That went very well. Just a few days ago, I asked for feedback here for the a rewritten prologue of Heroes... I also took the prologue to my writer's group (North County Writers of Speculative Fiction) and asked for feedback from my followers on Twitter.
I received feedback and beta-reads from all corners. It went well; actually, it went very well. I'm not talking about my writing, either. I'm referring to how quickly and how thoroughly you readers came through. I thank all of you. I ended up receiving feedback from my group, from old friends here on this site, from several new Twitter friends, from a few perfect strangers from Twitter, and from my girl. As an experiment in and of itself, this was amazing. As practical help, it was brilliant.
I also want everyone to know that everyone who offered me feedback actually brought something to my attention. There were no exceptions. Even one particularly...thorough critique shined a light on something that neither I, nor anyone else, had ever noticed. I made the suggested edits, and was delighted with the changes.
For completions' sake, and so everyone can see how much they've helped, I'm going to post the newest version. Feel free to check it out. Add a comment if you wish. I'm already working on the next two chapters, so I'm probably not going to go back and look at the prologue again for some time. I feel confident in what is there now. I feel fortunate in the assistance I was given to get there.
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Prologue - Darkness
Jorski Thurnam – known as “Horse” to his friends, and Watchman Thurnam to the rest of the city – stood in the middle of the intersection, and looked up the Street of Nets to where every oil lamp along one block had been extinguished. He cocked his head just a bit and focused on the mystery in front of him. For several hundred feet, the lamps on both sides of the street were burning. Beyond that, they were dark. He took a long draw on the pipe in his mouth, before tucking the briar into his belt. He glanced around. It was fairly quiet, as it often was in this part of town, this time of night. He unwound the strap that tied his truncheon to his belt. Weapon in hand, he started up the street toward the smear of darkness. He quickly left the large warehouses behind and moved into a neighborhood of small shops and rowhouses. He slowed as he came to Gundrin Way, the first cross-street, and heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles. One of the city’s black-painted broughams raced by, nearly cutting him off. Had he not been distracted, he would have banged on the side of it with his truncheon as it passed. It was moving much too quickly.
After it passed, he broke into a jog. He hurried to the end of the block, passing a beggar sitting beneath a lit lamp and a pair of young toughs posing as hard men. He ignored them, as he ignored the hound that darted into the street, barking at him. Jorski slowed to a puffing halt as he reached the end of the block and the beginning of the darkness. He caught his breath as he crossed the intersection and approached the fringe of shadows. This area was patrolled by the lamplighter known as Tall Wennel, never one to shirk his duties.
"Wennel?” Jorski did not yell. At night, voices carried.
Ahead of him, the entire block was dark; every lamp for two hundred feet had been extinguished. The storefronts of the darkened block melted into one vast wall, black on black. Jorski clenched his jaw.
“Tall Wennel?” he called again.
No answer. He stepped into the shadows and rapped his truncheon against the first unlit lamppost. The hollow clang echoed louder than he intended. He rapped again, lower. The sound was muffled; the reservoir in the pole contained oil and the lamp should be burning. He took a step forward and heard a crunch under his boot. Hundreds of tiny fragments of glass sparkled on the cobblestones. He looked back up and focused his gaze on the lamp itself. All four panes of glass had been shattered in their frame, as if something had struck it from four directions at once.
The rest of the prologue is at: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/217/
Showing posts with label meetup. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meetup. Show all posts
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
"The Moving Finger Writes And Having Writ, Rewrites..."
All apologies to Omar Khayyam, but I guess he never had to rewrite. As most of the regular few dozen readers know, I submitted my huge novel earlier this year to DAW Books and was rejected. Taking that to heart, I took the prologue to my writer's group (North County Writers of Speculative Fiction - check out the Meetup notice on this page) and got some feedback.
Oy, did I get feedback. I needed it. Without going too much into detail, I will say that they were right. The biggest complaint was that I was too emotionally detatched from the text and it made the characters hard to care about.
