Writer's Dump: Post and Critique

[JGP]

I've been in writing groups, I've done workshops-- workshops, even, where another writer had a personal axe to grind. Once, I was even the recipient myself. She'd published about 7 short stories and thought she was a big noise. Her critique was more than a little ugly but I'll admit that though I didn't enjoy it, despite her issue with me she did make one valid criticism that in turn, helped. So...  You're never going to get the human out of humanity. 

Take from it what you can. If you feel so slighted that you must make a personal issue of it, take it to private message.

---

Same as before. Post a snippet or Chapter for a critique. Normal workshop rule, don't expect a critique if you're not providing the same for others. After all, this is not a place to showcase your writing, it's to get feedback on what does and doesn't work with the aim to help. 

If you're not posting something of your own, or providing feedback on someone else's, don't post. 

[JGP]

Reposting: I've been working on something, off and on for quite some time now. I had to cut one of the arcs for the sake of the story [a few, actually] but every now and then I'd return to this one in particular and try to find a way to make it work. Still haven't figured it out. Maybe I won't. Whatever. Anyway, during a few of those revisits I also tried compressing it into a short story-- which butchered it, frankly, but at this point it's a semi-chronic itch. I haven't scratched at it for a few or more months now, excepting a little buff before posting. It's just a snip [didn't want to exceed that] but since a few of you have tossed in your ante, figured I should pony up.

---

 

No word from the neighbors.

A numb blur, Gostyata strode the slushy banks of the river svol. Studied her make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar. No sign of recent fire, just a sobering grey draft of ashen snow between brooding stone and winter lichen.

Maybe she took a far ride without telling anyone, to clear her head. She’d done it before. He paused to slowly trace Breca’s charcoal drawings upon a menhir. Never for three nights though. We did this. Took her too far from where she could find herself.

Uchelfar had to weigh in. Perhaps they’d give Breca till morning.

The candles were burning at home, but she met him at the door with a raised voice. ‘You two and your arguments!’

Gostyata’s mouth dropped open. ‘How did we even… I wasn’t expecting that!’

‘Look,’ Uchelfar thrust an empty fist in his face, her anger fierce. ‘This should be full of notes of worth.’

‘Why did we keep those anyway?’ You can’t leave anything behind you carry with you. Gostyata faced the fire. ‘So here’s the price to pay for easy. We’re too close to home. If she was serious, that’s what we need to decide, right now. And what to do.’

‘What to do, Gostyata? You go get your horse and you fucking find her!’

‘She could be up on the plateau with Suma and Bazoul,’ he snapped, immediately regretting it. The apology caught in his chest as Uchelfar grabbed him, moving on.

‘You’ll find her. I’ll pack some things. You take Saqr and two of the brood raptors. Send word.’

But Gostyata was only partially listening-- another part fixated on signs he shouldn’t have missed. ‘Suma and Bazoul. Always with the names, every godsdamned pet she ever had. How didn’t I see this?’ His teeth ground. ‘She wouldn’t have been as exposed to it all, if we’d gone out further into the reaches of the Inuusiq she might never have heard anything.’

‘Gostyata. Listen.’ Uchelfar was grave. ‘She’s had her run of the pantry, has taken Suma and that damn goose, and has enough credit to see her well into Teremnon if she’s permitted passage the wending way.’

Their argument. Breca’s accusation and no matter how he equivocated, the stark certainty in her eyes. She knew. And the siege at Hammerung Fall. He hadn’t even known until she told him. Gostyata crumpled into his chair, stared far eyed into flames until he actually heard what Uchelfar had said. No. ‘She would not.’

‘That’s why!’ Uchelfar threw her hands into the air, ushered him to the door. ‘Don’t bother chasing around for her trail anymore, you know where she’s gone. And I have to stay with little Bean.” She’d kept talking even as she violently rammed foodstuffs into his pack, but that last seemed to soften her. She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll try to sort things and follow as soon as I can. If I can. And if you ride hard we can relay the birds at the peak, use the skytale at Summit Hall. I’ll send up. Send word back.’ 

Gostyata stood before the threshold, glanced across the shadowed laths of the ceiling. Uchelfar stood on her toes to touch her nose to his. He pulled her close with his good arm. The other he slowly held out. It was withered and shrunken, a lean garrote of visceral white. The long fingers flexed, incongruent knuckles cracking loudly.

Uchelfar grabbed his face. Her hands smelled like lavender. His gaze fixated on his wife’s chin until she lifted his regard. When he met her dark eyes, Gostyata’s voice cracked. ‘If she’s gone the wending way… ’

‘I know.’ She kissed him before he crumbled.

