I try to be a writer, but, as yet, I haven't written anything worth noting. I'm best at making up haiku's for whatever reason, since I seem to think in the format of 5-7-5 anyway...
Currently have two stories I'm working on, actually.
Thief's challenge, Hero's choice is a shortish story. It's main character is a teenage boy in the city, his conflict being to gain enough money to pay for medical treatment for his sister. Their parents died of the same disease, but the boy seems to be immune. In any case, he's fast running out of time and instead turns to breaking into the only rich man in town's house, thinking he won't notice the minimal theft required compared to the man's wealth. Things do NOT go as planned.
Zenith is the story of an amnesiac protagonist in the future/past sci-fi world of Zenith, a ring of island in a gas belt around a star. I haven't quite developed the setting a lot, but they'd use ships and things to go between the major islands. Anyway, the protagonist gets caught up into a conflict spanning the entire system, involving five separate factions warring for control, among other smaller groups. The setting of Zenith is technically a world once colonized by humans after the invention of space travel and a few other science gadgets, but a rouge gas planet and it's moon spiraled into Zenith's solar system and smashed into the world, the moon breaking up the planet and the mostly nitrogen/oxygen gas giant breaking up in the chaos to become the gas belt. Pockets of humans survived, and have only recently returned to about Victorian-era steam/solar technology combined with leftover gadgets from hundreds of years ago. Expect airships to be prevalent.
"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time..."@Wheezy
It would certainly make him lose a significant portion of sympathy, but depending on how dogged he or she is, it could be in character. So yes, but it would depend on how much perseverance and derangement your character has.
@K*SPAM
It sounds like an interesting concept, with a contrast between the usual methods of abomination manifestation. Seeing the closest people to you turn against you would make a great source of terror as well.
A writing-y bit
Opening one of my desk’s drawers, I shift aside a packet of files and pull out an inexpertly wrapped package, far heavier than its small surface suggested. Handing it to Itou, I watch nervously as she unwraps it, revealing a small grey cube of metal. Expectation of the unknown is not something I remember or simulate well.
“They are the best nanomachines that even I can obtain,” I say. “Try integrating them into your array, and you will notice a marked improvement in capability.”
She flexed her array-covered arm and nodded, the lighter-gray machinery blending swiftly. “Thanks, Gant.” Suddenly a look of shock crossed her face, an expression I was unused to seeing. “Damn! I completely forgot to get you something. I’m sorry.”
I waved my hand. “No, that is entirely acceptable; there is nothing one could really obtain for me. Well, I suppose you could stay talk for a while, that would be entirely fine for me. But this office is far too distant from the proper place to be on such a night.”
“How about the roof?” asks Itou, already moving outside and leaping up. I am unwilling to argue, following her with a sauntering walk up the wall and to the sloping roof, the snow cleared from it already. As we both sat down, I watched the tight knots of soldiers, most out of uniform, congregating and moving apart, full of cheer that would vanish as soon as a mission called us.
“Superb,” I said, chin resting on one folded knee as I extended the other leg, my toe tapping on the gutter as Itou lay down next to me, hands behind her head, the snow not fazing her at all; she is far colder than it is, even as it falls around us. “Look. Your very own cadre, each willing to die for your word. Frightening, if you consider it.”
“My cadre?” Itou looked at me in shock. “Gant, you are the one who turned made them soldiers. You think that a bit of sword training makes them listen to me? They look up to you, Gant. You’re a mentor to them.”
My head snaps to face her. “What?” That cannot be. I keep distant- why am I paragon?
“You didn’t know? All they talk about is you. Now powerful you must be to have taken the most important subject as your own area. You would have expected a different result?”
There is a clang of metal as I bury my head in both hands. “No. It should not have been like this. I am a machine of war, without other attachments. I did not want them to emulate me! Any other- you, Varien, Halaz, Mazzanti, anyone but me; they must not become the already dead.”
In my focus on this travesty, I do not see Itou’s fist, covered in its fingerless glove she wears on her free hand, until it smashes into the side of my skull; the mass dispersion and her augmented muscle causes me to land flat on my back. She is glaring at me as my temple begins to bind back into place.