This caused me consternation, not because of the criticism, but because I had spent so much time initially writing the dang thing. Now I needed to overhaul the entire text - starting with the prologue, of course - and try to integrate my characters' emotions and motivations better. Had I not spent years doing it, it wouldn't have been a problem. But because I had done so, and I could actually simply recite entire pages of the novel from repetition, it proved very difficult.
I think I finally solved the problem. I stopped trying to integrate myself into the piece and simply started over. I found that I was able to reuse entire paragraphs and lines that I wanted and/or needed. But the entire structure of the prologue shifted and changed. I think it's become more tangible, real. It feels more like the prologue you'd find on a dark fantasy novel in a bookstore somewhere. I think I may have improved it.
That doesn't mean I like it better, though. After years of marriage with the first text, I nearly cried when it came time to excise lines, paragraphs, and ideas that I loved - lines, paragraphs, and ideas that I know will never again appear.
I found myself wondering if I'd learn to love the new step-text as opposed to my own children-text. I then shook my head and realized I was thinking about this in an entirely wrong fashion. I needed to have criticism from my writer's group. As such, it's clear that I'll need feedback about this.
Since I began this blog in January, I told those of you that had read the original version that I'd hoped to post some Heroes stuff here. I'm doing so now. I'm going to post part of the first paragraph, and then a link to continue (I don't want to fill this page with 2,100 words). If you want to read it, feel free. If you're one of our new friends, you're also welcome to read it, since likely you're a writer or a reader.
But if you do, please leave a comment. Leave what you like, for good or bad, but don't feel obligated to leave any particular amount. I'll take what you offer. I genuinely believe that criticism is a gift and I will happily accept whatever any of you are willing to give.
For those of you unfamiliar with my work, this is dark fantasy, set in a large city (that doesn't in any way, shape, or form look like London. I know - heresy!) I'm not going to give you any world-building, since other readers won't be given that option. To anyone who reads it, enjoy.
Prologue - Darkness
Jorski Thurnam – known as “Horse” to his friends, and Watchman Thurnam to the rest of the city – stood in the middle of the intersection, and looked up the Street of Nets to where an entire block’s worth of oil lamps had all been extinguished. He swiveled on the cobblestones, cocked his head just a bit, and focused on the mystery in front of him. For a couple of blocks, the lamps on both sides of the street were burning. Beyond that, they were dark. He took a last long draw on the pipe in his mouth before tucking the briar into his belt. He glanced around. It was quiet, as it often was in this part of town, this time of night. He unwound the strap that tied his truncheon to his belt. Weapon in hand, he started up the street toward the smear of darkness. He quickly left the large warehouses behind and moved into a neighborhood of small shops and rowhouses. He slowed as he came to Gundrin Way, the first cross-street, and heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles. One of the city’s black-painted broughams raced by, nearly cutting him off. Had he not been distracted, he would have banged on it with his truncheon as it passed. It was moving much too quickly.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/215/
Oy, did I get feedback. I needed it. Without going too much into detail, I will say that they were right. The biggest complaint was that I was too emotionally detatched from the text and it made the characters hard to care about.
This caused me consternation, not because of the criticism, but because I had spent so much time initially writing the dang thing. Now I needed to overhaul the entire text - starting with the prologue, of course - and try to integrate my characters' emotions and motivations better. Had I not spent years doing it, it wouldn't have been a problem. But because I had done so, and I could actually simply recite entire pages of the novel from repetition, it proved very difficult.
I think I finally solved the problem. I stopped trying to integrate myself into the piece and simply started over. I found that I was able to reuse entire paragraphs and lines that I wanted and/or needed. But the entire structure of the prologue shifted and changed. I think it's become more tangible, real. It feels more like the prologue you'd find on a dark fantasy novel in a bookstore somewhere. I think I may have improved it.