While Uchelfar went into the cold cellar, he grabbed the hides of his two old hounds, fell and faithful, missing them now more than ever. He’d never been able to shake the habit of having his kit ready, nor the need to recheck it even when none had touched it. As he did so Uchelfar returned, bearing the hjörr.

From beneath its dusty and mummified wrap of glyphic runes, the shortsword trilled a keen kind of smug.

Over a decade and he took it up with only the slightest hesitation, slung its baldric over his shoulder. Its proximity made his ghost arm ache. Gostyata ignored that and grabbed his great round shield, braced his legs to test its heft, but when he looked up something in Uchelfar’s face seized him. 

On the deck came a fretful goodbye of gentle touches, love and reassurance, but distraction made it a sorrowful thing of quiet words and silent promise.

 

###

 

Hard they rode, up into the mountains toward the wending way. Branches broke about them, before them, across her face and shoulders-- each blow a rebuke. Breca leaned into the neck of her horse to wipe both the sting and salt from her face, but Suma was salty too. At least he was warm.

Tears frozen or forgotten, she eventually nodded off, in and out of dream. Mother picking her up and brushing her off, her infectious laugh the best kind of wash for hurt. Father joining in, bent over his knees in laughter so hard he couldn’t breathe. Then him again, and when confronted his lying right to her face, despite the olives incised into the surface of his shield, despite his deformed arm. But when she looked away, Breca saw it was her own reflection she didn’t recognize anymore. All of that against a background, the reverberating beat of Hammerung Fall and the long throated reeds of the hollow dead. 

She startled awake, nearly flailed out of her seat, but it was just Bazoul rooting for the bag of seed at her waist. Downy and reassuring, she hugged the bird fiercely as the three of them rode on. Breca was shaking and the grey goose honked irritably.   

‘Soon,’ she said, and it was sooner than she thought. Grain for Suma and Bazoul, while she mulled over hard bread and harder cheese. Would he be fooled? He may not be who she thought he was, but that wasn’t the all of him either. He was still her father, and him… him she knew.

Yes. He’d refuse to believe it, determine to wait her out. He and mother would fight. Delay. Breca’s imagination ran wild with purpose.

Three nights!

 

###

 

Days, Breca reeled in her saddle. Nights. They stopped where the Summit Hall stood, a bleak structure in the background, forgotten. While Breca set Bazoul down gently, Suma broke the ice of a streamlet to drink.

A measured lead. Breca brushed her hands. She would have a fire. The grey goose slept through the process of gathering what winter dried wood she could, desiccated branches all. Kindling arranged first, a quick spark flint, tinder twisted lazily up. The greed of fire rarely needs encouragement, her mother once said. Despite her exhaustion Breca managed a wane smile, warmed by its growth.

Her passage into the fabled pass had been across ground that was particularly forbidding. The wending way. How could such a thing come to be, and despite her parents deliberate choice to keep her in the dark, how could she not have known of it? It’d repeatedly thrown select acts of her life in her face with such malevolent focus that only marvel held her up. It was as bad as Gull of the Inuusiq had said…

Breca couldn’t be sure how far ahead of her father she was, but there was no way he wasn’t coming and come this far, he wouldn’t stop. She yawned, poking at the fire with a stick even as Bazoul woke long enough to waddle over and settle in her lap. Petting him absently, she took small pride in a plan well executed. Father didn’t want do anything about it, fine. She’d make him.

If she slept she’d have to ensure some kind of... the thought slipped. Breca fed the fire unmindfully, and gradually fell asleep.  

Dream became cast in amber. Dinner. Voices raised. Things that couldn’t be unsaid.

 

###

 

Bazoul honked in alarm.

Breca bolted awake. Father.

Slow in coming to her, she caught her breath once she realized she hadn’t been caught. Slept longer than she wanted to, but there was something… Breca rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Near dawn made crystalline whatever it touched upon the pass. She stood and stretched, but out of the corner of her eye, something-- there. A large boulder that she hadn’t noticed in the night’s dark now lay athwart her path, seeming to dwarf the trees somehow.

Its surface was ancient yet weathered nowhere softly, humpbacked with outcrops of rock that were bearded with moss and tubes of grass. Suma huffed and moved between it and her, but with a steady hand on his flank Breca made her way around her protective horse.

Indecipherable symbols were worn into its surface, flowing things. Resonant with a singsong she couldn’t begin to understand, motes arose from the runes to funnel around her outreached hand. Breca let out an amazed laugh. Startling her further, the boulder unfolded.

All stone dark and fur, its bare head stark white excepting a fringe of long greasy hair that fell from the circumference if its crown to intermingle with the lichen and small stalactites beneath its chin. Its eyes were lost beneath the crags of its furrowed brow, unfathomable. Twin nose slits huffed in her scent. Chitinous black lips.