“Gant.” Her voice is steely, and I push myself upwards. “I have been trying to tell you for years that you are not simply a machine of war.” She grabs me by the arm, hauling me up and looking me straight in the face. “If you were, you wouldn’t care about them, so what are you carrying on about? You aren’t the apathetic machine that I met for the first time.”
I suppose she may be correct; my thought is obsolete. “Now that you phrase it that way, it becomes far better. It is better to have them watch you.” I pull myself up, doubling my mass to avoid falling again. “To think that I must have changed so much and not realized. Well, there are those who would be worse examples.”
Itou puts her hand around my shoulders, leaning in closely. "You give yourself too little credit. I could pick no one better for my troops to strive towards."
edited 8th May '10 10:43:26 PM by Morgulion
This is this.As for getting away with it, well, 'fleeing to Rio' is by now a dead horse trope, which can be played for laughs but wouldn't really be taken seriously, I think.
My latest liveblog.PROBLEM:
I made a thread for this, but in retrospect, I should have put it here to begin with.
I have two ideas for a Mary Sue deconstruction, but I'm having some problems with both.
The first starts out as a normal affair. Bad-on-purpose writing, horrible characters, blatant Sue, etc. Then, in the last chapter, it's revealed that the Sue is actually a normal girl in the real world and is heavily autistic/schizophrenic.
The second begins in a similar way, but with a little wiggle room for foreshadowing. It starts off with the Sue being a Sue, then a character freaks out and randomly tries to kill her. It's later revealed that the character's Mary Sue-ness is actually tearing that universe apart and that to preserve itself, the collective subconscious of the universe has taken control of all the characters to kill her like white blood cells to a virus. This may not even be a deconstruction, just a subversion, but whatever.
My main problem is that I don't know if I could keep people reading the story through the intentionally bad parts of it to get to the end where everything is made better. What should I do?
RRRAAGHGHAFBAALAAAL!@Rahheemme
I agree with the previous too- make it So Bad, It's Good.
Writing This very short intro- comment, please.
Let us dispense with the formalities. This is not about of joy, of transformation. It is about the futility of kindness and the triumph of the blade over the word. About absolution of civility by blood. Because it is not about a human. It is a story of Gant.
I am a human mind uploaded into the finest piece of nanomechanical technology, two meters of metal, bent to my will. Sensors on all frequencies of light, speed, regeneration, all mine. Laser and destabilization mechanisms were merely bonuses for death.
The construct was humanoid, skeletal; armor covered the basic structure. The form I kept it in was taller than any man, just hunched enough to make them think themselves superior. The faceplate was completely blank, the skull was a solid bulk, elongated, appropriately altered, another part of an inhuman appearance.
And its purpose was not war. My purpose was war; the construct was just a tool. I could not assume the inhuman forms, but it could, it expanded my power to unheard levels. I was god.
edited 12th May '10 8:34:50 PM by Morgulion
This is this.I am Emperordaein, also known as C.R.P. I have two subjects:
The first is Lets Play Fire Emblem VI! I am currently working on Episode Five, and am planning a feature on The Hasha No Tsuguri manga. The table of contents is here
I was wondering if anyone could give me advice on how to write better. I feel that my wring could use some improvement, as does the presentation.
The second thing is that I have been throwing around the idea of doing a Fan Fic which is a Fullmetal Alchemist/Doctor Who crossover called The Steel Chimeras. It's a retelling of the Sho Tucker story except bringing in the Cybermen into the FMA universe, as Sho works with them to create Cybermen using Alchemy.
The issues I have had with the idea is trying to explain the Cybermen in the FMA universe, the level of technology at their disposal (A plot point was them controlling one of the Research labs using the Ear Pods on the workers there) how I should use them, and, this is the big one: I am actually planning for The Doctor NOT to appear in the story at all. Do you think this idea has merit?
A corpse should be left well enough alone...Well, the first step to writing better is to get the words out. After you've done everything, then you edit. We aren't writers as much as re-writers and editors.
Here is a site
that I recommend to a lot of people, which helped me with my writing and ideas tremendously. It might say fantasy, but much of it applies to general fiction as well.
