimately, to answer your question: no, I don't think it's appropriate for a novel, but I think it's more than suited to a short story.

[Foledonia]

Tin sat in bed, eyes shut in contented bliss. Lara, she had said her name was, rested against his sweaty chest, her deep red hair brushed over her little ear. He could feel her breath rush across his stomach as she snored quietly. They lay cuddled together on the heart shaped mattress, her arms folded around him, his over her shoulder. They had been at it for almost an hour, which had surprised Tin. The room was dimly lit by a candle which flickered and fluttered in the slight draft. He could hear the bustle of the House beyond the door, but it faded into a soothing white noise, lulling him into his current state. She shifted and he looked down at her, those deep sapphire eyes gazing up into his. They sat like that for a few minutes, quietly. "You're not like most girls," Tin said finally. She just smiled and continued to cling to him. Suddenly, her smile faded and she looked away. Tin felt his heart skip. "What's wrong?" he began, but she pulled away. She rolled off the bed and picked up a shawl, covering her body up. "Hey-" he said, but she cut him off.

"Y- You should go," she said quietly, her voice pained by something. Tin felt his heart racing. What had he done? Was it his fault? She seemed to have enjoyed him. There must be something else. Without protest, he stood and began dressing, collecting his crumpled uniform from the fluffy floor. "Thank you," he said sheepishly. He felt like the house was burning down around him. Her eyes glinted at him in the low light, pleading, as if willing him to stay. He buckled his trousers and started for the door. "Wait," she blurted. He froze in his tracks.

"I like you," she said finally. Tin continued to stand there, his shirt clenched in his fist. "I like you too," he replied, his voice measured, metered. He was screaming internally now. The tension filled the room, rising to the boiling point, threatening to bring the roof down. "I- I can't do this," Lara choked out. There was a flicker on her cheek and Tin realized she was crying. He started towards her but she held up her hand and turned her head. "Stop."

Tin didn't stop. He marched over to her like a train on a track and snatched her in his hands. Surprised, she gasped, her eyes flaring at him like headlights. He looked deep into those pools of blue, searching for the flame he knew was there. He leaned in and kissed her, their lips intertwined for almost a minute. She dropped the shawl and he dropped his shirt. The kiss continued, passion flowing between them like raging rapids. She slackened and wrapped an arm around his neck. Tin, hands on her back, felt her unwind, relax. Then they pulled away. "Why," she asked, her eyes searching his for the answer. "You were the first person to ever understand me, to ever give me a chance. I- I've never met anyone like you before," he replied. Tin let go of her and picked up his shirt. She watched him put it on and open the door. "Tin-" she hesitated, "I want to be with you."

Tin stood in the doorway, the sounds of the House now flowing through the room, laughter, moans, music, clinking glasses. "So do I," he began, "but we can't. I'm a soldier. I have a duty." She remained silent, those pools of blue screwed up into a pained expression. They stood there, gazing at each other, wanting, begging, but knowing that their desires were unattainable. She walked over to him, her face inches from his. "Bring me with you. I don't care what you have to do. Get me away from this place. Take me to Foledonia. I want to see the Grand Bazaar. I want to meet your flatmates. I want to spend my time with you."

"Get dressed," Tin said, his mind screaming at him about the consequences. Her face lit up with a smile that melted those worries away.

---

It's from an RP I'm In. I really like this bit I wrote and would like to ferret it away in the idea box for a novel I plan on writing. I want to know if it's good enough.

Thoughts?

If you're asking if it's good enough for a novel, no one can answer that. I don't think the writing is, from a technical perspective, at the quality of a good novel, no, but it's a silly question. What really matters isn't your technical skill, which will improve, but your plot, your subtext — what the story is going to mean. If you just want to write an action/thriller/romance story, you can disregard what I'm saying.

But if you want to create something that has meaning and literary merit, knowing the story alone isn't going far enough. What would you want a literature class to say if they were studying this? In that vein, I don't think you should try to write a novel, but a short story. It doesn't have to be really short, if you want to write something long (some short stories go up to 10,000 words), but it doesn't need to even be 1,000 words if you don't want it to be. Expand this, is my suggestion, and you'll have a first draft. Bring it to us then, and we can start talking about technical aspects and the message of the story.

So, ultimately, to answer your question: no, I don't think it's appropriate for a novel, but I think it's more than suited to a short story.

When you say technical, what do you mean? I'm not understanding your criticism very well.

[USS Monitor]

If you're asking if it's good enough for a novel, no one can answer that. I don't think the writing is, from a technical perspective, at the quality of a good novel, no, but it's a silly question. What really matters isn't your technical skill, which will improve, but your plot, your subtext — what the story is going to mean. If you just want to write an action/thriller/romance story, you can disregard what I'm saying.

But if you want to create something that has meaning and literary merit, knowing the story alone isn't going far enough. What would you want a literature class to say if they were studying this? In that vein, I don't think you should try to write a novel, but a short story. It doesn't have to be really short, if you want to write something long (some short stories go up to 10,000 words), but it doesn't need to even be 1,000 words if you don't want it to be. Expand this, is my suggestion, and you'll have a first draft. Bring it to us then, and we can start talking about technical aspects and the message of the story.