Her mind skipped over and over until something momentous compelled her across the gap. She stood upon her toes and along skin as cold as stone she brushed the side of its face. The contact sent her careening around the confines of her being, hammering against the glass of her skin.

She saw things that made her weep.

Chittering lazily above them both, the motes whispered upon their invisible tethers, bound to an elemental figure that in turn was bent beneath the mountains upon its back. The behemoth sat upon its stumpish legs beside her, and the warder of the gap placed an engulfing hand upon her back.

Its great claws did not cut her.

After a time she wiped her tears, and noticed trails of mist looping up from the ground toward them. The warder of godshead gap stood, turned back for a long look then lumbered away into the haze, and into the midst of a muffled sunbeam that had filtered through the trees. Where, as if a dream it then broke apart and trailed away, forgotten in the air.   

Breca hugged herself against the morning chill. Suma came up and bumped against her after she’d scooped up a very subdued grey goose. Slowly their bond brought her back.

The way was open.

 

###

 

Breca’s hands worried. ‘You look after him, but don’t sell him.’

‘How’s that,’ the stabler said, spreading his hands. ‘If I get a bill from a Lordsget or some merchant wolf, I have to produce.’

Suma had been injured somehow on their descent from the mountain, so it had proven to be a long walk down. Her grey goose had complained the entire way. ‘He can’t go on with me, but you have other horses. I’ll be back for him.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘My name is Hempwick.’ The weathered man’s smile faded as she produced a handful of notes. He grabbed her hands and looked around cautiously but the tone of his voice hushed her alarm. ‘Until you get back then, but you hide those, hear?’

‘Of course,’ Breca felt a fool. Her face burned. ‘Thank you.’

He led out a painted. Rested and restive, the horse was well cared for. Mounting up, she asked where they were.

“Just outside the Red Wood of the Hume,” he said, giving her the reins and a considering look. ‘Where would you go?’

 

###

 

[Darth Richard II]

Board Tip: when any board member comes in and starts acting like a not nice person, we should all just report him/her and not start flinging names around(which I am certainly guilty of). It should solve the other threads, uh, issues.

[Muwhahaha]

9 hours ago, JEORDHl said:

Reposting: I've been working on something, off and on for quite some time now. I had to cut one of the arcs for the sake of the story [a few, actually] but every now and then I'd return to this one in particular and try to find a way to make it work. Still haven't figured it out. Maybe I won't. Whatever. Anyway, during a few of those revisits I also tried compressing it into a short story-- which butchered it, frankly, but at this point it's a semi-chronic itch. I haven't scratched at it for a few or more months now, excepting a little buff before posting. It's just a snip [didn't want to exceed that] but since a few of you have tossed in your ante, figured I should pony up.

---

 

No word from the neighbors.

A numb blur, Gostyata strode the slushy banks of the river svol. She (s)Studied her make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar. No sign of recent fire, just a sobering grey draft of ashen snow between brooding stone and winter lichen.

Maybe she took a far ride without telling anyone, to clear her head. She’d done it before. He paused to slowly trace Breca’s charcoal drawings upon a menhir. Never for three nights though. We did this. Took her too far from where she could find herself.

Uchelfar had to weigh in. Perhaps they’d give Breca till morning.

The candles were burning at home, but she met him at the door with a raised voice. ‘You two and your arguments!’

Gostyata’s mouth dropped open. ‘How did we even… I wasn’t expecting that!’

‘Look,’ Uchelfar thrust an empty fist in his face, her anger fierce. ‘This should be full of notes of worth.’

‘Why did we keep those anyway?’ You can’t leave anything behind you carry with you. Gostyata faced the fire. ‘So here’s the price to pay for easy. We’re too close to home. If she was serious, that’s what we need to decide, right now. And what to do.’

‘What to do, Gostyata? You go get your horse and you fucking find her!’

‘She could be up on the plateau with Suma and Bazoul,’ he snapped, immediately regretting it. The apology caught in his chest as Uchelfar grabbed him, moving on.

‘You’ll find her. I’ll pack some things. You take Saqr and two of the brood raptors. Send word.’

But Gostyata was only partially listening-- another part fixated on signs he shouldn’t have missed. ‘Suma and Bazoul. Always with the names, every godsdamned pet she ever had. How didn’t I see this?’ His teeth ground. ‘She wouldn’t have been as exposed to it all, if we’d gone out further into the reaches of the Inuusiq she might never have heard anything.’

‘Gostyata. Listen.’ Uchelfar was grave. ‘She’s had her run of the pantry, has taken Suma and that damn goose, and has enough credit to see her well into Teremnon if she’s permitted passage the wending way.’