As for your story...well...there have been worse ideas made into good works. Go for it. No ideas, though, as I'm not too familiar with FMA.
An useless name, a forsaken connection.One interesting quirk about my writing (and by quirk, I mean bloody huge annoyance) is that I'm constantly wondering whether what I'm writing can be taken seriously. The fact that I don't like writing "realistic" fiction just exacerbates the problem.
So I decided to write a Teen Titans fanfic and just go where my head took me, without wondering whether it was serious enough. Given that that's working (a bit), I've decided to try posting a (long-ish) bit of it and seeing what you think. (Yes, it takes me two paragraphs to just say "Writing Excerpt". When I'm nervous, I over-vocalize.)
Vault City, California; April 13th, Anno Domini 1896, 15 Years Post-Cometfall. A Meeting At Saint Abney's Park.
It was already past the twilight hour, and the ringing of the great bronze bells of Laincara Cathedral pierced the oneiric fog that hung over the grim stone streets of Vault City. On the city's west side, airships leaving harbor shone their lights strong, hoping to avoid collision as they ascended from the fog-bound bay; wiser captains stayed in dry-dock completely, waiting for better weather to come again. Some streets began to glow with light already as the lamp-lighters went about their work, while others lay in darkness, causing honest citizenry to hurry through as they made their way to their homes.
Saint Abney's Park was a cheerful, populous place during the day, a island of green among the stone and glass, but it lay all but deserted now. The lonely fountain in the center of the park – which sported a stained statue of the famed Aegyptian treasure-hunter Daniel Garret on a pedestal in its center – provided the only sounds in the fog-shrouded park. No birds sang, no engines hummed, no gas-lamps hissed, no couples made polite conversation while walking along the ill-kept paths. There was only the sound of water on water, dripping, gushing, running down tubes and flying back up through the spouts. It was a lonely place, content in its solitude, and only two people were within the confines of its hedged walls tonight.
The first was a man of ill-repute – a cutpurse, a pickpocket, a drunkard, a murderer if he had to be. His name was Cinders, and he was not a lucky man, nor a wise one. Indeed, the only thing he'd been gifted with at birth was brawn, for he was built like a brick wall. To compensate, he was neither overburdened in brains nor wit, and lacked the moral fiber to labor for an honest day's work. But despite his thick head, he was starting to get worried tonight. Yes, the lady he'd been shadowing for three streets now was without companion or guard, and she was sitting alone in Saint Abney's Park, and from the looks of her she was certainly rich – a ruby-and-gold broach sat on her shoulder, pinning her black walking cloak closed, and a belt that, had he the brains to recognize it, had flawless mother-of-pearl trim – and she was just sitting out in the open. Nobody would notice, should he run up now and take every copper penny she had. And yet, there was something about her that made the hairs on the back of his thick neck stand on end.
It was the veil, he told himself. It was black, matching the rest of her clothing, and it hung from her hat over her face. There was always something unnerving about those – who knew what lurked behind them? What deformity or beauty might she be hiding? Was she one of the warp-freaks, or perhaps a survivor of the pox, or perhaps simply in mourning for a late husband? No, she appeared too young and slight to already be a widow. Cinders steeled himself, forcing down that prickle of anxiety running up his back. After all, you couldn't let anyone spook you when you lived off the streets. That's why pickings were so bad back east, after all.
What happened next – well, Cinders didn't have a lot of imagination, and that was a good trait on the street, but this – it almost knocked him dead. The lady slowly turned her head, smoothly but sedately, until she was looking straight at his hiding place behind the hedges. And she didn't move a muscle, but just kept staring, for what seemed like five years, which took about a minute or so. And then she spoke, and her voice was quiet, but it was ever-so-slightly wrong. The hairs stood stiff on the back of Cinders' neck. “If you're going to try to rob me, hurry up. I don't have all night.”
“What?” The little part of Cinders that actually tried to think things through winced in pain as he spoke without thinking, as usual. The element of surprise was, at this point, lost with no hope of it ever returning, so he stood up from behind the bushes and shrugged his shoulders. “Why would you think that? Just having a nice stroll in Saint Abney's–”
“Don't try to insult me, please.” She rose from the stone bench she was sitting on, her right hand falling to her hip. “Any half-baked mystic from a carnival stall could have read your intentions. A thug follows a woman into a deserted park – did you expect me to believe you were coming to admire the flowers?”
