Descent (part 1)

Okay, so if you haven't read the prologue yet, you can. It's up to you, really, because everything from there doesn't come into play until quite a while later. Here it is anyway: viewtopic.php?t=65407

And here is the next chunk. Apologies for the awkward breaking point--I'm dividing it by words and not by important events in order to facilitate critiquing.

--

A rooster screeched and Nicolai coughed—a deep, lazily furious sound that made him blink his eyes open. They were green, in their way: deep, algae-choked pools that surrounded black pinpoints and swallowed the whites of his eyes in a vast obscurity. Blonde hair, still with the corn-husk whiteness of youth, dripped into his face and he shook it violently away. As he twisted his head, he dropped perilously to one side. He reached out to steady himself, rocking back into tentative equilibrium in the dusky white lawn chair. The chair, the only furniture in the room aside from the card table, groaned in feeble annoyance, utterly perturbed at being so misused.

“Shaddup, shaddup,” Nicolai soothed it, patting one of its metal legs reassuringly as he settled forward once more. His elbows rested gingerly on the tabletop, mindful of the sorry state of its various and uncomplicated structural components. Nicolai’s breath fluttered in his chest, oxygen suddenly elusive as he studied the set of cards that sat before him. Solitaire was a simple game—

Simple games for simple people he reminded himself, smiling.

—a simple game that could be played, firstly and most importantly, alone.

Nicolai’s hands were drawn to his face, rubbing reassuringly at the dark circles that surely lurked beneath his lower lids. These were the shadows of Tuesday afternoon, just now caught up to him in his garage-turned-home. Wednesday’s shadows would come tomorrow, if he was lucky, continuing the cycle in a predictable metronome. He leaned forward, over the chair’s vocal consternation, flipping another set of three cards from the top of the deck. It was the last set, and the table’s pitted surface was revealed: stark contrast to the pristine surface of the cards.

The young man’s rough jaw worked itself sideways, making little chewing motions as his brow lowered in concentration. When he saw that his last three cards were homeless—without mates on the vast, rickety table, he sighed and eyed the poker chips piled absently just out of reach. He counted to himself, mouthing the numbers as they were dragged from him.

He reached into his back pocket, taking too long to find the only thing concealed there: a dark wallet that was emaciated and narrow-looking. Flipping through it, he pulled out a handful of carefully pressed bills, counting with his mouth but not his voice as he watched the poker chips with angry eyes. He tossed the bills forward, careless now that they were out of his grasp in the dented center of the table. He grabbed a cigarette and his lighter from his breast pocket, drawing them out in a motion so familiar that it made the corner of his mouth twitch.

He cupped his hand around the blessed, unfiltered slice of silence as he lit it, tossed it briskly at the pile of bills in the center of table.

Nicolai watched the bills go up like so much kindling, twisting in on themselves in tongues of delighted orange flame. Dead presidents pleaded from pixilated faces as he reached forward, rescued his cigarette, and took a grateful breath.

It was a tricky business, gambling with yourself.

Nicolai took another puff of nicotine and withdrew, watching the smoke stream from his mouth in a short burst of ash that crackled against the heat of the fire. Smoke and flame went together nicely, and he dwelled on the image for a short while, holding each breath in his mouth and then expelling it as he stoked the fire. After a time he rose, sighing, to beat the bills into smoldering piles of tattered paper, where they sat and coughed little streams of light, quiet grey into the stale air.

He examined each bill with a somber, almost comical air, and he swept the sad, greenish remnants to the concrete floor where they settled forlornly. He tossed his cigarette to the ground as well, stomping it out with a booted heel to mingle in the concrete with his weekly earnings.

Mariel had seen this ritual once, back in the time before when this angry, twisted sort of man had been married and felt normal some days. His wife had been baffled, as most people would be, watching the pale lifeblood of civilized life crackling in the darkness. Wide, dark eyes had tugged at the nape of his neck while he puffed on his cigarette and watched the ashes burn. When he finally turned to her, something broke.

The two of them had been married right out of high school—blissful and stupid and in love. Mariel, Nicolai later thought, had not fallen in love with the person he was, but rather the person she thought he was. She imposed rationality on someone who became more and more irrational as the nights stretched into days.

