Hi, any chance of someone looking at my story, and giving advice? It’s for the non-erotic section but it may be a little dark for the site. Should I look somewhere else to post it, or just bin it? There’s absolutely no sex or any reference to it. Let me know, thanks. Ray
Help required
- Thread starter rkm10
- Start date
ChrisPerridas
Virgin
- Joined
- Mar 19, 2005
- Posts
- 19
oops
STALKER
Icy fingers caressed her spine like a piano player’s would on his keys and she stared over her monitor and around the office. For the past week, or was it two, she was beginning to lose track, she had felt it. A feeling of being watched, not the usual glances inevitably cast about an office, but a sustained stare which bored into her head and began rummaging about in the life stored within the cells of her brain. A sensation of someone invading her memories; exploring, extracting, manipulating them then returning a life already lived, back; but not quite in the correct order. Recollections of events that had once been solid and real began to feel vague and indistinct as if they had happened to someone else, or had been recounted several times, orders changing and meanings lost as they often do over many retellings.
Although she had barely spoken to her fellow workers she knew all of them by sight, the only newcomer being a tall, nondescript man who had joined the firm about a month previously. She had never spoken to him, in fact, she never saw him interact with anyone, but he almost always seemed to be there, sitting in the corner at his terminal, the top of his head just visible over his screen.
She was due a break and in the few seconds it took to retrieve her handbag the head had disappeared and as she glanced across to his cubicle she noticed he had gone. She hesitated; the room housing the coffee machine was at the end of the corridor and, for a moment, felt isolated from the rest of the office. Slowing her steps she debated whether to forego her break and return to her position rather than find herself alone with him.
Hearing a voice, a woman’s voice, she relaxed and entered the room. Cathy, her name tag eliminating any need to remember it, was retrieving a partly filled cup from the machine.
“They must make a fuckin’ fortune from this,” she exclaimed, “it never gives you more than half a cup. Oh sorry about the language, it’s just so annoying,” Cathy continued before smiling and staring at the cup as if willing the extra liquid to suddenly appear before her eyes.
She began to wonder if that was the first time Cathy had spoken to her, she doubted it, but couldn’t recall any other conversations. While she searched in her purse for change Cathy left, obviously taking her drink back to her workstation and leaving her alone in the room. She glanced about nervously and making a quick decision hurried after her, the brightly lit room suddenly taking on a sinister edge.
As she entered the office she heard a voice raised above the clicks of the keyboards.
“Hey, Jessica, we’re signing a petition to get that bloody machine fixed, you want to sign it?”
She walked on until she realised it was her she had addressed. Yes . . . that was her name, Jessica, she’d almost forgotten.
She turned and took the proffered clipboard scribbling her signature under the others, not that it would do any good it had been that way for years. Had she been here for years? She struggled to remember, although she couldn’t recall being anywhere else. Home to office, then back again, had been her life, was her life. Trying to recall anything else was difficult, almost impossible.
What did she do yesterday? Got up, came to work, and then went home. And the day before, the same; and the day before that, same again. As she delved into her memories trying to find something, anything, that didn’t involve work or her small apartment she felt him again. Probing, looking as she was for a small part of her life that was different, an almost forgotten friend or an incident, anything that could give her life meaning, but he was there before her.
Her memories had become like dreams; vague, indistinct, like looking at the world through an opaque window. Movement, light, shadows, all there but impossible to make sense of, until at last they drifted over an imagined horizon and out of reach forever.
The others began shuffling about as the clock ticked towards finishing time, everyone rushing towards a life away from the mundane office, everyone except her. She glanced across the room and saw his head once more just above his monitor and hurried to be part of the exodus. By the time she reached the door his empty chair as she passed caused her to hurry even more to be part of the crowd, safety in numbers.
She had begun to park her car on the public car park rather than the one provided by her employer. That was dark and forbidding and the thought of having to retrieve her car alone, if she was delayed, caused the sweat to bead on her forehead.
It was as she inserted the key into the lock of her aging Ford she knew he was with her once again. Her eyes scanned the car park and the top of a head poking above the roof of a black Volvo confirmed her fears, he was waiting for her. Her keys fell from shaking hands and jangled as they hit the tarmac surface. She was tempted to retrieve them, but to do so she would have to bend down and lose sight of him, she left them and begun to back away between the rows of cars and towards the brightly lit road, and the passersby.