“...Well then. Your money or your life?” Cinders may have been confused, but even he could fall back on the basic cliched lines of robbers and highwaymen everywhere. Intimidation didn't require brains, just brawn. “Don't scream or you'll get hurt?”
“You're new to this, aren't you?” She shook her head in contempt of his larcenous ability, even as he started to step forward. She hardly paid any attention to him, in fact, and his long stride ate at the distance in only a handful of steps. She might not even have noticed that he was only ten feet away now. Now eight, now seven, now six. “Only beginners and actors say things like that.”
“Well, who's going to step in and save you, then?” Cinders pulled his trusty knife out of its sheath with his left hand – it was more often used to cut purse strings, but a knife was a knife. “Ain't nobody in Saint Abney's at this time of night, and there ain't nobody to stop me from taking all you've got.”
“Actually, I believe he might.” The lady pointed behind Cinders, and fool that he was, he turned and looked just in time to have the boot, originally aimed at the back of his head, crunch into the bridge of his nose. The lady stepped aside with surprising speed to let Cinders go stumbling past her and fall right into the stone bench she'd been sitting on. His knife clattered to the cobblestones beside him. It took a moment for Cinders' head to stop spinning, and another moment to recognize his attacker. Oh, hellfire.
The man was dressed in a black cloak, with a snug red vest clinging above a green-dyed shirt. Both his gloves and his leggings were black, almost blending into the darkness of his cloak. His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his masked face, and both his belt and vest were covered in pouches and pockets. He smirked as Cinders rose with a roar of fury, then he moved into a ready fighting stance. “Have you no honor, blackguard? Fight someone capable of defending himself!”
Cinders charged, and slammed into the guy – but he placed his hand just here on Cinder's chest, and instead of trying to stop the unstoppable Cinders, he kept him moving up and forward with a grunt of exertion, because Cinders was no lightweight after all – and now Cinders was flying towards the fountain, out of control, and right before the inevitable conclusion Cinders closed his eyes.
WHAM.
The mighty Cinders half-pulled himself out of the water, blinking back tears of pain, because despite his legendarily thick skull that had hurt like blazes. He staggered back upright, clenching his fists and already swinging as he turned. His opponent let Cinders' right hook brush past his head nonchalantly, before grabbing Cinders' over-extended arm and shoving him outwards. Cinders stumbled again, and got a fist to the back of the neck for his troubles. Now, Cinders had been through a fight or two in his time, but rarely one-on-one like this. No, Cinders was used to either large gang fights or fights where he had the advantage, viz, being the only one with a knife. But a semi-fair, solo fight like this – well, his talents were wasted. And his head felt like it was on fire, and his already slow reflexes were slowing down even further.
So Cinders turned and ran out of Saint Abney's Park, entered the alleyway beside the watchman's shop, kept running until he was out of the east quarter entirely and could crash in one of the penny-houses that infested the south side of town, then he began to plot a way to take revenge on the over-confident hero that had beaten him up. At least, he tried to.
And his plan would have worked perfectly, had not his opponent whipped out a small cylinder from his myriad pockets, flicked it open and pointed the hook at the end straight at the fleeing Cinders' legs. Click went the button on the side, and straightaway out shot the grappling hook and line, curling around Cinders' legs and cutting his retreat short. A firm yank on the line, before Cinders could reclaim his balance, and Cinders found the cobblestones coming up to meet him.
CRASH.
The fog seemed to seep into Cinders' head, making everything go wavering and black. He gave a shuddering sigh as his fighting spirit finally gave up the ghost, leaving blessed unconsciousness in its wake. His black-caped assailant now attempted to reel in the grappling hook, giving up in disgust when the great bulk of Cinders refused to move. Instead, he turned his attention to the veiled lady, who had watched the entire fight.
