/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.3946657]

First draft no edit, about two pages, please be harsh.

One October, a particular cool-dry-wind October, the kind of October where everyone has the flu and the red runny nose but no one seems too bothered, Travis had his first panic attack. It was a clear gray skied Friday morning and he was on his way to school. He was walking at a slightly slower pace than others would have advised for such a chilly day, but he was deeply focused on crunching any and all leafs that crossed his path. His face stared obediently down against the wind while he walked and his fists were thrust deeply into the pockets of his muted blue windbreaker.

Now, I must warn the reader that although it seems perfectly natural for a fourteen year old boy to walk face down against the wind to evade any unwanted nip, this was not the case, and only a very close family member or friend could catch the clues, his stride being straighter and narrower than usual, or his back held adamantly straight up against the weight of his backpack, to know that he was having a fit. A fit brought on by his, I promise, always well intentioned although always naïve older brother, Z. The all too familiar brother feud had begun twenty minutes earlier in their hardwood floor kitchen over toast and blueberry jam, coffee, and orange juice. Z had the coffee, Travis the juice. Travis was reading Hemmingway’s The Sun also Rises and Z asked Travis if he was enjoying it. Travis answered that he was without looking up, and Z gave a faint smile. Z asked just what it was he was enjoying in the book. Travis put the book down and said he thought that Hemmingway did a good job of saying something without saying it, that he had a skill for the subtle. Z said he found it gimmicky, which was all that was needed to start the feud.

Right in the middle of the after math of this feud, when a young boy is most sensitive and disagreeable, a young girl wearing a white summer dress with light green dots and frills, and a grey hoody over this, was catching up to Travis with a slight spring in her step, and as she got closer she was more bouncing than walking.

“Why hello pretty boy, whats got you all pouty and muttery?” she said as she reached him.
“Z” he said.
“Oh no, what did he do today?”
“Being a god damn bastard”
“Now Travis”, she grabbed his arm playfully.
“That’s no way to start a morning, especially this morning”

[Anonymous No.3946667]

>>3946657
>One October, a particular cool-dry-wind October, the kind of October where everyone has the flu and the red runny nose but no one seems too bothered

Unsure if you're going for repetition here, but why not be more concise. e.g. "On a particular cool-dry-wind October, the kind where everyone has the flu and a red runny nose but nobody seems too bothered,"

[Anonymous No.3946673]

>>3946667
I wasnt consciously going for repetition, sort a natural rhythm I guess, but I like your edit. Thanks. Anything else?

[Anonymous No.3946704]

>>3946657
>Now, I must warn the reader
Stopped reading there.
Saying something like this is never, ever a good idea. It immediately disassociates the person reading from the text.

[Anonymous No.3946725]

>>3946704
It was commonly used back in the 19th century.

But yeah, I agree with you. It fell out of practice for a reason.

[Anonymous No.3946789]

>>3946704
I disagree, it can be very effective, but it takes a skilled writer to inject themselves as an omniscient narrator. In this case it gives an affected, distracted feel to the prose that doesn't seem to fit the subject at all. Phrases like "all too familiar", ", I promise, " or "others would have advised" add to this distrait air.

There might be reason to do this but it really robs the prose of energy, which after all supposedly includes an argument. The swearing near the end, rather than having impact just excuses itself on the page.

Tediously thrown in detail like the hardwood floor, insufferable quaintness (blueberries indeed) an argument in retrospect that is reported so blandly, repeated names knotting up the prose.

I'd say it was overwritten, you worked to hard on it you should have dashed it off quicker to make it more fluid. Keep writing.

[Anonymous No.3946812]

>>3946789
This anon said it. Calm down the prose and focus on clarity.

The third paragraph is full of places where it could be broken up into other paragraphs. Experimenting with different places can change the timing. No need to address the reader if you just do it.

Also, why cocktease me about this panic attack. If you say it first, why not show it first?

[Anonymous No.3946889]

>>3946789
Could you expand more on what you thought of the swearing bit?

As far as the narrator, I wanted it to be, I dont know if distracting is what I was aiming for, but definitely something playful. The narrator sets himself up to the reader as the narrator because he has an important bias to the story.

Obviously I havent gotten around to it yet, but the narrator is Z reminiscing about his brother.

Im not at all making excuses, I really welcome your criticism, but I thought if I gave some context you might add more helpful remarks.

>>3946812
Ahh, maybe I posted this too early into it. Like I said to the above anon, I really didnt want this to be the calm part, but maybe im sacrificing too much too early on.

But damnit I want the narrator to have fun with this story.

