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Difficulty on Perspective



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Wed Nov 29, 2006 7:42 am
Poor Imp says...



A piece of Vetren'iy draft here that I've worked to death, in a manner of speaking...and I can't stand it in all honesty, no matter... It hasn't even got Tov in it yet.

Piers stumbled through Transport’s myriad alleys, side-turns, pavements marked fadingly in numbers. Trans vo. 170 wound east, back turn blind. He avoided it, intentional. He nearly tripped on Trans. za. 20.

None of them went the way he guessed; and he hated guessing uncertainties, guessing like the blind corners in dreams where reason turned and could no longer understand.

Bleak, he walked. His footsteps followed, snapped strident behind in grey streets bent on smothered still. Another turn and cement scrawled useless. Trans…zero--and trailed into dust. Towards Vostok? he asked himself; towards the end? The illusive dusk caught cracked glass on an industrial fronted windows, leering eyes in cinderblock and steel and flickered narrow face, taut shoulders distorted. He found his head shortened in periphery as he jerked into swifter pace; his eyes a metre apart.

Frustration in his throat, choked, he staggered on. Time wound tighter. The slate-scudded sky dimmed.

His toe snagged stepping off the next turn, uneven asphalt. And the street? He squinted, worn letters on concrete bleeding into dusk with shadow. Trans. vo. 200.

“Bloody Hell,” he hissed.

In a moment, upright, he stared, tense, from alley end to end--every uncertain flicker in glass crawling into his thought, back, tension. Too late? As if he’d seen Drev’s techs in empty alley corners and blurred, dusk obscure glass.


Or...

Piers stumbled through Transport's myriad back-alleys and turn-offs - too aimless for name among the decrepit flats - 'transport' scratched into curbs. Trans. 125 vo., Trans. 3 naprav., Trans...worn indecipherable by time time and filth. No sane directions would guide the lost through its ridiculous labyrinth. ...And he really didn't know it well enough.

The occasional cracked window flickered movement. Slate-skied twilight more than not reflected, illusive glances starting wariness; and the numbers faded as he walked. Now trans. 150 -- was it? -- melding into Tr...an 'O'...a zero? The next turn, inscrutable as to number, directed with fluent obscenity its reader to Hell. Cursing under his breath, Piers closed his eyes.

Hole in the wall place, Teller had remarked...foundation cinder-blocked--another grim contrivance to look innocuous. Obviously contrived, he ought to ought to notice. Ask for Vande.


It may just be ridiculously too late. But I can't write more than a word or two before I come back to this and try to work it more deftly.

(Saphirus, do kindly kill the inner editor. ^_~)

Thoughts?
ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatem

"There is adventure in simply being among those we love, and among the things we love -- and beauty, too."
-Lloyd Alexander
  





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Wed Nov 29, 2006 7:51 am
Incandescence says...



Poor Imp --


Piers stumbled through Transport’s myriad pathways, side-turns, pavements marked fadingly in numbers. Trans vo. 170 wound east, back turn blind. Huh? Back turn blind? He avoided it, nearly tripped on Trans. za. 20.

None of them went the way he guessed. Bleak. His footsteps followed, snapped strident in grey streets bent on smothered still. Another turn and cement scrawled useless. Trans…zero--and trailed into dust. Towards Vostok? he asked himself; towards the end? Dusk caught cracked glass on industrial fronted windows: leering eyes in cinderblock and steel and flickered narrow face, taut shoulders distorted. He found his head shortened in periphery as he jerked into swifter pace.

Frustration in his throat, choked, he staggered on. Time wound tighter. The slate-scudded sky dimmed. His toe snagged stepping off the next turn, uneven asphalt. And the street? He squinted, worn letters on concrete bleeding into dusk with shadow. Trans. vo. 200.

“Bloody Hell,” he hissed.

In a moment, upright, he stared, tense, from alley end to end--every uncertain flicker in glass crawling into his thought. As if he’d seen Drev’s techs in empty alley corners and blurred, dusk obscure glass.


Thanks for letting me read,
Brad
"If I have not seen as far as others, it is because giants were standing on my shoulders." -Hal Abelson
  





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Wed Nov 29, 2006 7:54 am
Snoink says...



Shall I be blunt? ;)

You're going for style, but you're not going for clarity. So, instead of Piers wandering around aimlessly, you are wandering around aimlessly, hoping that perhaps you are making some sense. Unfortunately... you aren't. Really. So you have sentences that don't have beginnings or ends, and it just rambles on into abstract pictures without any lines -- not good.

Both of them have some good elements to them, but none of them shine out. The first paragraph of the first thing you put out sucks terribly, but the rest, at least makes sense and is possibly good in a very rough way. The second one's first paragraph does make more sense (anything could) and is slightly more interesting, but the rest of it rambles on until it's boring.

So... my suggestion? Scrape it and try again. This time, make it less abstract. What are some concrete images you want to put in there? Even Picasso, in his strange cubism paintings had a subject. Define what your subject. Since a subject is a noun, then attach your subject to a particular noun.

Like I said, there are some aspects that are good in each, but it's written in such a convoluted way that they appear awkward, even though they are possibly good. By focusing on what makes these small parts good (aka: "His toe snagged stepping off the next turn, uneven asphalt. And the street? He squinted, worn letters on concrete bleeding into dusk with shadow. Trans. vo. 200.") then you'll help the story out. Make a list of what you liked about both of the drafts and pick and choose. Then rewrite something completely new and play with it.

Don't settle for nonsense.

And remember, above everything, that this is a story. You can ramble, yes, but only do so if you have a point. Characters can only go so far without a moving plot.

Hope that helps...
Ubi caritas est vera, Deus ibi est.

"The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly." ~ Richard Bach

Moth and Myth <- My comic! :D
  





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Sat Dec 02, 2006 4:10 am
Poor Imp says...



Incan--


Thanks very much for the perspective. Honestly, the tweaking is appreciated, and the time.


Snoink--

I always get the flip-side with you, Snoink. ^_^ Which is good for looking at things in a different light; the style thought is one to think about, very much...though lack of sleep may be more to blame than a conscious stylistic approach.




IMP
ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatem

"There is adventure in simply being among those we love, and among the things we love -- and beauty, too."
-Lloyd Alexander
  








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