Their argument. Breca’s accusation and no matter how he equivocated, the stark certainty in her eyes(awkward sentence). She knew. And the siege at Hammerung Fall. He hadn’t even known until she told him. Gostyata crumpled into his chair, stared far eyed into flames until he actually heard what Uchelfar had said. No. ‘She would not.’

‘That’s why!’ Uchelfar threw her hands into the air, ushered him to the door. ‘Don’t bother chasing around for her trail anymore, you know where she’s gone. And I have to stay with little Bean.” She’d kept talking even as she violently rammed foodstuffs into his pack, but that last seemed to soften her. She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll try to sort things and follow as soon as I can. If I can. And if you ride hard we can relay the birds at the peak, use the skytale at Summit Hall. I’ll send up. Send word back.’ 

Gostyata stood before the threshold, glanced across the shadowed laths of the ceiling. Uchelfar stood on her toes to touch her nose to his. He pulled her close with his good arm. The other he slowly held out. It was withered and shrunken, a lean garrote of visceral white. The long fingers flexed, incongruent knuckles cracking loudly.

Uchelfar grabbed his face. Her hands smelled like lavender. (Combine sentences)  Uchelfar grabbed his face with hands potent with lavender or with lavender scented hands ) His gaze fixated on his wife’s chin until she lifted his regard. When he met her dark eyes, Gostyata’s voice cracked. ‘If she’s gone the wending way… ’

‘I know.’ She kissed him before he crumbled.

While Uchelfar went into the cold cellar, he grabbed the hides of his two old hounds, fell and faithful, missing them now more than ever. He’d never been able to shake the habit of having his kit ready, nor the need to recheck it even when none had touched it. As he did so Uchelfar returned, bearing the hjörr.

From beneath its dusty and mummified wrap of glyphic runes, the shortsword trilled a keen kind of smug (awkward).

Over a decade and he took it up with only the slightest hesitation (and)  slung its baldric over his shoulder. Its proximity made his ghost arm ache. Gostyata ignored that and  (Ignoring it, he) grabbed his great round shield, braced his legs to test its heft, but when he looked up something in Uchelfar’s face seized him. 

On the deck came a fretful goodbye of gentle touches, love and reassurance, but distraction made it a sorrowful thing of quiet words and silent promise.

 

###

 

Hard they rode, (They rode hard) up into the mountains toward the wending way. Branches broke about them, before them, across her face and shoulders-- each blow a rebuke. Breca leaned into the neck of her horse to wipe both the sting and salt from her face, but Suma was salty too. At least he was warm.

Tears frozen or forgotten, she eventually nodded off, in and out of dream. Mother picking her up and brushing her off, her infectious laugh the best kind of wash for hurt. Father joining in, bent over his knees in laughter so hard he couldn’t breathe. Then him again, and when confronted his lying right to her face, despite the olives incised into the surface of his shield, despite his deformed arm (Awkward sentence structure). But when she looked away, Breca saw it was her own reflection she didn’t recognize anymore. All of that against a background, the reverberating beat of Hammerung Fall and the long throated reeds of the hollow dead. 

She startled awake, nearly flailed out of her seat, but it was just Bazoul rooting for the bag of seed at her waist. Downy and reassuring, she hugged the bird fiercely as the three of them rode on. Breca was shaking and the grey goose honked irritably.   

‘Soon,’ she said, and it was sooner than she thought. Grain for Suma and Bazoul, while she mulled over hard bread and harder cheese. Would he be fooled? He may not be who she thought he was, but that wasn’t the all of him either. He was still her father, and him… him she knew.

Yes. He’d refuse to believe it, determine to wait her out. He and mother would fight. Delay. Breca’s imagination ran wild with purpose.

Three nights!

 

###

 

Days, Breca reeled in her saddle. Nights. They stopped where the Summit Hall stood, a bleak structure in the background, forgotten. While Breca set Bazoul down gently, Suma broke the ice of a streamlet to drink.

A measured lead (awkward) . Breca brushed her hands. She would have a fire. The grey goose slept through the process of gathering what winter dried wood she could, desiccated branches all. Kindling arranged first, a quick spark flint, tinder twisted lazily up. The greed of fire rarely needs encouragement, her mother once said. Despite her exhaustion Breca managed a wane smile, warmed by its growth.

Her passage into the fabled pass had been across ground that was particularly forbidding. The wending way. How could such a thing come to be, and despite her parents deliberate choice to keep her in the dark, how could she not have known of it? It’d repeatedly thrown select acts of her life in her face with such malevolent focus that only marvel held her up. It was as bad as Gull of the Inuusiq had said…

Breca couldn’t be sure how far ahead of her father she was, but there was no way he wasn’t coming and (having) come this far, he wouldn’t stop. She yawned, poking at the fire with a stick even as Bazoul woke long enough to waddle over and settle in her lap. Petting him absently, she took small pride in a plan well executed. Father didn’t want do anything about it, fine. She’d make him (combine).

