TW Writers - Evaluate this segment of writing

Shadow(of)Death said:
This would be great, except the whole idea is to build up to this event. Hence why I end you with the whole 'cloaking the inevitable'. I would have said the outcome much earlier had it been something to the effect you are assuming.

All of this, the setting, the family, it is all setting up for a major transition that really sets us up for the real story I am trying to tell. Which doesn't take place in Northern Vermont at all.

Several of the things pointed out here are really good and have gotten me thinking, however there are a lot of things that knowing what I am trying to do, and knowing where this is all going, one would probably agree what I am doing works.

In time I will release more, and I think the feedback will again help with a very rough outline.

I don't think my self some great writer, so criticism in any form won't hurt my feelings, a few aspects I may defend, but many things I will agree with as partially true or 100% accurate.
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If the main part of story has nothing to do with Vermont, describing it is pointless. "cloaking the inevitable" makes no sense. At the time, we already know she's been hit. It's not inevitable anymore. It already happened. It's not inescapable because the situation has concluded. The amount of foreshadowing is entirely unnecessary. We already knew she was going to be hit because it was blatantly obvious.
 
While we're on the subject of criticism, here're the opening two paragraphs to a story I wrote. What do you think?

Staring out the window, the city lights spread beneath him as he considered the unease that had parked itself in his stomach. It had come on suddenly, as he looked at the lights adorning the giant cranes twenty stories below him. In the quasi reflection through the window he saw her behind the bar. She looked like was floating out there, thirty stories above the ground, serving drinks to sleazy financial planners who tipped too much and short Asian business men who leered openly at the straining buttons of her blouse. He hadn't known that she worked here, but couldn't decide whether that would have changed his choices.

She noticed him as soon as he came in, he carried himself with the distinct ambiguity that typified his wardrobe. She even remembered when she'd given him the jacket he was wearing for Christmas; he had obsessively removed any trace of an insignia. He'd gone so far as to take it to a locksmith who ground the embossed trademarks off of the zippers and buttons. His dark jeans, and plain black t-shirt would be similarly indefinite. The tagless t-shirt had its screen printed insignia removed with baking soda and steel wool, the buttons and rivets on his jeans would be ground flat, although maybe his boots would have a brand name on the sole.

It's nowhere near finished or even editted, but I figured I'd throw it out here.
 
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I think Fool is dead on with his criticism. It seems like you're trying way too hard.

To me it sounds like a typical story about girl gets killed, family is sad. Why not make the story interesting instead of sticking to such a cliche?
 
Reminds me of the plot in Stephen King's book Pet Cemetary.

You can't write in an active, engaging tone. I suggest reading Mark Twain and Dan Dequille until you can no longer remember your middle name. This isn't really the place for writing. You need a place like Fanstory.com.


The first thing you need to do is learn how to open up a story like something you see on TV or in a play. Describe the scene in as much detail as necessary so that your characters can walk around in it freely, and as required to pander to your type of writing.


It was a beautiful spring day in Northern Vermont. In the past this lush paradise had been settled by both Mennonites and the Naturalist farmers, who had established rows of well-tended 80 acre farms along both sides of the winding country roads. It was a place where farmer John and his wife Sue might sit out on the porch at dusk and watch the fireflies come to play over dark flower beds.

The gravel roads, sweeping green fields, and stone walls were all considered hazards and potential places of ambush by Major Smith and the men of the 12th Black Water Homeland Defense Company. His line of gray Strikers and Ihummers slowed to look at the scenery, and took the turns too short, scraping and chewing up the road.

They were all on edge from potential ambush in the area. Even the hanging of several suspected terrorist liberals in Burlington and Barre had done little to supress sporadic sniper fire and occasional roadside explosions. Now the column slowed again, as the vehicles wound past a large white victorian farmhouse off to the right behind a long stone fence.

Major Smith looked out at the front yard of the farmhouse from the gunner's turret atop his Ihummer to see what was now causing his lead vehicles to slow down. He laughed to himself hollowly, as he saw what it was: the family that owned the farm was out playing in the front yard with a ball. He watched the mother throw a blue ball to her two darling blonde-haired children, not much older than six or seven, and now the men on the Strikers and Ihummers were all standing up in their hatches, shouting greetings to the family as they passed. It was a heartwarming scene to be sure, and made even Major Smith hope that this scene was what they were supposed to be fighting for.

Then he watched as the ball bounced too far, and one of the children turned to run after it, toward the road, darting behind the stone fence where no one could see. A second later he heard the shuddering screech of the brakes on one of the Striker AFVs as the driver locked them up, and the long crash as equipment and men were thrown forward on top of it and inside it.

There was a scream from the yard, and the whole column stopped. The men under Major Smith's command mostly crouched down tentatively, waiting for an explosive blast or for the sound of rifle fire. When it did not come after a few moments, they straightened up and looked forward to see what had happened near the front of the farm.

Major Smith dismounted from the Ihummer and put on his black beret as he moved forward down the line of halted vehicles toward the disturbance. He slid his Sig Sauer p226 out of the black holster at his side and cocked it as he pushed between the men from the affected vehicle, as they stood there on the roadway, to see what had happened for himself.

