honest feedback, please

[praefect]

Hey there

I'm just going to get to the point. I write a lot. For myself. I share with few people what I write, those closest to me. This is because what I write about is often of a very personal nature, a means for me to work out things for myself.

My partners keep referring to me as a writer, and encourage me to write something other than a journal, but I have a feeling they aren't the most objective judges, or the most honest ones, for that matter.

I hope to find no pretensions here. None of you have any interest in making me feel better about myself. I would like you to take a look at a sample of my journal, if you would be so kind and if you have some time to spare, and tell me flat out if you think that I may actually, potentially, have a talent for writing, or if that persuit would be a waste of time.

1)At the precipice we change.

Is there any way of knowing into what?

I can sense the duality within my slave, the slave and the defender within her. I can sense the unlimited potential of her submission. I knew two weeks after we met that her submission was an endless abyss and every boarder, every limit, an illusion of control over her own self to comfort the defender within.

I then only came face to face with her mythical "inner bitch" as she calls it once we met face to face and she panicked. A sentence uttered, and she was wet. A few more words, and she was near defeated. On her knees before me, her voice full of anger that her shaking eyes betrayed as false. How could I. How dare I. How dare I remind her of her place when all she wanted was to run away. Run as far and as fast as she could.

I could have broken through her defenses, with ease, but back then, to push that deep, I needed her consent... that is what I believed, and so instead of pushing on I held back, accepted, and helped her on her journey back home.

I used to call myself a sexual dominant, but truthfully, I was always more than that. It took her to let me see it though, so my experiences with this kind of intense connection are very, very limited. It was my mistake, allowing her to be guided by fear, a mistake due to my inexperience.

I'm very aware of that duality within her, and while this defender aspect serves its purpose it does stand in the way of her peacefully submitting. It is the source of her fears. The voice that warns that nobody should hold power over her. The voice that cautions to trust. I've been tempted by thoughts of destroying it, that aspect of hers.

I can sense how I could take her so deep that there is no coming back from it. But I don't know what would happen. I don't have the faintest idea. What will happen once I push her so far down into degradation and humiliation and objectification that there is only self realization about her nature there in that deepness. No limits, owned property, absolute slave, her inner bitch lying defeated at my feet, probing the space between my toes with her tongue in gratitude for being allowed to submit, now only slave.

I don't like that I don't know what will happen within her then. How far the effects of that will reach within her personality. Trial and error doesn't seem like the best way to go about it when you're dealing with a human being.

We had a spirited debate yesterday. At some point she said that she was assertive, aggressive, not a push over. Behold me, I'm a slave and still I can roar.

I enjoyed that. I enjoyed that she stood up for what she believed in. That she passionately disagreed with me and argued her own point of view. She got all worked up about it, which was quite amusing to witness.

I don't want to lose that part of her. I don't want her completely docile. Especially since I'm still only a man. I will make mistakes, and then I need someone able and willing to point those out to me.

Food for thought.

2) Year in Hell

The hardest year of my life lies behind me as I type this. I have suffered deep loss. Finding out I was a father, and then finding out that child was not meant for this world was was a profound one.

Finding the one, having her come, and her then leaving again, telling me that nothing we had experienced in the months that had past until that point was real to her, and that she felt nothing where I felt everything, that wasn't easy.

Forgiving her for having been controlled by fear when she broke my heart, and giving her another chance, that wasn't easy.

Getting this triad relationship working wasn't easy.

Being the pillar of support was my responsibility in the darkest of times, and that wasn't easy.

I worked hard on helping the two of them come closer together and mend broken trust and the energy that I poured into that was only matched by the size of the obstacles I helped them overcome, and while rewarding, that wasn't easy.

I still have feelings for my ex, and seeing her self destruct after the death of our daughter, that wasn't easy.

The boy I raised and loved as son, seeing him distance himself from me, that wasn't easy.

I worked for years on repairing the relationship to my parents and seeing that fall apart in an instant, that wasn't easy.

And when I reached my lowest point and needed to lean and needed support, seeing that my weakness caused my slave to feel insecure, and that she from a position of insecurity could offer me none, that wasn't easy.