Again thanks all, please say more

[Anonymous No.3946898]

>>3946812
Also on the panic attack bit, I was setting up the panic attack. I wanted to end this bit with the panic attack itself taking place

However I am thinking over what youve said, I just, I dont know, the first line seems pretty decent to me, it seems like it would hook some people in, and it does set up the introduction and later themes that will come up.

So many options...

[Anonymous No.3946918]

>>3946657
Stop going for aloofness and artifice, this kind of passage calls for a more naturalistic tone. It sounds mad proper as is. try to take your self out of it as much as possible, no "i must warn the reader", no "when a young boy is most sensitive and disagreeable", no "i promise", and maybe cool it with some of the descriptiveness. i'm not saying to completely cut it, but maybe sketch instead of finely detailing.

that said, your writing doesn't make me want to kill myself, which is better than a lot of the shit posted on /lit/. good job on not just throwing a bunch of adjectives in front of a bunch of nouns.

[Anonymous No.3946942]

The thing that you must understand is that children will do terrible things if you leave them alone long enough. Sarah kissed me for the first time just after a swimming lesson. We exchanged chlorine. She said that the pool was our orphanage now. She said all I was to her was salt, something to keep her occupied while chewing, and at the time I figured she meant it. I said I preferred pepper, sneezing, letting the dogs bite me. I let one hang off my face for almost three minutes once. A dog I mean. They put it to sleep even though I told them I asked for it. After all that time running through the cornfields, sitting in the barn, waiting for it to happen. Her mouth left sores on mine. She took all the water from my body and gave it back to the lake. I told everyone it was a cold sore. I told them all the scars I had on me were from dogs.

[Anonymous No.3946943]

OP tell us about your writing process

[Anonymous No.3946946]

>>3946918
I understand what youre saying but I also want the narrator to have a voice where he focuses on details, I was planning on describing the conversation between Travis and the girl for quite a while.

I promise im not disregarding what you said, it just might be too early for me in this work to try and kill the narrators voice and switch it out with something else.

Mainly im afraid that if I calm down on the narrators voice ill lose quite a bit of what im trying to do with him (the above posts about the narrator being Z)

If it helps I just finished reading all of Salinger's works and I really like what he does with Buddy.

[Anonymous No.3946948]

>>3946657
>the kind of October where everyone has the flu and the red runny nose but no one seems too bothered
i don't know what that kind of October is. i'll assume the rest of your writing is full of these empty "witticisms". they're annoying. just stick to description, especially in the beginning. don't try to get too clever about it.

[Anonymous No.3946950]

>>3946657
Your opening sentence is a monstrosity. Why do you even mention it was in October? What significance does that have to anything? If you just picked it arbitrarily then you need to stop right there and have a think about what you're actually writing and why you're writing it.

The second paragraph is just contrived rambling, and it was excruciating to get through. Sort out your skills as a storyteller before you get into any of that indulgent shit because right now I don't even understand what you're trying to convey and I couldn't give a fuck even if you tried to explain it to me.

Every time you put words down, ask yourself: is this sufficient and is this necessary? That's the only rule you need imo.

[Anonymous No.3946959]

>>3946946
Well, unless you're writing Z like a pseudo-intellectual who thinks too highly of himself on purpose, it's not working.

If this doesn't end tragically, he wouldn't really remember lots of details, if it does he wouldn't be spouting witticisms. You have to know what's happened since then to have colored z's tone, and stick with that tone.

[Anonymous No.3946958]

>>3946942
Im not sure what you were trying to tell me with this post, besides that youre not a fan of dogs

>>3946943
For this work ive been playing around with it a lot, a lot more than what im used to. Whats been consistent is that the story revolves around Travis Blair, the younger brother, and blair, the older brother. I know that I want Travis to be the focus or main character, and the plot will heavily rely on his experiences with death and and his inability to communicate with others about it.

I got the idea for them fairly quickly, and the philosophy or message came pretty shortly after that.

The last two weeks, the main chunk of the writing, has been messing around with how to tell their story and which part of the story I want to focus on. Should it be Travis in first person, an omniscient narrator, Z or Travis as the narrator in third person, should it be about them when they were younger, early twenties. Ive also been playing around with using letters, texts, phone calls, etc as a way to tell about little stories ive come up with that are at different points in their life (The op being an example, a flashback Z has of Travis).

Ive just been going back and forth having fun on how I want to write this, and when I started the OP post I thought about posting it here.

[Anonymous No.3946960]

>>3946958
>Im not sure what you were trying to tell me with this post, besides that youre not a fan of dogs
Its my story

[Anonymous No.3946961]

>>3946950
There is a reason for it being october, the events lead up to halloween.

Why do you call it indulgent?

[Anonymous No.3946964]

>>3946959
What about the narrator's voice sounds pseudo-intellectual? What does that even mean, does he honestly come off as a snob?

