So here is what I'd like-some comments! Not the kind of comments that are genre-specific, meaning no "I hate sci-fi/this is horrid" type of stuff, but thoughtful literary critique. Conventions-not so much. I do not get along with this computer, and for the love of God and all things holy I cannot get it to do things that I'd like, such as italicize, fix things after the fact, etc.....
Suggestions for you, dear reader...
Does the story line make sense? All parts there? Fluid? Does it make sense? Where are there jumps in logic?
Is the motivation obvious behind the character's action?
Is the dialogue realistic? Would someone really say it?
Too wordy? Not wordy enough?
....things along this line. Whether it's your cup of tea or not, I know from grading an extraordinary amount of papers that one does not need to appreciate the topic to edit the craft. I need to hone the craft. And I need help doing it.
Cheers!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
First shot at it................
“Honey, can you get it?!” the incessant drone of the elliptical trainer reduced her voice to a loud
whisper. He was surprised she could hear the phone at all. He walked through the living room, blew his wife a kiss, and proceeded to the kitchen phone where he could actually hear.
“Dan? Dan Willingham? This is Jenn.”
That night on the beach came back to him as if it were yesterday. Kona gold and Mickey’s Big Mouths, the rest of the group skinny dipping, he and Sara alone on the shore. Young, stoned, and stupid were order of the day. She was off-limits, oldest daughter of the state’s biggest thug.
“Sara wanted me to call you.”
They didn’t go to the same school, so he didn’t expect to see her until the next party. When she showed up on his doorstep a month later, he knew something was up. He deferred to her wishes, telling no one until she contacted him again. Her father showed up on his doorstep instead, making it perfectly clear with his words and his Glock that Dan was never to go hear his family again; he went as far as to go to Dan’s mother’s work, too. He had to what the old man said. It was too dangerous not to.
“It’s Aiden.”
Her sister Jenn called him seven months later. A boy, seven pounds, thirteen ounces, twenty inches long. Aiden Joseph. Sara remembered. Her old man be damned.
“Ah, crap, Dan.”
Staying away tore him apart. Booze oozed through the cracks, ostensibly keeping him together but destroying what was left. He knew what it was like growing up without a father. Joe died when he was five, a heart attack coming out of nowhere. Teenage rebellion became full-fledged addition. In his few sober moments he wondered about Aiden, what his life was like, what he could do to reach out to his son. He knew whole heartedly what it was like to grow up without a father. He could do nothing, so he reached for another drink.
“He’s gone. Car accident, DUI-his fault. He’s been battling the bottle for years.”
Years of abuse took its toll on his body, his mind. Dan woke up on the side of Keeaumoku Street covered in vomit and reeking of cheap vodka and crappy pot. He staggered to his feet, still buzzing from the night before. A minivan went by. The driver, aghast at what she saw, sped up. A small boy in the back waved, huge smile barely contained in the small face. The eyes were unmistakable; Dad’s. It was Aiden Joseph.
“He left a little girl. You’re a grandpa.”
He was a successful song-writer now, a fifteen year overnight success. Wed for two years and sober for twenty, he lived on the mainland now for more than he lived in Hawaii. It was partly for the fresh start, partly to quell the impulse to talk with Sara. He kept his number listed, even as his fame grew.
“Don’t come to the funeral. Dad would kill you, and you’re not listed in the obituary. I gotta go…”
“Who is it?!” she screamed, grabbing for water out of the fridge, oblivious to the fact she was still yelling although the exercise machine was off.
He gently replaced the phone on its cradle, walking away.
“No one. Wrong number.”
whisper. He was surprised she could hear the phone at all. He walked through the living room, blew his wife a kiss, and proceeded to the kitchen phone where he could actually hear.
“Dan? Dan Willingham? This is Jenn.”
That night on the beach came back to him as if it were yesterday. Kona gold and Mickey’s Big Mouths, the rest of the group skinny dipping, he and Sara alone on the shore. Young, stoned, and stupid were order of the day. She was off-limits, oldest daughter of the state’s biggest thug.
“Sara wanted me to call you.”
They didn’t go to the same school, so he didn’t expect to see her until the next party. When she showed up on his doorstep a month later, he knew something was up. He deferred to her wishes, telling no one until she contacted him again. Her father showed up on his doorstep instead, making it perfectly clear with his words and his Glock that Dan was never to go hear his family again; he went as far as to go to Dan’s mother’s work, too. He had to what the old man said. It was too dangerous not to.
“It’s Aiden.”