Like Atlas I felt. The world on my shoulders, but unlike this god my knees are buckling.

I am not depressed. I don't suffer from burnout. I don't suffer from PTSD. If there is a label for what I am feeling, I haven't found it yet. There is grief there, there are wounds. There is an inability to take more of the same. There is fear there that more is coming. I'm on my knees already, universe. Just stop. Give me some time to breath.

And there has been change, though I am not sure what kind of change this is.

I had a flash, a memory, of myself, a year earlier. Before all this pain, and I saw that self and saw it wasn't me. Something was missing now, but I could barely point a finger at it.

I like to think that simply time will help me regain my strength and find that spark that I once had again. My sense for adventure is dimmed. My sense of self worth is blanketed by this shroud of pain that I don't know how to process. Do I face it and work through it? If so, how?

I don't know is how I feel about a lot of things lately. I have lost my balance, my center, and maybe, I sometimes think, that last shred of innocence that kept me from becoming a cynic. I am not a cynic, yet, but I don't know what the future holds, and how this year, once the wounds have turned into scars, will change me.

3) I never got to speak to you...

You can imagine your mother was devastated at the time, and I still thought it was because I had left her. I didn't know any better.

I still love her, you know, your mom. We were masters of the now, keepers of the past, but we never had a future. I left her because I needed that. I needed a future. I wanted to build a family. I loved her very much, but the child I wanted I loved more than I did her, and so I broke her heart.

And then, at 48 years old, despite birth control, the very last time we had sex she got pregnant. Your mother is so proud. She is so strong. And she is so selfless. She wanted me to have what she thought she had stolen from me. Because your mom is also an idiot. She thought she stole my youth. Took something that she had no right to, and that letting me go was the right thing to do.

Especially after I told her I met someone.

She never told me about you. All those months we kept in contact I saw her fall apart, and I thought it was because she couldn't get over me. And then it got scary. And painful. Being friends was turning out much harder than I thought it would.

You know what. The memory of when I found out about you is so clear. It is the clearest memory I have. Clearer than the present. But I have no idea anymore what led up to it. Why she decided to tell me.
I just remembered that she did.

There is something you have to know about me. Fatherhood was always something I was afraid of. Not because of the responsibility. That part is easy. It was because somewhere I was afraid I would be like my father. I am like him in so many ways, you know. The tightest bond we ever managed to form was when we carried your grandmothers sowing machine up 4 flights of stairs. That thing is a table of massive wood and ornate jutting steel. Every step was painful pinch of metal trying to find a way to dig itself into our bodies, and we cursed like sailors all the way upstairs. And I realized we were cursing the same curses, with the same intensity. God Damn it! GOD FUCKING DAMN IT! FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!

I felt close to him and smiled. That was our playing catch moment.

Maybe that's a fear many fathers yet to be have. That they will see their child and then not love it like they think they should. That they won't be able to be the father that they wished they had, or the father they hope to be. I don't know. I only know I had that fear.

And then she told me about you.

And in that one instant, like a lightning strike, I fell in love with you, unconditionally. I didn't know your name. I didn't know anything about you other than that you existed. I didn't even know you were a girl then. I wasn't scared at all. I wasn't angry at your mother.

I was a father. Your existence, it was the happiest news of my life.

I wish so much that the story would end there, or take a different turn. You don't know how much I do. But then she told me you had died. That you weren't meant for this world.

And then she told me that she had you cremated, and scattered your ashes somewhere beautiful.

And she told me your name.

I don't have any words for what that did to me.

Maybe it's because I never held you that I cannot let you go.

I thought I had. I really did. I was doing so much better.

Now you come to me in dreams in which I never see you. And you tell me things I never hear, but know, and don't understand.

I don't sleep much anymore. Or well. I feel so weak. My soul feels weak.

There is this mountain of pain and it makes me feel so very small. How can anyone climb all the way up that and then get to the other side?

I want to ask you to please go away. And then I realize that I don't. I can't send you away.

I love you Isis, and if this pain is all that I have of you, I want to embrace it, and never ever let it go, even if it kills me.