If she slept she’d have to ensure some kind of... the thought slipped. Breca fed the fire unmindfully, and gradually fell asleep.  

Dream became cast in amber. Dinner. Voices raised. Things that couldn’t be unsaid.

 

###

 

Bazoul honked in alarm.

Breca bolted awake. Father.

Slow in coming to her, she caught her breath once she realized she hadn’t been caught. (She had) Slept longer than she wanted to, but there was something… Breca rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Near dawn made crystalline whatever it touched upon the pass. She stood and stretched, but out of the corner of her eye, something-- there. A large boulder that she hadn’t noticed in the night’s dark now lay athwart her path, seeming to dwarf the trees somehow.

Its surface was ancient yet weathered nowhere softly, humpbacked with outcrops of rock that were bearded with moss and tubes of grass. Suma huffed and moved between it and her, but with a steady hand on his flank(,) Breca made her way around her protective horse.

Indecipherable symbols were worn into its surface, flowing things. Resonant with a singsong she couldn’t begin to understand, motes arose from the runes to funnel around her outreached hand. Breca let out an amazed laugh. Startling her further, the boulder unfolded.

All stone dark and fur, its bare head stark white excepting a fringe of long greasy hair that fell from the circumference if its crown to intermingle with the lichen and small stalactites beneath its chin. Its eyes were lost beneath the crags of its furrowed brow, unfathomable. Twin nose slits huffed in her scent. Chitinous black lips (combine).

Her mind skipped over and over until something momentous compelled her across the gap. She stood upon her toes and along skin as cold as stone she brushed the side of its face. The contact sent her careening around the confines of her being, hammering against the glass of her skin.

She saw things that made her weep.

Chittering lazily above them both, the motes whispered upon their invisible tethers, bound to an elemental figure that in turn was bent beneath the mountains upon its back. The behemoth sat upon its stumpish legs beside her, and the warder of the gap placed an engulfing hand upon her back.

Its great claws did not cut her.

After a time she wiped her tears, and noticed trails of mist looping up from the ground toward them. The warder of godshead gap stood, turned back for a long look then lumbered away into the haze, and into the midst of a muffled (tree-filtered) sunbeam that had filtered through the trees. Where, as if a dream it then broke apart and trailed away, forgotten in the air (awkward sentence).   

Breca hugged herself against the morning chill. Suma came up and bumped against her after she’d scooped up a very subdued grey goose. Slowly their bond brought her back.

The way was open.

 

###

 

Breca’s hands worried. ‘You look after him, but don’t sell him.’

‘How’s that,’ the stabler said, spreading his hands. ‘If I get a bill from a Lordsget or some merchant wolf, I have to produce.’

Suma had been injured somehow on their descent from the mountain, so it had proven to be a long walk down. Her grey goose had complained the entire way. ‘He can’t go on with me, but you have other horses. I’ll be back for him.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘My name is Hempwick.’ The weathered man’s smile faded as she produced a handful of notes. He grabbed her hands and looked around cautiously but the tone of his voice hushed her alarm. ‘Until you get back then, but you hide those, hear?’

‘Of course,’ Breca felt a fool. Her face burned. ‘Thank you.’

He led out a painted (horse?). Rested and restive, the horse was well cared for. Mounting up, she asked where they were.

“Just outside the Red Wood of the Hume,” he said, giving her the reins and a considering look. ‘Where would you go?’

 

###

 

Overall, it's good but a lot of your sentence structure needs re-working.  Too often, you use this type of structure: Standing there, he did this and this.  Running for his life, the trees.....etc.  I don't know what it's called but I'm guilty of its overuse as well.  Also, a lot of your sentences could be combined.  So, sentence structure is where you need to focus.  The content is good.  But repetitive or awkward sentences jars the reader out of the story.

[JGP]

Ok, so you have some stylistic issues [I use sentence fragments like bullets, that isn't going to change; good call on the run-ons though] but, just to be clear: no confusion regarding what it's about [so far] no issues seeing what's going on or where it's going [potentially] no problematic characterization? 

[Spockydog]

12 hours ago, JEORDHl said:

Ok, so you have some stylistic issues [I use sentence fragments like bullets, that isn't going to change; good call on the run-ons though] but, just to be clear: no confusion regarding what it's about [so far] no issues seeing what's going on or where it's going [potentially] no problematic characterization? 