“It's dangerous to be out alone so late. You had best head home for the night, or else something like this might happen again. You wouldn't want that, after all.” His words were quick, terse, to-the-point and ever so slightly condescending. As he spoke, he stepped over to Cinders, applying cuffs to the unconscious thug's wrists, then began to unwind the grappling hook and line from around Cinders' legs with a methodical air. But he stopped short when he heard the veiled lady's laugh.
“I was aware of the danger, Goodfellow. I knew precisely what I was doing.” The caped man rose and turned, one hidden eyebrow rising in surprise. “You are that shrewd and knavish sprite called Robin Goodfellow, are you not?” Ah, she knew the Bard.
“Did you risk your health simply so you could speak with me?” Robin backed up slightly, folding his arms over his chest, already frowning. Reckless, he wanted to say, reckless foolish girl. She stepped forward, shaking her head.
“Hardly. Call it... a happy coincidence.” A flustered lie, but you wouldn't know that from the tone of voice. Her orient-accented voice was as smooth as butter, despite the low timbre and the barely audible echo. That echo – it curled about the ear, implying its presence rather than outright being heard, and that was even more disturbing than an obvious speech defect.
“No such thing as coincidence.” Robin knelt, pulling his grappling hook free and flicking it back into its cylinder. “You'd best go fetch a constable.”
“I need your help, Goodfellow.” Several words went unspoken: so I came out to Saint Abney's, because half the sightings of you are said to be within five streets of the park. And you came just as I believed you would. What a hero.
“A lot of people do.” The grappling hook, now back in its container, went back into the multi-pocketed belt. Robin straightened, started to stride away into the fog.
“Someone's trying to kill me.” This made Robin stop for a moment, and he half-turned his head, speaking over his shoulder.
“But you don't have proof, because then you would have gone to the police. Either you can't tell who – and neither could a trained detective – or you have no way of striking at who you suspect. So you come out alone, at night, hoping that I would find you, allowing you to explain your dilemma to the one man who can act freely.” He stopped for a moment, then dashed her hopes in the same quiet, rough (and assumed) voice. “I have to protect a lot of citizens already, miss. I'll do what I can, but I have duties of my own to attend to.”
Then he continued on, and the fog swallowed him whole, and the lady in black was truly alone. After a moment, she finally unclenched her teeth and released the breath she was holding in. Then she glanced down at the unconscious brute blocking the path with a sigh. “Well, now what?”
What I'm wondering is this: does it work as a hook? Also, the action-y bits: well done or no? Description and dialogue: tolerable or just bad?
edited 13th May '10 5:58:16 AM by Raz_Fox
Time keeps dragging on.It's good. It's very good. The writing is archaic-yet-fun to read, and the dialogue is adequate
My nitpick is that it should be "man" instead of "guy", and there shouldn't be the abbreviation from someone who is supposed to be intelligent ("Someone is/Someone's").
Seriously; I wish I could write like this.
An useless name, a forsaken connection.Pitch time!
Doc Kraken - The Death of a Renaissance Man: In the early twentieth century, the Great Old One named Cthulu attacked the earth. The greatest minds of that generation banded together to fight the abomination, and were dubbed by the public as the "Action Scientists".
Their victory was Pyrrhic, as they managed to push the dark dreamer back, perishing in the process. The only survivor was Daniel Krakowski, a Black-Polish intern of that collaborative, cursed to bear the Cthulu's visage, strength, and the minds of the core Action Scientists.
Now, Daniel must learn to cope with an utterly freakish appearance, inhuman powers beyond that of mortal men, the chatter of infuriated geniuses in his mind, and a world that already hates him, all the while fighting the Lord of R'lyeh's angry kin.
It's a Doc Savage two-fisted tale mixed with Lovecraft and infused with race issues. What do you think?
An useless name, a forsaken connection.@krrackknut
Honestly? It sounds awesome. This needs to be done, considering how great it will be to see the old ones fight each other. You should definitely go through with it.
A piece
“How about the roof?” asks Itou, already moving outside and leaping up. I am unwilling to argue, following her with a sauntering walk up the wall and to the sloping place, the snow cleared from it already. As we both sat down, I watch the tight knots of soldiers, most out of uniform, congregating and moving apart, full of cheer that will vanish as soon as a mission calls us.