The rooster babbled softly to itself, eyes half closed as it watched Nicolai. It blinked awake, regarded him for a moment before fluttering to the ground from its perch on the table and retreating to a corner, where it observed him soberly. Its expression was cynical, and Nicolai caught himself in the middle of his third step. He forced his heels together, breathed slowly. Pacing was a bad habit borne of impulsivity, compulsiveness. Violence, his mind reminded him: violence and anger and fear, laced together in a writhing twist of emotion and ignorance. As he stopped, the rooster shuffled approvingly.

The animal was black, mostly. Its head was narrow and streamlined, at odds with its plumed body and ostentatious appearance. Its eyes were golden, flecked liberally with translucent brown. Obsidian feathers pooled around it as it settle and regarded Nicolai with a single eye, turned to one side and dilated in the semi-darkness of their borrowed garage.

--

This is obviously very rough and skeletal right now, but I would appreciate all kinds of critiques (brutal or not!) for this particular piece. Thank you!!!

Shepherd wrote: A rooster screeched and Nicolai coughed—a deep, lazily [to me 'lazily' sounds a little awkward. maybe you could have 'lazy' instead] furious sound that made him blink his eyes open. They were green, in their way [i think it would've sounded better to leave it at 'they were green'. the bit after that sound awkward to me, i don't quite know what you're trying to say. do you mean 'in their own way?'] : deep, algae-choked pools that surrounded black pinpoints and swallowed the whites of his eyes in a vast obscurity [nice description]. Blonde hair, still with the corn-husk whiteness of youth, dripped into his face and he shook it violently away. As he twisted his head, he dropped perilously to one side. He reached out to steady himself, rocking back into tentative equilibrium in the dusky white lawn chair. The chair, the only furniture in the room aside from the card table, groaned in feeble annoyance, utterly perturbed at being so misused.

“Shaddup, shaddup,” Nicolai soothed [odd word to use. when i think of soothing i think of someone stroking something, your mc is telling an object to shut up. oh, and about that, it's a bit strange don't you think? if the chair was making such a loud noise it may be understandable, maybe you could mention that above, all you've put down is that it 'groaned'] it, patting one of its metal legs reassuringly [again, an odd think to do, or maybe it's just me] as he settled forward once more. His elbows rested gingerly on the tabletop, mindful of the sorry state of its various and uncomplicated structural components. Nicolai’s breath fluttered in his chest, oxygen suddenly elusive as he studied the set of cards that sat before him. Solitaire was a simple game—

Simple games for simple people he reminded himself, smiling.

—a simple game that could be played, firstly and most importantly, alone.

Nicolai’s hands were drawn to his face, rubbing reassuringly at the dark circles that surely lurked beneath his lower lids. These were the shadows of Tuesday afternoon, just now caught up to him [awkward sentence] in his garage-turned-home. Wednesday’s shadows would come tomorrow, if he was lucky, continuing the cycle in a predictable metronome. He leaned forward, over the chair’s vocal consternation, flipping another set of three cards from the top of the deck. It was the last set, and the table’s pitted surface was revealed: stark contrast to the pristine surface of the cards.

The young man’s rough jaw worked itself sideways, making little chewing motions as his brow lowered in concentration. When he saw that his last three cards were homeless—without mates on the vast, rickety table, he sighed and eyed the poker chips piled absently just out of reach. He counted to himself, mouthing the numbers as they were dragged from him.

He reached into his back pocket, taking too long to find the only thing concealed there: a dark wallet that was emaciated and narrow-looking. Flipping through it, he pulled out a handful of carefully pressed bills, counting with his mouth but not his voice as he watched the poker chips with angry eyes. He tossed the bills forward, careless now that they were out of his grasp in the dented center of the table. He grabbed a cigarette and his lighter from his breast pocket, drawing them out in a motion so familiar that it made the corner of his mouth twitch.

He cupped his hand around the blessed, unfiltered slice of silence as he lit it, [and] tossed it briskly at the pile of bills in the center of table.

Nicolai watched the bills go up like so much kindling, twisting in on themselves in tongues of delighted orange flame. Dead presidents pleaded from pixilated faces as he reached forward, rescued his cigarette, and took a grateful breath.

It was a tricky business, gambling with yourself. [really confused here]

Nicolai took another puff of nicotine and withdrew, watching the smoke stream from his mouth in a short burst of ash that crackled against the heat of the fire. Smoke and flame went together nicely, and he dwelled on the image for a short while, holding each breath in his mouth and then expelling it as he stoked the fire. After a time he rose, sighing, to beat the bills into smoldering piles of tattered paper, where they sat and coughed little streams of light, quiet grey into the stale air.