I'll echo what Muwhahaha said. You need to work on your sentence structure, and cut unnecessary words. Particularly the adverbs. Get rid of as many of them as you can.

Also, you could do with tightening up the POV.

A numb blur, Gostyata strode the slushy banks of the river svol. Studied her make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar. No sign of recent fire, just a sobering grey draft of ashen snow between brooding stone and winter lichen.

Maybe she took a far ride without telling anyone, to clear her head. She’d done it before. He paused to slowly trace Breca’s charcoal drawings upon a menhir. Never for three nights though. We did this. Took her too far from where she could find herself.

------

These first couple of paragraphs are very confusing. Is Gostyata male or female? Who is he/she thinking about? Is the make-believe castle Gostyaya's, or whoever it was that took a ride. Is the 'he' I've highlighted a typo? 

Also, 'Studied her make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar.'

This sentence alone made me want to stop reading. It makes no sense whatsoever. If I read that in a published book, I would have binned it immediately.

 

[JGP]

You actually didn't read beyond the first 3 paragraphs, hahaha... All questions are answered shortly after that, and Gostyata's gender in the 2nd-- but good points. I'll take a look at tightening up the opening of the PoV. 

[sologdin]

 

Quote

 

No word from the neighbors.

A numb blur, Gostyata strode the slushy banks of the river svol. Studied her make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar. No sign of recent fire, just a sobering grey draft of ashen snow between brooding stone and winter lichen.

Maybe she took a far ride without telling anyone, to clear her head. She’d done it before. He paused to slowly trace Breca’s charcoal drawings upon a menhir. Never for three nights though. We did this. Took her too far from where she could find herself.

 

J--

at first, i was a bit disoriented by the presentation--the pronouns didn't make sense for me until the second or third time through, as the names are not obviously genderable when initially confronted (i assume that the setting's internal rules will reveal eventually the gendering of names).  that said, the formal presentation of fragments, confused pronoun antecedents, and absent grammatical subjects only fits the substantive content introduced by rhetorics such as 'no word' and 'numb blur.' that's kinda a kickass way to match form and content.  that said, it is labor intensive and presumes a certain diligence and attention to detail in the ideal reader.  not something to alter, but something to consider vis-a-vis marketability.

maybe i work through the rest later.  thanks for posting.

[JGP]

I approach it that way for sure, Soggy. Wolfe is one of my favorite authors, and while there's no overt attempt to emulate I'd be lying to myself if I said his style hasn't at least influenced my own [and I'm making no claim whatsoever to his level of quality] That said, if it's too obscure that's definitely a problem. Thanks for taking the time, looking forward to your thoughts on the body of it if/when you do.

[Spockydog]

19 minutes ago, JEORDHl said:

You actually didn't read beyond the first 3 paragraphs, hahaha... All questions are answered shortly after that-- but good points. I'll take a look at tightening up the opening of the PoV. 

No, I read it. But you need to make it clearer, earlier, who he or she is thinking about. Any confusion can be easily remedied by adding her name to this sentence.

Maybe Breca took a far ride without telling anyone, to clear her head.

Or if the make believe castle is Breca's...

Studied Breca's make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar.

But then again, how is Gostyata able to study it if it's make-believe?

-----

Above all else, strive for clarity. A potential reader might not read beyond these first couple of paragraphs with things so unclear. Take Gostyata. In one paragraph you refer to her as she, but in the next, she's a he.

ETA: Just seen your above post. Well, if you're going for a Gene Wolfe vibe, then go for it, clarity be damned! 

 

[JGP]

This is why getting critiques is key, I'm way too close to it. Way I look[ed] at it, the opening, No word from the neighbors, there's an objective implicit in this statement -someone is looking for something- and from there all things follow, with, as Soggy has said, diligence. It makes sense to me, but that's me, and so this post comes full circle.  

I'll leave it inthread as is but will definitely make some minor changes along the lines you and Muwha have suggested.

He studied Breca's make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar, ought to clear PoV and subject in question up.

 

Thanks, man.

 

 

 

[Spockydog]

6 minutes ago, JEORDHl said:

He studied Breca's make believe castle on the dolmened fringe of a sandbar, ought to clear PoV and subject in question up.

 

It clears up the POV confusion, but you're still left with the problem of someone studying someone else's make believe castle. If it's make-believe, it doesn't exist. Therefore, how can Gostyata study it?

 

[JGP]

He's her father. He's checked with the neighbors and with no word, is doing what a father would do if searching for a child- scope their usual haunts. And if he knows the dolmens on the sandbar are a haunt of hers then it isn't a leap much further that he'd understand the dolmens are her make believe castle-- because he's either witnessed her play there or played there with her himself.

Seems like logical extensions to me, but then, I have two children [laughs at self] 

Good point.