She didn’t hear the car reversing, nor did he see her, until the collision. A once seemingly empty car park was suddenly bustling with a mawkish crowd, eager to offer advice or simply to stare at the prone figure. She opened her eyes slowly, the pain almost causing her to close them again quickly, until she saw him. Partly hidden behind a group of ghoulish onlookers, the top of his head was just visible.
She tried to concentrate on the almost unintelligible words that bounced about inside her head although she wasn’t sure if she was meant to understand the young doctor, or if he was just being polite in keeping her informed. Jessica tried to focus on his lips in order to make some sense of what he was saying but her eyes were distracted, there in the background, behind a low screen, she saw the top of his head. He began to move into view just as the clear contents of a small syringe were pumped slowly into her vein.
Jessica looked around; the blackness that surrounded her was almost complete, but not quite. She felt him, not vague or indistinct this time but beside her, and as she turned the top of his head rose up from the floor until, at last, she was able took into his eyes and he took what remained of Jessica away forever.
STALKER
Icy fingers caressed her spine like a piano player’s would on his keys and she stared over her monitor and around the office. For the past week, or was it two, she was beginning to lose track, she had felt it. A feeling of being watched, not the usual glances inevitably cast about an office, but a sustained stare which bored into her head and began rummaging about in the life stored within the cells of her brain. A sensation of someone invading her memories; exploring, extracting, manipulating them then returning a life already lived, back; but not quite in the correct order. Recollections of events that had once been solid and real began to feel vague and indistinct as if they had happened to someone else, or had been recounted several times, orders changing and meanings lost as they often do over many retellings.
Although she had barely spoken to her fellow workers she knew all of them by sight, the only newcomer being a tall, nondescript man who had joined the firm about a month previously. She had never spoken to him, in fact, she never saw him interact with anyone, but he almost always seemed to be there, sitting in the corner at his terminal, the top of his head just visible over his screen.
She was due a break and in the few seconds it took to retrieve her handbag the head had disappeared and as she glanced across to his cubicle she noticed he had gone. She hesitated; the room housing the coffee machine was at the end of the corridor and, for a moment, felt isolated from the rest of the office. Slowing her steps she debated whether to forego her break and return to her position rather than find herself alone with him.
Hearing a voice, a woman’s voice, she relaxed and entered the room. Cathy, her name tag eliminating any need to remember it, was retrieving a partly filled cup from the machine.
“They must make a fuckin’ fortune from this,” she exclaimed, “it never gives you more than half a cup. Oh sorry about the language, it’s just so annoying,” Cathy continued before smiling and staring at the cup as if willing the extra liquid to suddenly appear before her eyes.
She began to wonder if that was the first time Cathy had spoken to her, she doubted it, but couldn’t recall any other conversations. While she searched in her purse for change Cathy left, obviously taking her drink back to her workstation and leaving her alone in the room. She glanced about nervously and making a quick decision hurried after her, the brightly lit room suddenly taking on a sinister edge.
As she entered the office she heard a voice raised above the clicks of the keyboards.
“Hey, Jessica, we’re signing a petition to get that bloody machine fixed, you want to sign it?”
She walked on until she realised it was her she had addressed. Yes . . . that was her name, Jessica, she’d almost forgotten.
She turned and took the proffered clipboard scribbling her signature under the others, not that it would do any good it had been that way for years. Had she been here for years? She struggled to remember, although she couldn’t recall being anywhere else. Home to office, then back again, had been her life, was her life. Trying to recall anything else was difficult, almost impossible.
What did she do yesterday? Got up, came to work, and then went home. And the day before, the same; and the day before that, same again. As she delved into her memories trying to find something, anything, that didn’t involve work or her small apartment she felt him again. Probing, looking as she was for a small part of her life that was different, an almost forgotten friend or an incident, anything that could give her life meaning, but he was there before her.
Her memories had become like dreams; vague, indistinct, like looking at the world through an opaque window. Movement, light, shadows, all there but impossible to make sense of, until at last they drifted over an imagined horizon and out of reach forever.
The others began shuffling about as the clock ticked towards finishing time, everyone rushing towards a life away from the mundane office, everyone except her. She glanced across the room and saw his head once more just above his monitor and hurried to be part of the exodus. By the time she reached the door his empty chair as she passed caused her to hurry even more to be part of the crowd, safety in numbers.
She had begun to park her car on the public car park rather than the one provided by her employer. That was dark and forbidding and the thought of having to retrieve her car alone, if she was delayed, caused the sweat to bead on her forehead.