He examined each bill with a somber, almost comical air, and he swept the sad, greenish remnants to the concrete floor where they settled forlornly. He tossed his cigarette to the ground as well, stomping it out with a booted heel to mingle in the concrete with his weekly earnings.

Mariel had seen this ritual once, back in the time before when this angry, twisted sort of man had been married and felt normal some days. His wife had been baffled, as most people would be, watching the pale lifeblood of civilized life crackling in the darkness. Wide, dark eyes had tugged at the nape of his neck while he puffed on his cigarette and watched the ashes burn. When he finally turned to her, something broke.

The two of them had been married right out of high school—blissful and [maybe you could lose the 'and' here and replace it with a comma] stupid and in love. Mariel, Nicolai later thought, had not fallen in love with the person he was, but rather the person she thought he was. She imposed rationality on someone who became more and more irrational as the nights stretched into days. [nice]

The rooster babbled softly to itself, eyes half closed as it watched Nicolai. It blinked awake, regarded him for a moment before fluttering to the ground from its perch on the table and retreating to a corner, where it observed him soberly. Its expression was cynical, and Nicolai caught himself in the middle of his third step. He forced his heels together, breathed slowly. Pacing was a bad habit borne of impulsivity, compulsiveness. Violence, his mind reminded him: violence and anger and fear, laced together in a writhing twist of emotion and ignorance. As he stopped, the rooster shuffled approvingly.

The animal was black, mostly. Its head was narrow and streamlined, at odds with its plumed body and ostentatious appearance. Its eyes were golden, flecked liberally with translucent brown. Obsidian feathers pooled around it as it settle and regarded Nicolai with a single eye, turned to one side and dilated in the semi-darkness of their borrowed garage.

I understand that this is in its rough stages so I'll just make a few comments that you're free to take on board or not when it comes to writing a final draft.

Right now there's something missing in this piece, though I can't quite put my finger on what is missing exactly. You've managed to create a really great character so far who, as a reader, I feel as though I understand; a gambler who'se life has spiralled out of control. Well done for managing to portray that because it's difficult, yet you've managed to make it look effortless. I love the stuff with his cigarette and cards and the back-story about his wife - it all compliments your character and story...the only problem is that I feel that while describing your MC, there isn't much you've offered the reader in terms of a story-line, you haven't left anything at the end to grab the reader's attention in order for them to want to read more, but perhaps that was your intention...

Saying that, I definitely want to read more. Apart from a few awkward sentences and spelling mistakes, you've done a really great job here and I love the uniqueness to your piece, it's what makes it even more nice to read. I hope my critique has been helpful and good luck with this piece

*coco

P.S: I haven't read the prologue, I'll probably get to that soon

Hey Shepherd!

Again, I really enjoy your style. The writing is clear, yet sophisticated and detailed enough to keep the reader engaged without being overbearing. It's great, even if it is rough!

Alright, if I don't get on to the critique I'll just keep praising.

I'm not seeing how the prologue fits in, but as this is only the first chapter I'm quite sure I'll find out eventually! So that's not much to worry about yet. Though, I'm going to have to echo coco here as I'm not seeing much of a story-line or plot yet. Your character is well-established already, so I'd like to see a plot start to come into effect.

I don't have any grammar things to comment on, it looks like coco has taken care of that. Again, I love your style and would love to keep reading this. I hope to see some sort of a beginning of a plot soon! Good luck, and keep writing!

-Lauren-

*coco: You're right, no storyline yet! I debated this, but I want it to be simple for readers to get a handle on my characters before I launch right into the weirdness that will shortly ensue. The prologue (or first chapter, depending on your point of view) has a little more of a hook, because the setting and tone is so drastically different. This isn't an entire chapter, only a quick section (I'm doing this by word count, as I mentioned). Thank you so much for your critique! It is the specifics that I get tangled in, and I appreciate your play-by-play criticism. =)

Lauren: I'm still on the fence about the prologue. It's important (vital, really) to the story, but I wonder how much patience a reader will have before I bring everything together. Enough, I hope. Suffice to say, it will be a while before it ties into the story. Hopefully, the rest of what I have will be enough to engage readers!

And, a general comment: the plot is coming! Really! I promise! It just takes a while to get started!!!

Thanks again, both of you! =)

Hey,

I've just read your prologue & this first segment (since apparently it's not the full first chapter). And while you write beautifully and have some excellent turns of phrases, there's also a lot of awkward imagery. More importantly, I feel like these first two installments of the story are drowning in description. Some of it vital and potent, some of it unnecessary and kind of flimsy.