[polishgenius]

I do like the sentence 'studied her make-believe castle', but it is confusing. If you can add a touch around it to clarify it'd be nice to keep it but it might be one of them moments where one just needs to

Also, the idea of a dolmen - or dolmens plural-  on a sandbar bothers me somehow. Wouldn't they wash away under them and collapse pretty rapidly? Sandbars are pretty much by definition not stable features.

[polishgenius]

Anyway I posted a bit in the other topic just as the other fella started his shit, so I guess I'll repost it here. As I said then, one of my main worries here is finding the balance between clarity and clunky exposition, so feedback on how that's gone would be lovely.
 

  Hide contents

 

The rush of wind brings me awake. I'm falling; they must have thrown me off the edge. When I open my eyes, the city is already a glittering toy above me. I try to spread my wings: not much happens, except I see white and nearly black out again. Oh fuck, they broke my wings. The fuckers broke my fucking wings! It takes me a second to get there, then panic hits me like a punch in the gut; ShitshitshitI'mgoingtodie. Coherent thought breaks down for a bit.

When it comes back, I'm still falling. The city must be high today. That's saved me for now. Let's try to make something of it. My wings screaming their protest in a bar of pain across my back, I twist in the air to look below. No clouds today; good, I can judge this. Good job they knocked me out quickly too: they didn't see that I do more than fly. I twist again, feet down now, and flexing my fingers I reach for the aether.

Suddenly the wind's on my side. A sharp motion, palms up, brings it rushing up at me. My fall slows sharply. I can get a few bearings now, and I see I'm coming down on one of the sprawling dirty things the grounded call a city. I can't land there, too many things to bounce off, so a gesture sends me sideways fast, arcing away out over the countryside. Suddenly I'm spinning, I've forgotten I can't rely on my wings for balance and the world goes tumbling past me as I motion desperately to bring myself level and I need to aim myself at something flat and clear and preferably soft but right now I'm just seeing green and blue and green and blue and...

By the time I see the ground again it's way too close and fuck I'm carrying too much speed this is going to hurt I hit the ground feet first as my right leg buckles and I roll the pain takes my world away again

 

I come awake, for real this time. I've long stopped bolting upright in blind panic, but still I hate those dreams. I could take the pills that stop them, but they slow my thinking, so I hate them even more. I'll just have to put up with the remembered ache of limbs I’ve lost.

Just once, though, I wish I could dream about flying.

 

The grime on the windows means the sunlight doesn't so much stab my eyes as wave apologetically, but still it's there and it's waving at me that it's time to get up.

I check the clock. Ten to seven, not worth rolling over, I might as well make a start. I swing myself out of bed and over to the bathroom. Fucked if I'm using sticks or the chair in my own apartment, so I've installed a set of bars and rests to get around; heaving myself about my own place is about the closest I get to being airborne now, sad as that is. A one-winged Sylph might be the most pitiful kind; on my low days I feel a half-fledged mockery.

Today though I’m alright. It’s been ten years, I try not to dwell on it. I shower, shave and all the rest, then I grab the paper in from the corridor and sit down in the kitchen with my morning coffee.

The headlines are the usual pap but there's stuff in there about the refugees from fallen Cirra; histrionics really but I skim it anyway, they're flooding into the city hundreds by the day and as a Sylph with local knowledge I'll be moving in those circles soon enough. The speculation about why it fell is getting increasingly lurid; of course the press won’t let a complete lack of knowledge of Sylph politics or mechanics stop them from their duties to inform their public.

Having smirked my way through it, pretended to have no interest in the celebrity gossip, and glanced at the latest sport, I shovel some cornflakes down me, and head out. Today’s my monthly lunch with Lena, and I need to get some work done first.

 

[Muwhahaha]

19 minutes ago, polishgenius said:

The rush of wind brings me awake. I'm falling; they must have thrown me off the edge. When I open my eyes, the city is already a glittering toy above me. I try to spread my wings: not much happens, except I see white and nearly black out again. Oh fuck, they broke my wings. The fuckers broke my fucking wings! It takes me a second to get there, then panic hits me like a punch in the gut; ShitshitshitI'mgoingtodie. Coherent thought breaks down for a bit. 

When it comes back, I'm still falling. The city must be high today. That's saved me for now. Let's try to make something of it. My wings screaming their protest in a bar of pain across my back, I twist in the air to look below. No clouds today; good, I can judge this. Good job they knocked me out quickly too: they didn't see that I do more than fly. I twist again, feet down now, and flexing my fingers I reach for the aether. 

