Time

Written to a song of the same name, as are most things I write.

It was cold here. Not yet winter, and it was already cold enough that he needed a sweater (or a jacket, God forbid) to set foot outside. Actually, he needed one just to be inside, because he was refusing to turn on the heat in the hopes that through his denial, he would stave off winter. It wasn’t working, he realized as he sat in the window seat, his forehead against the freezing glass.
It wasn’t working because at five in the morning, he had woken up, shivering, and been unable to go back to sleep, and that was why he was sitting at the window, staring at the sun rising up over the buildings around him and spilling into the streets.
And it wasn’t just the feel of the cold—it was the smell. The cold somehow sterilized everything so that seemed tasteless and unappealing.
He sighed and closed his eyes, curling his hands further under his knees to gain as much warmth as possible. He closed his eyes against the cold city. He closed his eyes against the sight of his arms caught up in long sleeves. He closed his eyes against what the sunlight reminded him of. He closed his eyes against his breath curling frostily in front of him and sticking to the window.
And he must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere quite different thank the small, cold room high up in the city. But looking around, he found that he knew this place, that he had been here before, so perhaps it wasn’t a dream after all. What it could be, then, he didn’t know. But it didn’t matter, because it was warm.
He looked down and saw his feet, pale rippling shapes below the rushing water. The small waves sucked at his ankles, and he dug his fingers into the low stone wall that ran alongside him. There was no beach at this part of the lake—just a stone ramp, and the stones were slick with years’ worth of grime, filling up the holes in the stone worn by the relentless water like cruft.
He blinked his eyes and squinted against the sun directly ahead of him, rising over the blue hills and burning away the morning mists. As the sun climbed, slowly, it melted over the water, rippling and shining like liquid copper.
And if he turned around, he knew he’d see the sun drenching the faded blue hydrangea bushes that grew wildly along the length of the walking park. He’d see the grass looking gold-plated and the air sparkling because of the sprinklers. Beyond the startlingly green vegetation, he’d see the cafes pandering to ex-pats and tourists with names like Café Gigi and La Belle Dame. If the breeze drifted just right, he’d smell the coffee just beginning to be brewed layered on top of the particular smell of the lake and of the grass and the flowers that were all over the place, like weeds.
But to make the picture really complete, he would have to be able to turn his head and see a second pair of feet in the water next to him, and feel a hand brushing against his every few minutes. And if he looked up, he should see her standing next to him, looking at him, her eyes pierced by the sunlight so that they glowed with the intensity of the grass and the water and the flowers—
The microwave beeped in the room, and he opened his eyes. Fitfully, he tried to recapture the other place, but it was gone so fast he questioned whether it had been there at all.
He got up, his legs protesting, and it was like trying to unfold a slightly-rusted beach chair. He stuck his hands beneath his arms and, hunched over, went to retrieve last night’s re-heated coffee.

And he must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere quite different thank the small, cold room high up in the city. But looking around, he found that he knew this place, that he had been here before, so perhaps it wasn’t a dream after all. What it could be, then, he didn’t know. But it didn’t matter, because it was warm. That is my favorite part because it has so many details I just love it keep up the great work.

I almost skipped over the important part. The transition between his dream and back to reality is the only thing that makes this piece worth reader, because it changes the way we feel about him sitting there and hating the cold. The problem is that with that at the beginning, I got bored really quickly. How interesting is it to watch a guy sitting and hating the cold?

The introduction to him is necessary, though, so we can feel the change from the beginning to the end. I just think it drags on too long.

And it wasn’t just the feel of the cold—it was the smell. ...

He closed his eyes against his breath curling frostily in front of him and sticking to the window.

Most of that should be cut. Of course we have to actually watch him falling asleep, but I think you can replace these two paragraphs with a single sentence and do the same thing, pull off the same effect.

And he must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes, he was somewhere quite different thank the small, cold room high up in the city. But looking around, he found that he knew this place, that he had been here before, so perhaps it wasn’t a dream after all. What it could be, then, he didn’t know. But it didn’t matter, because it was warm.

And what is up with this paragraph, huh? "He was here, but he wasn't, but he couldn't have been, so maybe he was". It's so confusing and it says nothing, so cut it. Leave us just a few hints here and there and we can figure out that it's a dream. Especially if you play on the warmth that surrounds the water, a place where it's not cold anymore. We'll know he couldn't have gotten that far in so short of a time and realize it's a dream from that.

Then get to the lady more quickly. Unless the place is significant to him, which it doesn't seem to be in what you have here, show us what is. Spend a little more time with her. What does it feel like when he tries to speak to her? Can he? Does she answer? Give them something that will affect him even more deeply than just the sight of her, something he'd carry back into real life, like the feeling of words spoken on his tongue when everything around him is cold and silent.

Pump this up in some places and trim it in others, and remember that the important thing is that we feel differently about him after he experiences this. I feel for him. I feel bad that he's trapped in the cold and I don't even need to know what happened to her to miss her with him. So that's good. ( : Just work on it a little more.

Let me know if you have any questions.

Hannah
And this?

@Hannah

I understand where you're coming from with the points you made and the criticisms you've offered, which are, as usual, very thoughtful. However, I think you've really missed the point of the piece, and I'm actually not sure you understand the point of how I write in general. I know you've brought this up before, but you say that I need to have more of a point in my writing, and that I don't give you enough to be interested in. But--and I say this as the harshest critic of my own work--you seem to be actively trying not to get interested.

One example is the woman that I mentioned really briefly. That was completely intentional. I write magical realism, first of all, so my timelines are jumbled and events occur simultaneously. So when you say the transition is vague between dream and reality, and too clumsy (perhaps you're right about the clumsiness), it's intended to be that way.

And what is up with this paragraph, huh? "He was here, but he wasn't, but he couldn't have been, so maybe he was". It's so confusing and it says nothing, so cut it.

One thing: thank you for being candid. I do really appreciate. But this is just insulting. You make the mistake of assuming this is a straight-up dream, which I know is confusing, but that's exactly what I try to be. I'm trying to break out of conventions like "this is a dream" and "this is reality"--here, there are things that are not dreams, but just mixed up timelines, getting lost in memories.

Returning to the girl, this is all I have to say: when you're in severe pain over something that happened in the past, you think about all the things that occurred around the traumatic event, reliving it, wondering what could have been different, trying to put your mind back in the past completely. And when you come to what's really bothering you, you glance away. You remember it and veer off again, because it's too painful. That's what's happening here. He lost her, and he can't even remember her properly because he misses her so much.

Again, thank you for your prompt criticism, as always, because it's usually very helpful, and I really appreciate it. I will take into consideration some things you've said here. And believe me when I say I'm always open to improving, and never hesitate (whether or not I should) to tear my work apart and be really critical. However, this is one of the instances I'm going to defend it, because I simply don't agree.

-Kate

Hi!
You is a really good writer. I loved this. It was so beautiful, I love your description. I noticed nothing wrong with it at all. Keep writing!!