This wouldn't be a problem except that it feels like this story is 85% description, 15% character. That 15% is comprised of little slips of character that I've gleaned from this entire piece, and I find that fairly troubling. Nothing is driving this story forward, neither character nor plot -- the only thing that really keeps me reading is your word choices, which isn't enough for any typical reader. (By "typical" I mean "anyone who doesn't have intentions of writing a critique".) This is something like two and a half pages in a word-processing document (so, maybe 3-4 pages in novel terms) when I think it can be reduced to two paragraphs, maybe three at most. Not because events are happening that can be cut out (although maybe there are), not because we're learning about aspects of our character (because we aren't really) but because there's just so much extraneous description.

Stuff like:

A rooster screeched and Nicolai coughed—a deep, lazily furious sound that made him blink his eyes open. They were green, in their way: deep, algae-choked pools that surrounded black pinpoints and swallowed the whites of his eyes in a vast obscurity.

A few specific nitpicks: I'm not sure how a noise can be lazily furious (or anything, for that matter) since fury is a fairly heated passionate state of being and laziness is, well, not that. Secondly, way too many words devoted to him coughing + waking up. There are words to describe coughing that probably encompass what you're looking for -- hack, wheeze, a phlegmmy cough (phlegmmy not technically being a word), a choked cough -- any number of much more precise and vivid world selections that are also much briefer.

Two: his eyes. You use 25 words to describe his eyes. The vivid image here is "algae-green", everything else is superfluous, verging on indulgent. The "black pinpoints" and "whites of his eyes" are all unnecessary; we all know of the pupils & whites of eyes. As for describing eyes as "pools", it goes in the same category as describing eyes as "orbs". It's a fairly huge cliche. You're very clearly a talented writer with a knack for description, so I would encourage you not to lean on these writing crutches.

The point that I want to make is that you spend 25 words on these eyes when all you need to spend is 2, and the reader will still emerge from this section with the same idea of his appearance. Look out for descriptions like these, which last too long and are not nearly as effective or succinct as they could be.

I would suggest going back with a highlighter (editing on paper copies are always useful) and highlighting all the purple prose in this section (and, for that matter, the prologue-y section). Like the paragraphs devoted to the burning bills. Or the rooster. Even throwaway lines within other passages. Description can be powerful when it's used to illuminate key images, or establish important motifs. Maybe you plan to use the rooster throughout the story, to establish a theme of some sort. In which case, it's perfectly okay to dwell on the image of the rooster, to describe it in detail. But to stop at every single possible image and elaborate upon its intricacies will only drive your readers away. More importantly, it will take the power away from those pivotal images (such as, perhaps, the rooster).

That, and it's making the story drag.

Going back to the highlighter and the purple prose: once you've highlighted all your descriptive sentences and passages, I would suggest you try and cut out maybe 45 to 50 percent of it. You may not even need to do the highlighter thing, but it will probably help you just to see how and where you've been overwriting. (Since you made a throwaway comment about overwriting in the author's note, I suspect you're quite aware of the problem.) I strongly believe that this can be reduced to a page, maybe less, maybe a smidge more.

Be critical, too, of the images that you keep. You have a lot of contradictory imagery. Stuff like:

corn-husk whiteness of youth, dripped into his face

or

pale lifeblood of civilized life crackling in the darkness.

You start with one image to describe a thing, and mid-description, jump to another image to describe thee same thing. Corn-husks don't drip, lifeblood doesn't crackle -- there are other examples of this throughout this first section and the prologue.

There's also things like this:

a dark wallet that was emaciated and narrow-looking

Pick "emaciated" or "narrow-looking", but not both. They conjure similar images, with "emaciated" being the more vivid descriptor.

The last imagery-related oddity that stuck out to me was the occasionally inappropriate word that muddles the existing imagery. Things like this:

losing his hat to the hungry asphalt.

This may just me be, but I found the image of the "hungry asphalt" to be more of a head-scratcher than anything else. The asphalt isn't consuming the hat, and there's little else to indicate its "hunger", so this didn't strike me as a particularly useful or vivid image.

These are style-related nitpicks, but I do think that being aware of them may alleviate your content-issues, in that once you pare down all of these incongruous bits of imagery, you'll be left with much fewer words.