It was as she inserted the key into the lock of her aging Ford she knew he was with her once again. Her eyes scanned the car park and the top of a head poking above the roof of a black Volvo confirmed her fears, he was waiting for her. Her keys fell from shaking hands and jangled as they hit the tarmac surface. She was tempted to retrieve them, but to do so she would have to bend down and lose sight of him, she left them and begun to back away between the rows of cars and towards the brightly lit road, and the passersby.
She didn’t hear the car reversing, nor did he see her, until the collision. A once seemingly empty car park was suddenly bustling with a mawkish crowd, eager to offer advice or simply to stare at the prone figure. She opened her eyes slowly, the pain almost causing her to close them again quickly, until she saw him. Partly hidden behind a group of ghoulish onlookers, the top of his head was just visible.
She tried to concentrate on the almost unintelligible words that bounced about inside her head although she wasn’t sure if she was meant to understand the young doctor, or if he was just being polite in keeping her informed. Jessica tried to focus on his lips in order to make some sense of what he was saying but her eyes were distracted, there in the background, behind a low screen, she saw the top of his head. He began to move into view just as the clear contents of a small syringe were pumped slowly into her vein.
Jessica looked around; the blackness that surrounded her was almost complete, but not quite. She felt him, not vague or indistinct this time but beside her, and as she turned the top of his head rose up from the floor until, at last, she was able took into his eyes and he took what remained of Jessica away forever.
J
JAMESBJOHNSON
Guest
RKM10
You need a competent editor and you need to learn the basics of composition.
Moments ago I mailed an MS to a magazine whose guidelines are obsessive about the fundamentals. Editors hate wasting time repairing basic grammar problems when they have a ton on manuscripts to review before 5 o'clock, every day. Their real job is to fit good prose into cramped magazine space. So I edit my manuscripts maybe 20 times after the first draft, let my professional writer girlfriend dissect it 2-3 times, then I edit some more.
You need a competent editor and you need to learn the basics of composition.
Moments ago I mailed an MS to a magazine whose guidelines are obsessive about the fundamentals. Editors hate wasting time repairing basic grammar problems when they have a ton on manuscripts to review before 5 o'clock, every day. Their real job is to fit good prose into cramped magazine space. So I edit my manuscripts maybe 20 times after the first draft, let my professional writer girlfriend dissect it 2-3 times, then I edit some more.
G
Guest
Guest
Your writing is by far not the worst I've seen on Lit, so you needn't despair but, yes, you need help. There are an abundance of Writer's Resources on Lit that you can use to improve your writing.
I'd suggest you move your request to the Editors' Forum; you'll be a bit more likely to attract someone's attention. In your request, it helps to specify what kind of advice you're looking for--plot, character development, phrasing, spelling/grammar, what have you.
By the way, at its current length, your story will fill up about 1/3 of a Lit page--not that there's anything wrong in and of itself with writing short, but many readers will feel cheated.
Good luck.
G
Guest
Guest
Actually, Ray, no--if you go back to the drawing board without knowing what works and doesn't in this story, and why, you'll likely do the same things again. If you can tolerate the process of working with an editor and having all your "faults" dissected, you'll learn how to improve your writing which will make you, and your readers, much happier.
Just my USD 1/50.
tickledkitty
Precious.
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2007
- Posts
- 6,753
No, no. It's not bad. Really. I'll just echo the sentiments expressed above. Writers' resoursces, editor, etc.
Good luck.
Oh, and FWIW, I really liked the piano player thing. It just needs better execution.
TheEarl
Occasional visitor
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2002
- Posts
- 9,808
Don't do that and don't get discouraged. No-one ever improves without trying at least once and learning from what went wrong. Try looking through the Writer's Resources and maybe hanging around the Story Discussion Circle for a while. You can learn a hell of a lot here.
The Earl
G
Guest
Guest
If the basic premise of the story was fatally flawed, we'd tell you to bin it--but it's not.
Briefly, you're trying to do too much, too quickly. We have no idea how old Jessica is or what she looks like; we don't know enough about Jessica to care about her. A process (having one's memories extracted and jumbled) that should be insidious and progressively alarming over a period of time is dealt with in a few sentences in the opening paragraph. We never learn anything about the nature of her stalker--not even speculations on her part.
You have tendency to use run-on sentences which is generally frowned-upon. There are some grammatical issues that you'll want to attend to (or, to which you'll want to attend).
This could be a good story; depends whether you're willing to put in the work to make it one.