See, you just need to spice it up a little.
 
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I wrote a book too. It is really wordy. First 3 paragraphs:

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs - commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall northward. What do you see? - Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster - tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?
 
ptavv said:
While we're on the subject of criticism, here're the opening two paragraphs to a story I wrote. What do you think?

Staring out the window, the city lights spread beneath him as he considered the unease that had parked itself in his stomach. It had come on suddenly, as he looked at the lights adorning the giant cranes twenty stories below him. repeat of the 1st sentence In the quasi reflection get rid of quasi, it's a reflection period through the window he saw her behind the bar. She looked like was floating out there, thirty stories above the ground, serving drinks to sleazy financial planners who tipped too much and short Asian business men who leered openly at the straining buttons of her blouse. with that much back light it would be hard to view the cityscape, and why is every woman in amateur prose described as having bra-straining tits? He hadn't known that she worked here, but couldn't decide whether that would have changed his choices. change to: He wasn't aware that she worked here

She noticed him as soon as he came in, he carried himself with the distinct ambiguity that typified his wardrobe. Is this the same him that was already in the bar? She even remembered when she'd given him the jacket he was wearing for Christmas is it Christmas now or a past Christmas (in which case it should be "he wore") ; he had obsessively removed any trace of an insignia. Insignia of what? He'd gone so far as to take it to a locksmith who ground the embossed trademarks off of the zippers and buttons. why a locksmith? His dark jeans, and plain black t-shirt would be similarly indefinite. Isn't that the point of black jeans and a tshirt? Does it really need the additional description? The tagless t-shirt had its screen printed insignia removed with baking soda and steel wool, the buttons and rivets on his jeans would be ground flat, although maybe his boots would have a brand name on the sole. Why a maybe? One would assume that someone so meticulous about removing labels would've checked everywhere.

It's nowhere near finished or even editted, but I figured I'd throw it out here.
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ptavv said:
While we're on the subject of criticism, here're the opening two paragraphs to a story I wrote. What do you think?

Staring out the window, the city lights spread beneath him as [strike]he considered the unease that had parked itself in his stomach[/strike] his queasy stomach churned. It [strike]had come on suddenly,[/strike] began as he looked at the [insert]sea of [/insert] lights adorning the giant cranes twenty stories below him. In the quasi reflection [strike]through[/strike] of the window he saw her behind the bar. She [strike]looked like was[/strike] appeared to be floating out there, thirty stories above the ground, serving drinks to sleazy financial planners [strike]who tipped too much[/strike] and short Asian businessmen who leered [strike]openly[/strike] at the straining buttons of her blouse. ??? out of place ??? What choices?? He hadn't known [strike]that[/strike] she worked here, but couldn't decide whether that would have changed his choices. ????

** Changing perspective to her? Ok, but not typically done inside a chapter or section ** She noticed him as soon as he came in, he carried himself with the distinct ambiguity that [insert]was also[/insert] typified in his wardrobe. She [strike]even[/strike] remembered giving him the jacket he wore, for Christmas. He had [strike]when she'd given him the jacket he was wearing for Christmas; he had[/strike] obsessively removed any trace of [strike]an[/strike] insignia. [strike]He'd gone so far as to take it to a locksmith who ground the embossed trademarks off of the zippers and buttons.[/strike] His dark jeans, and plain black t-shirt [strike]would be[/strike] [insert]were[/insert] similarly indefinite. The [strike]tagless[/strike] t-shirt had its screen printed insignia removed with baking soda and steel wool, the buttons and rivets on his jeans would be ground flat, although maybe his boots would have a brand name on the sole.
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I gave up near the end... not comprehending the necessity of all that "brand removal description" to any plot I can imagine. And why would he bother buying a T with any screen print at all, if his preference is for simple, plain? In any case, it is ineloquent, and should be handled in one or at the most two sentences.
 
Moby Dick is wordy and not my favorite piece of literature, but at least it had a hook. Look at most great novels, short stories, essays, and you will find introductions that grab the reader's attention and make them want to read more.
 
Are you aware that aware is in the last aware paragraph about aware 100 times aware? I would aware you to aware a thesaurus.
 
Lord Elessar said:
I wrote a book too. It is really wordy. First 3 paragraphs:

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs - commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall northward. What do you see? - Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster - tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?
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This gives me an excellent idea. We should write a series of novels called "Great Literature for Americans" and dumb it all down. Sort of like the Reader's Digest versions only more stupid.
 
Fool said:
If the main part of story has nothing to do with Vermont, describing it is pointless. "cloaking the inevitable" makes no sense. At the time, we already know she's been hit. It's not inevitable anymore. It already happened. It's not inescapable because the situation has concluded. The amount of foreshadowing is entirely unnecessary. We already knew she was going to be hit because it was blatantly obvious.
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"Joe now aware of the awful sight before his eyes locks up all sixteen wheels, cranking the steering wheel away from the small frame that stares up at him like a deer in the headlights. As the sixteen ton mass comes to a sliding stop, gravel and dirt shoot up from everywhere, confusing the awful sight, and cloaking the inevitable."