>>3946960
Oh sorry, I thought you might of been trying to highlight something about my story through your post.

[Anonymous No.3946966]

>>3946964
a little, they just sound like they're trying very hard to sound like oscar wilde, casually throwing out witticisms in the middle of a story.

[Anonymous No.3946968]

>>3946657
Just a couple of editing suggestions that a normal grammar check won't pick up.
"His faced stared down obediently" is better.
Never use personal pronouns. It's considered amateurish. Rather say, "The reader should be warned..." Otherwise, just start with "Although it seems..." Get rid of the other "I" as well.
"aftermath" is one word
"hoody" is a very colloquial term. Perhaps say hood, unless you want that style.
"she was bouncing more than she was walking"
Be advised that we are no longer living in the early 20th century. Postmodern reading focuses on reductionism and rightly so. Minimalist prose suggests says a lot is much better than describing every fucking blade of grass on the mountain (somebody tell that to Tolkien lel). Let them know what you mean by inferring it, implying it, or referring to a commonly known theme that will inform the reader about it. E.g. If someone is behaving arrogantly, instead of spending a paragraph describing how arrogant he is, just have another character tell him that he's been staring at his reflection in the lake a bit too often lately (Narcissus reference).
Don't listen to anyone else. Your first line was actually fine. Perhaps remove one adjective from nose, "red nose" or "Runny nose". I know you'd like your alliteration there, but keep that for poetry.
Then remove the 'too' so it becomes "seems bothered" - This is all for the sole purpose of quickening your pace. The first sentence needs to be fast so that you can latch people onto the book.
Otherwise, it's decent. can't wait for the porn scene to start between the girl and Travis.
Good luck with your story.

[Anonymous No.3946975]

>>3946966
Mind pointing out these witticisms? Im pretty naive and would appreciate it

>>3946968
Thanks for the suggestions, really. One thing though, as far as minimalist prose, Hemingway would fall under this right? What if I really dislike Hemingway but really dig someone like Salinger?

[Anonymous No.3947074]

A much needed bump

[Anonymous No.3947634]

>>3946975
Sorry dude. I'm from South Africa and I'm more immersed in English and Italian literature. My knowledge of american literature is next to 0 except for the classics. I would think that Hemingway would fall under very descriptive prose because he's from that time period. Romantic era (whether he considered himself a part of it or not) consisted of descriptiveness. If I were you, I would read recent works. Because reductionism only became a real thing like almost into this millennium.

Try reading some jazz-age poetry for inspiration. Look at the way they say huge things in just one line. Use it in your writing. I suggest starting with Refugee Blues. Very nice reductionist poetry there. He paints such a huge picture with so few words.

Using poetry is important because you are automatically forced to explain more with less words. You don't have the space to move around so you learn to -- reductionism. Try writing a few poems yourself, develop it, and translate that skill into your prose.

Finally, read more diverse literature. I know I'm one to speak without having read much American stuff, but a few classics from England or Asia would help you get perspective on the myriad of different styles you can use and when. Since American literature is only 150 years old, it hasn't had much time to evolve. Also, read across genres. Read a scifi book, then read a thriller, then read a classic from 200 years ago, like the Scarlet Letter if you want. Read a biography, then an autobiography. Read a Shakespeare play, read another recent contemporary play like A Streetcar named Desire, or I could even recommend some South African literature (which is awesome, believe me). It's full of blood and soul and struggle. It teaches you about human beings down to their core. Ultimately, the best possible thing you can do for your prose is to simply read everything.

[Anonymous No.3949158]

>>3947634
Modernism and Hemingway are known for their minimal writing style, they arguably started it. Hemingway was the one who wrote the six word story.

[Anonymous No.3949161]

>>3947634
I dislike the minimal writing style, or at least the aspects youre focusing on. Id rather have a minimal plot than narrative voice.

[Anonymous No.3949170]

>>3949158
>Hemingway was the one who wrote the six word story.
There's no evidence he wrote it.

[Anonymous No.3949181]

"Until lions have their own historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter." - Old African proverb

Death knocks once, the officer knocked thrice. Hard knocks, tasteful and professional, an art perfected from a long history of waking tenants. Birdsong streamed through the open windows as Quincy stirred within, a worn, aching figure curled up on the couch in slippers and ragged dressing gown. 7 a.m. Back arched, lifting himself from the couch, he trudged to the door, lethargy dogging each step.
Another three knocks. A call from outside. The voice in Quincy's head spoke.
the steak. the steak, quincy.
"Hello? Is anybody home?"
the steak, quincy, hurry up
Suddenly sobered, as if woken from a dream, Quincy grabbed the wrapped raw steak from the table, wide eyes darting and shining with fear. 72oz of incrimination in a paper bag. Thrown under the sofa. Darting to the door,
The officer stood colossal in the doorframe, a silhouette of authority. Unsmiling.
—Good morning, sir. There's been a report of a disturbance. May I come in?
Hostility through clarity. Mancunian cant in the flatness of his tone. Disdain in blue eyes.
—Yes. Yes, of course, officer.