“Superb,” I say quietly, chin resting on one folded knee as I extend the other leg, my toe tapping on the gutter as Itou lay down next to me, hands behind her head, the snow not fazing her at all; she is far colder than it is, even as it falls around us. “Look. Your very own cadre, each willing to die for your word. Frightening, if you consider it.”
“My cadre?” Itou looks at me in shock. “Gant, you are the one who turned made them soldiers. You think that a bit of sword training makes them listen to me? They look up to you, Gant. You’re a mentor to them.”
My head snaps to face her. “What?” That cannot be. I keep distant, intentionally, why am I paragon?
“You didn’t know? All they talk about is you. How powerful you must be to have taken the most important subject as your own area. You would have expected a different result?”
There is a clang of metal as I bury my head in both hands. “No. It should not have been like this. I am a machine of war, without other attachments, that is how I will die, not they! I did not want them to emulate me! Any other- you, Rosenstein, Halaz, Mazzanti, anyone but me; they must not become the already dead.”
In my focus on this travesty, I do not see Itou’s fist, covered in its fingerless glove she wears on her free hand, until it smashes into the side of my skull; the mass dispersion and her augmented muscle causes me to land flat on my back. She leans over my prone form, glaring at me as my temple begins to bind back into place.
“Gant.” Her voice is steely, and I push myself upwards. “I have been trying to tell you that you are not simply a machine of war.” She grabs me by the arm, hauling me up and looking me straight in the face. “If you were, you wouldn’t care about them, so what are you carrying on about? You aren’t the apathetic machine that I met for the first time. You invested in them. ”
She may be correct. No, she is correct. The oppressive cold lifts from my body as I straighten my back. “Now that you phrase it that way, it becomes far better. It is still better to have them watch you.” I pull myself up, doubling my mass to avoid falling again. “To think that I must have changed so much and not realized. But they-”
Itou puts her hand around my shoulders, leaning in closely; I can feel the heat radiating from her body, warming my frozen metal. "You give yourself too little credit. I could pick no one better for my troops to strive towards. You are the balance between machine and human Gant, and you should never forget it."
“No, Isako Itou. I killed thousands for nothing but sport. What sort of balance does it bring? And where will it end, because I cannot stop it, there is always an element of it in every kill I will make.”
I extend my sword, blade’s tip at the level of my face. “This carries so much blood… it will always tip me into combat. How can I balance myself when I am over the edge with nothing to hold?”
I run my hand along it edge, digging through my armor and laying open the musculature beneath it. “Even this is nothing.”
This is this.T-This is where you come to discuss writing problems and ask for help, right? Please forgive me if I'm on the wrong topic; still getting used to Tv Tropes and trying not to step on any toes.
So here's the problem... I'm working with a protagonist right now who's quite a Jerk with a Heart of Gold; with an ever unclear bit of that being a Jerkass Façade. The problem is his relationship with the rest of the cast... His best friend and his mentor are his Vitriolic Best Buds through and through. They both can't stand him and can't live without him, and they both started out with very shout-y and rocky interactions with him. This is how each separate relationship developed, and I thought they were growing quite organically until I compared them and realized that this protagonist's Dark and Troubled Past had him fighting with all of his dearest compadres. My fear is that this pattern could become overly repetitive and/or create a bit too much Jerkassedry for my character, making him an unlikeable protagonist. Here's the question: are the Volleying Insults and DeadpanSnarkery characterization or Bad Writing? It's worrying me sick.
Now, for my two cents: I like your idea for deconstructing a Mary Sue, Rahheemme, but I think you should be careful of the Armchair Psychology in the former idea. Remember that there's a big distinction between schizophrenia and autism, and that misrepresenting these disorders can lead to some pretty Unfortunate Implications.
edited 17th May '10 2:43:25 PM by Takwin
I've returned from the depths to continue politely irritating the good people of Tv Tropes.(◕‿◕✿)To Morgulion:
I like this piece. It characterizes really well, particularly showing that Gant favors archaic and formal speech.
To Takwin:
You see, it really depends on what you do with it. Snarking and insulting each other is horribly inappropriate when the situation calls for seriousness. Not to say that a battle or a fight can't have some snark, but if you want your audience to feel that this is serious, you should cut down on the snarking.