Nowhere does it say she is hit, it just is setting you up.

OK, now I will post another few paragraphs so it makes a little more sense, hopefully.

This is very rough and broken, but you get the idea.


--------------------------


In this mass of confusion a peculiar sound erupts from the flinging gravel and dust, the unique sound of steel on steel, a high pitch squeal, and then a train whistle! All goes silent. The cloak of dust slowly dissipates. As the dust and gravel meet their final resting place, one is soon to realize that life will never be the same from this moment forth. The world before this cloak of dust will be much different from the world one now will face. Change has taken place, and what unfortunately looks to be for the worse.

The veil now gone, one still remains confused. The logging truck is gone, replaced with an old steam powered train. Describe massive train – compare to a large monster or what not.

Caitlin finds herself on the ground and her dull red ball a distance off to the side of the road. Standing to her feet, she dusts herself off, and to her surprise and shock she is wearing that special dress she always dreamed of having, with those shoes that were made specifically to match that dress. Yet this time is different, it isn’t a dream, and Caitlin realizes that this is real. Caitlin is in complete shock and awe, and to the onlooker one sees she is glowing in a glorified appearance. Where she once appeared pale, she is now full of life and color. In this state oblivious to what just happened, oblivious to the steam-locomotive only fifteen or so feet from her, she is caught off guard.

“What are you waiting for? Climb aboard!” From the door of a passenger car, a young boy dressed as a train operator yells down to Caitlin, snapping her out of herself absorbed trance. Caitlin still in a daze stands there, almost as if she is looking through the boy, not fully acknowledging him with her eyes, “Climb aboard” she echo’s to herself, trying to place in her mind what is going on; still attempting to take in what all has happened; as one naturally would in such an unfamiliar situation. The boy not a day older than 15 is scrawny for his age, and smaller than Caitlin who isn’t but half a year younger than he. Standing impatiently the boy on the train again snaps Caitlin out her trance, “Well .. . . .” Caitlin looks the boy in the eyes acknowledging him, then her eyes scan the train in front of her, and then looking back at the boy responds, “I’ll have to ask my . ..’ As Caitlin responds she turns around to ask her parents for permission, “Hey, where’d they go?!” To Caitlin’s shock, there is nothing but a field where her home was, and butterflies dancing around in the air where her parents once stood. A soft breeze rolls over the grass in the field, further confirming the absence of everything that once was.

-------

What I have done is I have taken you the reader, set you up in a setting long enough that you have become use to it and perhaps comfortable, and then wham bam I have shifted the whole setting in a few words time, thus doing to you the reader what has happened to our character. Or at least that is one part of what I was trying to do.
 
You aren't quite getting it. We understand that you have a plan and a reason for writing what you did. We are telling you that no, in fact, it did not work. What you establish isn't grounds for the reader to be surprised by a change of direction, but a reason for the reader to put your book down.

In this new segment, while the subject matter is somewhat better, the same problems persist. Your first sentence is problematic.

"In this mass of confusion a peculiar sound erupts from the flinging gravel and dust, the unique sound of steel on steel, a high pitch squeal, and then a train whistle!" A comma after dust doesn't work. Maybe switch to a colon and get rid of "and then." Why the exclamation point?

Afterwards, you say dust multiple times in the latter half of the paragraph, even repeating "cloak of dust." You are trying too hard for rich imagery and coming out overly descriptive and repetitive. Try for a better balance between short and long sentences.

There is more potential here for an interesting story, but no one will read it if it is obscured by poor fundamentals and a disengaging intro.
 
Perfect. That is the feedback I am looking for.

Yes this is sadly my downfall. I am a story teller, but not a writer. My true passion is to make movies. I have many interesting and unique ideas I want to see on the silver screen, why? So I can enjoy them. Honestly, I like these stories I have written soooo much I want to see them on the screen, and so therefore I put my self through this sort of stuff in hopes of breaking through somewhere. This story I felt had the best potential to be made into a book. So I am going to dump a lot of resources and time into writing this until it is a good read. I know the plot and story are there, but my ability to capture my thoughts and convey them to the reader in an interesting form will be a challenge.

I will be taking a lot of writing classes at the start of the year up at college, so hopefully that boosts this project up to publishing level.
 
When I was reading this, all I could think about was Pet Cemetary (I saw it mentioned earlier). Same kind of thing..kid going after the ball. I don't know why but I pictured a farm type house with a huge huge yard. So mom must really be able to kick good. You over described some parts and under described others, if that helps.
 
Fool said:
I stopped reading at "For you whom haven’t had privilege to see this lush plantation of the earth" because my head exploded.
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ditto, took too much effort to rewind and think if that sounded right, it obviously didn't.
 
Shadow,

If film is your end-goal, then you should definitely take a course in screenwriting particularly. Writing a screenplay is completely different from a novel and almost counter-intuitive as a medium. They will teach you to pick and choose your words, utilizing action verbs primarily.

In a script, thoughts feelings and interior action are kept to a minimum and you will mainly write, in a direct fashion, what is happening and where.
 
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