—Are you Quincy Mapsumo?
—Mapfumo. Yes, officer - and you?
Visibly taken aback, the officer fumbled for a retort.
—If I was in your shoes, son, I wouldn't be asking questions. None of your business, is what that is. What are you, anyway?
—What?
—Race.
Quincy looked uncomfortable.
—Mixed.
—You don't look it, son.

Greeting the guest as he entered the living room was a spiralling cascade of notes sung by the crackling vinyl ghost of a saxophone, echoing from an outdated stereo system.
—What's this racket?
A look of irritation flashed across Quincy's face, as if he was personally slighted by the remark.
—Coltrane. A Love Supreme. 1965. It's a jazz classic.
—It's a bloody racket is what it is. Turn it off.
Resigned, Quincy paced across the room and solemnly lifted needle from vinyl. Taking his eyes off the retreating figure, the officer glanced around the room with undisguised curiosity. Books, maps, paintings, cigar boxes. Stacks of records.
On the mantelpiece, a beautiful woman's smile beamed, frozen through a dead window of celluloid. The picture was rich with colour - blue sky, ochre earth, black skin. For a moment, her smile captivated the officer, disarmed by her gaze.
—Who's this then?
For a moment Quincy looked startled, as if he'd forgotten that the picture was on display.
—My wife. Back home. Long gone now.
The officer laughed.
—Cheer up. Sit down.

[Anonymous No.3949187]

>>3949181

—How long have you been in England?

The man at the airport wouldn't let her through.
—No, no. Not you. None of you.
The sound of the crowd grew louder.
The man gestured at Quincy.
—You, you sir. You come through. Leave her.

Her flailing figure shrank smaller and smaller as the plane ascended, until she was nothing more than a memory.

The questioning took on an increasingly aggressive air, question and answer now offence and defence, a sparring of wills in which Quincy had the clearly lesser hand. Floundering in a sea of questions, he threw back contradictions, tired rebuttals, endless trivia. 1972. Yes, three years. No, officer. Yes, officer. Why, officer?
—Because I want to know what one of your lot's doing in Accrington, that's why.

—What's that smell?
Nostrils flared, he sniffed at the air violently, like a wild animal looking for the scent of blood. On all fours now, fumbling under the sofa. The bag.
he knows. hurry, quincy, he knows. it's too late to turn back, quincy. get rid of him.
—A steak? What the hell are you doing with a raw steak? Shouldn't this be in a fridge?
Quincy was mute.
krrrrrrrk
—What in God's name was that? What was that noise?

—Officer, you really shouldn't -
Following the source of the noise, the officer dashed down the hallway, pausing occasionally to press his ear to the wall, rapidly fumbling his way to the trapdoor leading to the basement below. Unlocked, the door gave way easily to the officer's hurried scrabbling, swinging open to reveal a set of rugged stone steps. The steps were irregularly scored with fine white lines, as if they had been scraped by nails. Feeling his way by blindly groping at the wall, the officer descended the steps, dismissing the pleas of Quincy with deaf ears. There was something there; something big and bad and foreign.

A single beam of light from a grill outside illuminated the heap in the corner.
Mangy thing, hard to see in the dark. Mane all tangled and filthy. Ribs touching under ragged fur. Scat everywhere. The stench was unbearable.
—Christ, Quincy. Christ.
From the top of the stairs, Quincy called back, helplessly.

[Anonymous No.3949189]

>>3949187
—It's just company, it's just -
The heap stirred, a behemoth stretching in the light, muscles tightly flexed as a gaping cavern of yellowed teeth yawned.
—it's just hard to adjust, you know? I mean you know it's, it's, just a different place. So different. How can I explain something like that? Since I left Mary behind, oh God...
The officer merely stood and stared in disbelief at the thing before him. Bones on the floor. Empty bags of meat.
—Shut your mouth. I'm Jamaican, but I didn't bring no alligators with me. You're just cracked, son.
now
The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, and there was the faint sound of key turning in lock. Startled, the officer turned,
—Big man. Big words. Small mind.
The officer, now at the top of the stairs, began to bang on the door, alacrity accelerating frantically as the growling from beneath rose to a roar, a rumble bloodchilling in its magnitude.
—Quincy let me out let me out now you white sonofa-
A wide smile, imperceptible to the officer, graced Quincy's face for the first time in years, terrifying in its sincerity.

Time to go.