Briefly, you're trying to do too much, too quickly. We have no idea how old Jessica is or what she looks like; we don't know enough about Jessica to care about her. A process (having one's memories extracted and jumbled) that should be insidious and progressively alarming over a period of time is dealt with in a few sentences in the opening paragraph. We never learn anything about the nature of her stalker--not even speculations on her part.
You have tendency to use run-on sentences which is generally frowned-upon. There are some grammatical issues that you'll want to attend to (or, to which you'll want to attend).
This could be a good story; depends whether you're willing to put in the work to make it one.
J
JAMESBJOHNSON
Guest
A writer's most useful tools are thick skin and an iron ego.
geronimo_appleby
always on the move
- Joined
- Nov 25, 2004
- Posts
- 90,768
you comment but don't really help, eh?
rkm has the basis here. it needs a little work - some polishing, and then it'll be ready for lit submission.
i applaud the request for some advice.
of course, some has been given, all i'll add is that you keep on trying, keep on building, rkm. submit a story, learn, and submit another. yeah, you're gonna get knocked, but submit one more after that.
learn and grow.
kudos.
G
Guest
Guest
you comment but don't really help, eh?
rkm has the basis here. it needs a little work - some polishing, and then it'll be ready for lit submission.
i applaud the request for some advice.
of course, some has been given, all i'll add is that you keep on trying, keep on building, rkm. submit a story, learn, and submit another. yeah, you're gonna get knocked, but submit one more after that.
learn and grow.
kudos.
For them's what's following, rkm has posted on the Editor's Forum. Kudos, indeed!
tickledkitty
Precious.
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2007
- Posts
- 6,753
you comment but don't really help, eh?
rkm has the basis here. it needs a little work - some polishing, and then it'll be ready for lit submission.
i applaud the request for some advice.
of course, some has been given, all i'll add is that you keep on trying, keep on building, rkm. submit a story, learn, and submit another. yeah, you're gonna get knocked, but submit one more after that.
learn and grow.
kudos.
I think that comment could be interpreted as helpful. It's true, isn't it? And to be fair, he did post a more helpful-type post further back.
Otherwise, great post. You are very kind, GA.
thanks
Thanks again guys, it is really appreciated. I know I need help but finding some is more difficult than you would believe. Finding an editor who will put in the commas or full stops in the correct places is hard enough but to find one who’ll take you by the hand and guide you through even one story is impossible, and I understand why. Most people have far better things to do with their time.
I am one of many people who, if the ones in the chat room are to be believed, have plenty of stories but, truth to be told, don’t think they have the ability to put them onto paper. Many of those will not submit because they are frightened of the response they may get, is that sad, or what? I have no real formal education so every story, however badly written, is a result of many hours and days of sweat and blood (well it feels like that). To know what needs to be put into a story and what isn’t relevant is an art, an art I don’t yet have, I know that. But I will learn . . . if it kills me, and probably, at my age, will.
Jessica removing herself from the real world and into a form of madness will have to wait, I guess, until I learn how to express myself more accurately. Have a good 2009. Ray.
Thanks again guys, it is really appreciated. I know I need help but finding some is more difficult than you would believe. Finding an editor who will put in the commas or full stops in the correct places is hard enough but to find one who’ll take you by the hand and guide you through even one story is impossible, and I understand why. Most people have far better things to do with their time.
I am one of many people who, if the ones in the chat room are to be believed, have plenty of stories but, truth to be told, don’t think they have the ability to put them onto paper. Many of those will not submit because they are frightened of the response they may get, is that sad, or what? I have no real formal education so every story, however badly written, is a result of many hours and days of sweat and blood (well it feels like that). To know what needs to be put into a story and what isn’t relevant is an art, an art I don’t yet have, I know that. But I will learn . . . if it kills me, and probably, at my age, will.
Jessica removing herself from the real world and into a form of madness will have to wait, I guess, until I learn how to express myself more accurately. Have a good 2009. Ray.
J
JAMESBJOHNSON
Guest
RKM10
I dont help new writers for the reason that none of them really want help; they want gold stars without earning them.
I can show you sublime prose by a writer who was illiterate until he was 21 years old. But he struggled, absorbed the lessons of the great masters, and learned how to write his own masterworks. He never felt entitled to a trophy just for showing up.
When the student is ready, the teacher will come.
I dont help new writers for the reason that none of them really want help; they want gold stars without earning them.
I can show you sublime prose by a writer who was illiterate until he was 21 years old. But he struggled, absorbed the lessons of the great masters, and learned how to write his own masterworks. He never felt entitled to a trophy just for showing up.
When the student is ready, the teacher will come.
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