Suddenly the wind's on my side. A sharp motion, palms up, brings it rushing up at me (a little awkward). My fall slows sharply. I can get a few bearings now, and I see I'm coming down on one of the sprawling dirty things the grounded call a city. I can't land there, too many things to bounce off, so a gesture sends me sideways fast, arcing away out over the countryside. Suddenly I'm spinning, I've forgotten I can't rely on my wings for balance and the world goes tumbling past me as I motion desperately to bring myself level and I need to aim myself at something flat and clear and preferably soft but right now I'm just seeing green and blue and green and blue and...

By the time I see the ground again it's way too close and(,) fuck(,) I'm carrying too much speed this is going to hurt(.) I hit the ground feet first as my right leg buckles and I roll the pain takes my world away again

 

I come awake, for real this time. I've long stopped bolting upright in blind panic, but still I hate those dreams. I could take the pills that stop them, but they slow my thinking, so I hate them even more. I'll just have to put up with the remembered ache of limbs I’ve lost.

Just once, though, I wish I could dream about flying.

 

The grime on the windows means the sunlight doesn't so much stab my eyes as wave apologetically, but still it's there and it's waving at me that it's time to get up.

I check the clock. Ten to seven, not worth rolling over, I might as well make a start. I swing myself out of bed and over to the bathroom. Fucked if I'm using sticks or the chair in my own apartment, so I've installed a set of bars and rests to get around; heaving myself about my own place is about the closest I get to being airborne now, sad as that is. A one-winged Sylph might be the most pitiful kind; on my low days I feel a half-fledged mockery.

Today though I’m alright. It’s been ten years, I try not to dwell on it. I shower, shave and all the rest, then I grab the paper in from the corridor and sit down in the kitchen with my morning coffee.

The headlines are the usual pap but there's stuff in there about the refugees from fallen Cirra; histrionics really but I skim it anyway,(.) (T)they're flooding into the city hundreds by the day and as a Sylph with local knowledge(,) I'll be moving in those circles soon enough. The speculation about why it fell is getting increasingly lurid; of course the press won’t let a complete lack of knowledge of Sylph politics or mechanics stop them from their duties to inform their public.

Having smirked my way through it, pretended to have no interest in the celebrity gossip, and glanced at the latest sport, I shovel some cornflakes down me, and head out. Today’s my monthly lunch with Lena, and I need to get some work done first.

Overall, I really like it.  I think you use too many semi-colons where periods would work.  Plus, too many semi-colons is jarring to me; even though I actually love using them.  Love your flight description.  I would like some more of it but it probably works best with the little you have.

Beautiful sentence: The grime on the windows means the sunlight doesn't so much stab my eyes as wave apologetically,

Good stuff.

[polishgenius]

I definitely have a semi-colon addiction, I'll have to smooth that out. I want to avoid too many full-stops because I want his thoughts to feel a little loose and ragged and I think they'd puncture the flow of that, but I've definitely got too many semi-colons clustered together in a fragment that short.

The bit at the end of the flashback that you added some punctuation into I left that way on purpose to ram his thoughts together to try to convey panic- dunno if that worked. Shall have to think about it.


Cheers.


And I am perhaps a little too proud of that sentence you quoted.  

[Spockydog]

6 hours ago, JEORDHl said:

He's her father. He's checked with the neighbors and with no word, is doing what a father would do if searching for a child- scope their usual haunts. And if he knows the dolmens on the sandbar are a haunt of hers then it isn't a leap much further that he'd understand the dolmens are her make believe castle-- because he's either witnessed her play there or played there with her himself.

Seems like logical extensions to me, but then, I have two children [laughs at self] 

Good point.

Yes, that all makes sense, but...

'He studied her make-believe castle' makes no sense. At all.

'He studied the place on the dolmens where she used to build her make believe castle' (or words to that effect) makes much more sense.

Just don't have him studying anything that the text says does not exist.

And Polish is right, a dolmen would probably sink if built on a sandbar. Far less likely to sink on a sand dune though...

[Spockydog]

2 hours ago, polishgenius said:

Anyway I posted a bit in the other topic just as the other fella started his shit, so I guess I'll repost it here. As I said then, one of my main worries here is finding the balance between clarity and clunky exposition, so feedback on how that's gone would be lovely.
 

Hidden Content

I knew this was going to be good before I revealed the hidden contents.

I really like this, but I'm a sucker for fallen angels. Loving the laid back, slightly sweary style. There's exposition, but not too much, and it's far from clunky. And I don't mind the semi-colons. Some writers use loads and loads, whilst others barely use them at all. I don't think it's anything to get too worked up about.

Would definitely read more.

 

[JGP]

I liked it too, PG.

So, the opening in italics-- a dream of the accident that cost him one of his wings, or are the two not related? 

 

edit: belay that. on my second read through it seems more clearly the case