That doesn't mean I like it better, though. After years of marriage with the first text, I nearly cried when it came time to excise lines, paragraphs, and ideas that I loved - lines, paragraphs, and ideas that I know will never again appear.
I found myself wondering if I'd learn to love the new step-text as opposed to my own children-text. I then shook my head and realized I was thinking about this in an entirely wrong fashion. I needed to have criticism from my writer's group. As such, it's clear that I'll need feedback about this.
Since I began this blog in January, I told those of you that had read the original version that I'd hoped to post some Heroes stuff here. I'm doing so now. I'm going to post part of the first paragraph, and then a link to continue (I don't want to fill this page with 2,100 words). If you want to read it, feel free. If you're one of our new friends, you're also welcome to read it, since likely you're a writer or a reader.
But if you do, please leave a comment. Leave what you like, for good or bad, but don't feel obligated to leave any particular amount. I'll take what you offer. I genuinely believe that criticism is a gift and I will happily accept whatever any of you are willing to give.
For those of you unfamiliar with my work, this is dark fantasy, set in a large city (that doesn't in any way, shape, or form look like London. I know - heresy!) I'm not going to give you any world-building, since other readers won't be given that option. To anyone who reads it, enjoy.
Prologue - Darkness
Jorski Thurnam – known as “Horse” to his friends, and Watchman Thurnam to the rest of the city – stood in the middle of the intersection, and looked up the Street of Nets to where an entire block’s worth of oil lamps had all been extinguished. He swiveled on the cobblestones, cocked his head just a bit, and focused on the mystery in front of him. For a couple of blocks, the lamps on both sides of the street were burning. Beyond that, they were dark. He took a last long draw on the pipe in his mouth before tucking the briar into his belt. He glanced around. It was quiet, as it often was in this part of town, this time of night. He unwound the strap that tied his truncheon to his belt. Weapon in hand, he started up the street toward the smear of darkness. He quickly left the large warehouses behind and moved into a neighborhood of small shops and rowhouses. He slowed as he came to Gundrin Way, the first cross-street, and heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles. One of the city’s black-painted broughams raced by, nearly cutting him off. Had he not been distracted, he would have banged on it with his truncheon as it passed. It was moving much too quickly.
To continue: http://www.writersownwords.com/washroomannex/work/215/
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
This Just In! Intelligent Life Has Been Discovered!
It's just that I had to make my way to North County to find it. Whereas South Bay is the intelligence-and-culture vacuum in which I currently reside - the area between downtown San Diego and Tijuana, North County is the area north of San Diego. I've been informed that this is where the artistic, intelligent, creative folks all tend to reside. (But remember, we've got the nail salons and tattoo parlors!)
Last night, I made my way 45 miles north to join a writer's group that I stumbled onto on Meetup.com. I'm not going to say too much about them, since I'm not really prone to smooching tuckus, but I will say it was an extremely pleasant change to meet with writers who seemed to have voices of their own, who sought honest criticism (and got it!), and who accepted it pretty graciously. Plus we all seemed to come from out of the same pool of interests (yeah, geeks, but literate, functional geeks).
I'm more curious about North County. What is it - the water? What is it about that place that keeps you people up there? Can't we get a sort of international exchange program going on? How about some of you artistic sorts come down here to this cultural third world and bring a sort of artistic care package? ("This is an oil painting. It's painted on canvas." "Oooo!") Maybe you could do a USO show. ("This is clog dancing!" "Really? When do I take my clothes off?")
I doubt that this will happen, so I comfort myself with the thought that every few weeks, I'll get to pack up the laptop, some paperwork, and drive 90+ miles round trip to spend several hours with some writers of like minds. But, you know, I'm the guy that used to drive 150 miles, round trip, to Memphis every 2 weeks to get comic books. I'm sure they understand - and I suspect they'll know I can't wait.
So, to all you up there in North Bay, to all you everywhere, to Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea, I'm sending this dispatch from deep in the cultural apocalypse that is South Bay. Back to you, Ted.
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