It's hard for me to critique this further because I don't know how your story is going to progress. I will say, however, that as a reader, this setup of characters and even tone isn't doing a lot for me just yet. As I mentioned earlier, the existing text can be condensed a great deal (moreso the second installment than the first). If you want to lay more groundwork for the story, I would encourage you to actually focus much more on the characters than the surrounding description. If you're trying to give us some setup, give us some more about this character. Backstory, relationships, anything you think is truly vital before you launch into the plot. I'm still not even convinced that this setup is necessary, and that you can't just plunge into the events of your story, but I guess I can reserve judgment on that for now.

Edited for clarity and general usefulness after I got over the initial sting of your review =) It really is useful and right on the beam (hence the sting!)

Overwriting is something that I do tend to run into in my rough drafts. I like to think that it remedies itself later on in this story especially, but as you have nothing to compare this adjective avalanche to I can see how you would feel a little...overwhelmed. And underwhelmed by the plot, perhaps, though that would remedy myself (I think) if the reader could get a larger chunk at a time.

My biggest problem with posting bits of this is deciding where to cut everything off. Each "chapter" is a novel-length chapter, and that unfortunately means that I can't post the whole thing at once without scaring off anyone who might be inclined to give this a go in the first place. I actually am not having any glaring content issues as yet (right now I'm set at about 24,000 words), but it looks like I'm going to end up doing some major character overhaul in the end.

One thing that doesn't sit too well with me though is the suggestion you gave with regard to background information. I really am not into the whole, "Oh hey, I'm the MC and this is my past and here's some information about all my previous relationships and I won the spelling bee in the third grade." I don't want to pack this with irrelevant fluff that is too often the subject of many half-rate novels. Stuff the reader really needs to know will be given to him, but only as he needs it, I think.

I do sincerely hope that you will continue to read it, if only because your input has been excellent (and unfortunately correct). But if you hate it, feel free to abandon it for something more interesting =)

Just wanted to stop by and make some quick notes.

- It's always tricky, trying to figure out where to stop and where to go (in terms of posting chapters). I would suggest trying to find the most natural break in the narrative and stopping there. Transitions are a good place to start; when the time or setting changes, the segue is probably the easiest place to chop up the chapter. I personally don't mind reading large chunks of chapters, but I understand the worry of scaring people off.

- Regarding the background information, I understand having an issue with extraneous details, but what I meant was that this was an opportune moment to set up vital information that will play a role further in the story. You mentioned you wanted to reserve information until it was absolutely necessary, but then I begin to question the purpose of an initial setup. (Which is what this chapter was designed to be, no?) An intro setup is usually used to familiarize the reader with the main character and his status quo -- the minutiae of the world in which he exists. (As in, relevant minutiae, things that will come into play throughout the story, not unnecessary details.) I can appreciate the desire to keep the reader in the dark, but, again, then what's the point of this chapter? You either play it out slowly, giving the reader a chance to sink their teeth into the character, or you jump into the story and the conflict and let them discover the character as the action unfolds.

- I didn't mean to imply that you personally had content issues (as in, were unaware of how you wanted the story to progress), but rather that the story had content issues (as in, the description-to-actual-content ratio). I believe you when you say that the reader will be drawn into the story the further it progresses, but I think it's a potential issue that they're not drawn in yet. At least, into the first chapter. Put it this way: your prologue is a perfect example of how to maintain a slow & steady pace with lush language but with enough details about the world and the character to keep the reader riveted. Using that as an example of your style / tone done right is probably a great place to start. (I know you want this to be somewhat different in style, but it's at least a reference point of what you're doing really well.)

I think right now, my question to you is -- what do you want to achieve in this first section? What is the purpose of this chapter? What thoughts & sensations do you want the readers to emerge with? Once you've actually narrowed that down, it may be a lot easier to go back through it and pinpoint whether or not you think it's effective (or, whether or not your readers think it is effective).

It's a little trickier because I didn't realize you're still in the process of writing it, in which case I would perhaps suggest to you to write out the entire story before you go back and revise it. Of course it depends on the way you write, but it may be better to focus on finishing this entire draft instead of going back and polishing the first few chapters. (To be fair, if this was me, I would probably want to polish up these first few chapters -- again, it depends on how your writing thrives.)

- Finally, I'm not sure if I gave off the impression of hating it, but I really didn't. As I said earlier, your prologue is quite solid, and you have some really lovely strong stuff in here. It's a bit lost in the occasionally less-strong text, but I'm interested to see how you flesh it out and how this story will evolve. Good luck writing & rewriting. : )