However, there's also this lovely thing called catharsis, which means "to refresh", or to cut loose. Perhaps after a particularly serious spot or in the middle of a battle, you can tell the audience to relax by having the characters relax with some friendly, light-hearted ribbing and reassurance that everything will be fine.
An useless name, a forsaken connection.@General: Still looking for moar critique.
@kracknutt: Thanks, and I must say that's a rather original idea. Go for it, it sounds fantastic.
@Morgulion: Wavers on the line between dramatic and overly-so, but recovers well. It was easy to get what was going on, and you did a good job of slowly revealing information. My only gripe would be the line "-why am I paragon?" It just seems a bit off.
@Takwin: In moderation. He shouldn't be stuck on that one mode all the time, and the reader would probably be relieved by some eventual character development in that area, but it's not bad on its own.
Time keeps dragging on.Story/New Writing
This isn't exactly NEW, but I'd forgotten that I uploaded it. It's really short, but if I can get some critique, it would be really nice.
http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2786952/1/Our_Eyes
Very creative, Rahheemme. The idea of questioning the nature of reality through a mirror is a very interesting one. All that bothers me is that the volleying dialogue between our narrator and the reflection gets a little confusing at times, and there are a few places where their conversation becomes slightly repetitive. In short: fascinating idea, work a bit on streamlining the prose and making the dialogue a bit clearer and more natural.
The gravity and catharsis of each scene isn't really my chief concern, krrackknut, though you make a good point. I understand that snarkery and even the darkest humor aren't appropriate at times, and that implementing them at such times would cheapen and weaken the mood. What I'm afraid of is that this character's various vitriolic relationships will make him a little too much of a Jerkass. It's just that I've always thought that the people you can poke fun at and speak your mind to are the ones you're really closest to. It's a very fine line between a couple of Vitriolic Best Buds and a good old-fashioned Dysfunction Junction.
I've returned from the depths to continue politely irritating the good people of Tv Tropes.(◕‿◕✿)Well, then it's simple. The line between a jerkass and a vitriolic best bud is whether or not the person cares.
Show the character caring for his friends, even if he only exhibits signs of it grudgingly. Show him be selfless, show that he truly treasures their friendship. The characters might not know it, but the audience must.
An useless name, a forsaken connection.Thanks for the help, guys. ^^ I think I have a clearer idea of what's going on now. A protagonist can be kind of a jerk while still being sympathetic, as long as he's fundamentally good to the people he cares about.
I've returned from the depths to continue politely irritating the good people of Tv Tropes.(◕‿◕✿)
Respect the Red Right Hand
NEW IDEA AND RELATED ISSUE
I have been brainstorming a Nightmare On Elm Street / Hellboy crossover.
The basic scenario is this- Freddy starts again on the next generation of Springwood children... Nancy's recognition- after all, this is the fifth (Freddy's Dead is obviously discontinuity) time- spurs her to take action, which ends up bringing Freddy to the attention of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense. They're all a little skeptic- Freddy is a bit farther out than anything they've dealt with, mythos wise- until he starts invading their dreams.
This has been all well and good, until I realize something. The level of utter ineptitude of Springwood's local authorities, who never put together any of the patterns of the Freddy killings, even when they knew there were consistent hallucinations, is enough to both make one character look like a huge idiot, and in the eyes of my BPRD advisor, stretch disbelief a tad too far. Also note- This is taking the "in character" portion of New Nightmare as canon- Nancy is an adult, with a son named Dylan, and her father is still alive, now a grandfather.
edited 20th May '10 1:07:17 PM by Ronnie

I really like your idea, K Spam.
Anyway, I just have one question:
Is it realistic for a Dogged Nice Guy to burn someone's house down (no one's home at the time, for the record) because he found out they repeatedly slept with his fiancee, then get away with it by leaving the country?
Or should I just go with something milder, like trashing it?
edited 8th May '10 7:26:49 PM by Wheezy
Novel progress: The Adroan, 110k; Yume no Hime, 98k; The Pigeon Witch, on pause at 40k.