So, ultimately, to answer your question: no, I don't think it's appropriate for a novel, but I think it's more than suited to a short story.

When you say technical, what do you mean? I'm not understanding your criticism very well.

"Technical" aspects of writing would be stuff like sentence structure, word choice, grammar, etc. Basically, it refers to HOW you write, not what you write about.

[Anywhere Else But Here]

Tin sat in bed, eyes shut in contented bliss. Lara, she had said her name was, rested against his sweaty chest, her deep red hair brushed over her little ear. He could feel her breath rush across his stomach as she snored quietly. They lay cuddled together on the heart shaped mattress, her arms folded around him, his over her shoulder. They had been at it for almost an hour, which had surprised Tin. The room was dimly lit by a candle which flickered and fluttered in the slight draft. He could hear the bustle of the House beyond the door, but it faded into a soothing white noise, lulling him into his current state. She shifted and he looked down at her, those deep sapphire eyes gazing up into his. They sat like that for a few minutes, quietly. "You're not like most girls," Tin said finally. She just smiled and continued to cling to him. Suddenly, her smile faded and she looked away. Tin felt his heart skip. "What's wrong?" he began, but she pulled away. She rolled off the bed and picked up a shawl, covering her body up. "Hey-" he said, but she cut him off.

"Y- You should go," she said quietly, her voice pained by something. Tin felt his heart racing. What had he done? Was it his fault? She seemed to have enjoyed him. There must be something else. Without protest, he stood and began dressing, collecting his crumpled uniform from the fluffy floor. "Thank you," he said sheepishly. He felt like the house was burning down around him. Her eyes glinted at him in the low light, pleading, as if willing him to stay. He buckled his trousers and started for the door. "Wait," she blurted. He froze in his tracks.

"I like you," she said finally. Tin continued to stand there, his shirt clenched in his fist. "I like you too," he replied, his voice measured, metered. He was screaming internally now. The tension filled the room, rising to the boiling point, threatening to bring the roof down. "I- I can't do this," Lara choked out. There was a flicker on her cheek and Tin realized she was crying. He started towards her but she held up her hand and turned her head. "Stop."

Tin didn't stop. He marched over to her like a train on a track and snatched her in his hands. Surprised, she gasped, her eyes flaring at him like headlights. He looked deep into those pools of blue, searching for the flame he knew was there. He leaned in and kissed her, their lips intertwined for almost a minute. She dropped the shawl and he dropped his shirt. The kiss continued, passion flowing between them like raging rapids. She slackened and wrapped an arm around his neck. Tin, hands on her back, felt her unwind, relax. Then they pulled away. "Why," she asked, her eyes searching his for the answer. "You were the first person to ever understand me, to ever give me a chance. I- I've never met anyone like you before," he replied. Tin let go of her and picked up his shirt. She watched him put it on and open the door. "Tin-" she hesitated, "I want to be with you."

Tin stood in the doorway, the sounds of the House now flowing through the room, laughter, moans, music, clinking glasses. "So do I," he began, "but we can't. I'm a soldier. I have a duty." She remained silent, those pools of blue screwed up into a pained expression. They stood there, gazing at each other, wanting, begging, but knowing that their desires were unattainable. She walked over to him, her face inches from his. "Bring me with you. I don't care what you have to do. Get me away from this place. Take me to Foledonia. I want to see the Grand Bazaar. I want to meet your flatmates. I want to spend my time with you."

"Get dressed," Tin said, his mind screaming at him about the consequences. Her face lit up with a smile that melted those worries away.

---

It's from an RP I'm In. I really like this bit I wrote and would like to ferret it away in the idea box for a novel I plan on writing. I want to know if it's good enough.

Thoughts?

It's frustrating trying to follow dialogue when you're not starting a new line for a new speaker, especially for someone trying to read over it several times to provide criticism. Formatting your dialogue correctly will also allow you to eliminate unnecessary tags.

You seem in danger of switching to 3rd person omniscient here:

They stood there, gazing at each other, wanting, begging, but knowing that their desires were unattainable.

Finally, the actual content is bugging me. The second sentence ("Lara, she had said her name was,") seems to suggest that these two characters have just met, perhaps hooking up after only a brief introduction, but they speak to each other as though they're deeply in love and know each other intimately. Obviously, I don't know the context or the characters, so if you can justify it, great. If not, it's (maybe) something to think about.

[Foledonia]

Thanks for your feedback guys.

[Foledonia]

Finally, the actual content is bugging me. The second sentence ("Lara, she had said her name was,") seems to suggest that these two characters have just met, perhaps hooking up after only a brief introduction, but they speak to each other as though they're deeply in love and know each other intimately. Obviously, I don't know the context or the characters, so if you can justify it, great. If not, it's (maybe) something to think about.

Sorry, there is a fair bit of context left out of my snipped. I'm sorry if anything seemed to not make sense. That's probably why, honestly.

[Soviet Haaregrad]

What's your take on multiple unreliable narrators and a resulting story that's never an objective telling but always through viewed through the lens of whichever character's PoV it's being shown from? Too confusing to make it work, or it's fine to leave 'what really happened' ambiguous and let the reader decide who's telling the truth and to what extent?