Her sister Jenn called him seven months later. A boy, seven pounds, thirteen ounces, twenty inches long. Aiden Joseph. Sara remembered. Her old man be damned.
“Ah, crap, Dan.”
Staying away tore him apart. Booze oozed through the cracks, ostensibly keeping him together but destroying what was left. He knew what it was like growing up without a father. Joe died when he was five, a heart attack coming out of nowhere. Teenage rebellion became full-fledged addition. In his few sober moments he wondered about Aiden, what his life was like, what he could do to reach out to his son. He knew whole heartedly what it was like to grow up without a father. He could do nothing, so he reached for another drink.
“He’s gone. Car accident, DUI-his fault. He’s been battling the bottle for years.”
Years of abuse took its toll on his body, his mind. Dan woke up on the side of Keeaumoku Street covered in vomit and reeking of cheap vodka and crappy pot. He staggered to his feet, still buzzing from the night before. A minivan went by. The driver, aghast at what she saw, sped up. A small boy in the back waved, huge smile barely contained in the small face. The eyes were unmistakable; Dad’s. It was Aiden Joseph.
“He left a little girl. You’re a grandpa.”
He was a successful song-writer now, a fifteen year overnight success. Wed for two years and sober for twenty, he lived on the mainland now for more than he lived in Hawaii. It was partly for the fresh start, partly to quell the impulse to talk with Sara. He kept his number listed, even as his fame grew.
“Don’t come to the funeral. Dad would kill you, and you’re not listed in the obituary. I gotta go…”
“Who is it?!” she screamed, grabbing for water out of the fridge, oblivious to the fact she was still yelling although the exercise machine was off.
He gently replaced the phone on its cradle, walking away.
“No one. Wrong number.”
Sunday, July 5, 2009
ideas, boy do i have ideas....
but are they trite? Overdone?
Which leads me to exploration and reflection. Why do I want to write? For me? For money? For the exercise of the muse? For a diversion? For middle school boys, who have very few authors that target their demographic? For glory? For fame? For spite?
I started this blog because I have no discipline. That went by the wayside a long time ago. Too many excuses. Now I have something to "report" to, if I send this link to my friends. If.
Money, of course, would be nice. So would reaching the height of five-foot-two, but neither will happen-at least any time soon.
As a (former?) teacher, getting most young men to read is like getting them to wear a pink frilly shirt; they'll do it, but grudgingly, and they'll ditch it at first chance. Lupica and Salisbury hold their attention, but there needs to be more.
Spite. I'm good at that. That's where fame and glory come in. I don't want to be recognized physically, but I do want to be recognized in the terms of success-is-the-best-revenge-type recognition. Base as that is, it is what it is.
As for the muse, the diversion, and the like-I guess I will just have to write and see.
Which leads me to exploration and reflection. Why do I want to write? For me? For money? For the exercise of the muse? For a diversion? For middle school boys, who have very few authors that target their demographic? For glory? For fame? For spite?
I started this blog because I have no discipline. That went by the wayside a long time ago. Too many excuses. Now I have something to "report" to, if I send this link to my friends. If.
Money, of course, would be nice. So would reaching the height of five-foot-two, but neither will happen-at least any time soon.
As a (former?) teacher, getting most young men to read is like getting them to wear a pink frilly shirt; they'll do it, but grudgingly, and they'll ditch it at first chance. Lupica and Salisbury hold their attention, but there needs to be more.
Spite. I'm good at that. That's where fame and glory come in. I don't want to be recognized physically, but I do want to be recognized in the terms of success-is-the-best-revenge-type recognition. Base as that is, it is what it is.
As for the muse, the diversion, and the like-I guess I will just have to write and see.
excuses no more
Fear of failure. Fear of humiliation. Constipated dialogue. Nasty feedback. Good feedback. Smoke being blown up my ass. Excuses, excuses, excuses.
As I sit here in the Pacific Northwest sun, an oxymoron most days, I finally said "What the hell."
No job.
No real hope for a job-this was not the "change" I was "hoping" for.
Nothing to lose, right?
I guess I'm going to find out.
As a dear friend of mine stated to me; "Writing is not hard. Just sit down and open up a vein."
Warm, flowing, drifting off..................
As I sit here in the Pacific Northwest sun, an oxymoron most days, I finally said "What the hell."
No job.
No real hope for a job-this was not the "change" I was "hoping" for.
Nothing to lose, right?
I guess I'm going to find out.
As a dear friend of mine stated to me; "Writing is not hard. Just sit down and open up a vein."
Warm, flowing, drifting off..................
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