4) Beyond the Shatter

I have asked myself in my life what it means to break. I have felt close to it, at some points. I have felt stress, and pressure, and forces seeking to make me submit, I have taken on responsibilities more than I could handle, and have experienced hurt and harm and been scarred by life.

But that is life. I'm not complaining.

I think all of us feel like that, at some point. Like Atlas, being overwhelmed by the weight of the Earth on ones shoulder.

But I think few people actually get to the point where they do break. We find ways to avoid it. We change a situation, we withdraw, we strike back, we change.

So, the question to me remained. What does it mean to break. What happens when too much is too much and one does shatter.

I've experienced it. About... a month ago, now, I think. And it is turning out to be an experience of incredible value to me. It's changing me. I think it is changing me in ways that are good. The value of it is somewhere up there with my near death experience, seeing my life flash by my eyes, and being shown every mistake I have ever made. Mistake after mistake after mistake. That was all I was shown, and all of those mistakes based on fear.

I came out of that fearless. For a time I could not experience fear at all. I reached a new equilibrium eventually, but that experience was still profoundly changing.

And now, this.

Shattering.

So, what is it? What happens when one breaks?

Visualize this.

The birth of a star is a violent process. Gases condense and under the weight of their own attraction they crush into a swirling disk. Particles collide and bounce off each other or stick. Out of dust rocks are born and out of rocks mountains and out of mountains planets. Swirling around the center of it all, swirling in darkness, in coldness, around a deep dark weight. The star to be.

That weight at the core is the pain inside. The center the star not yet born. When it reaches critical mass, it ignites. To shatter is that. Let there be light,, and there was light, and everything in that maelstrom of heat and light is swept aside. Everything but the heaviest rocks. A shroud of dust and particles is lifted, banished, pushed far away, and what is left is left bare and exposed, and burning under the glare of pain.

All defenses I had built up over the experiences of my life were swept away. As you child you play on a playground and a girl throws sand in your face and laughs, and you think, girls are mean. That is a defense. You expect it, so it doesn't hurt you anymore. And we all built these defenses, and some of them incredibly sophisticated and intricate as what we deal with in life becomes more complex. Some that take us out of the now, or take us out of the here, or take us out of ourselves. We withdraw, we detach, we disassociate, we believe. There are so many different types of ways we learn in life to shield our core with.

All of that was gone. I was reduced to the state of a newborn. For the first time in my life I felt submissive. For the first time I can remember, anyways. I wanted to reach out with my hand and ask someone to help me. Lead me. Show me a way out of this. I don't know what to do. And in the center of it, larger than life itself, burning brightly, the pain that swept it all aside to begin with.

I didn't reach that place, there are deeper places to fall to than I did. A shattering harder still, but I can now understand what makes a wounded man cry out for his mother.

I felt, fully. The world was clearer, and all of its effects on me more profound. Everything got close to me. There was nothing I could dismiss. The pain of others an unbearable addition to my own pain.

I felt, fully. I cried myself to sleep and cried myself awake. I loved and grieved the loss I felt.

And then, the shards started coming back together. The star burned off its fuel dimmed and the veil returned, but, different. Through my experience I was altered. And I am still in the process of being altered. I find myself returning to a place I once knew before grief became a part of my life. What I let out after being shattered, it was more than just the loss of one person. There was pain in there that was old. Ancient, even.

Naked, on grass, bathed in sunlight I sat, my arms extended towards the sun in mediation, I felt part of the universe and connected to all things around me. Everything mattered, everything had meaning, and everything posed a question.

Why.

The answer isn't important. The wonder is.

I find myself returning to that, to my teenage self. The future is full of possiblities.

 

[Zeb_Carter]

Uh, sorry I lost interest right after the first question.

Tried jumping around and reading, to no avail, I couldn't keep my eyes focused on the monitor so I gave up the ghost and am now off to bed.

Sorry, you wanted honesty.

While the prose are laced with fancy words and such, nobody really talks like that, especially to themselves. KISS. Keep it simple (for) stupids. No I'm not calling you stupid, far from it. But, just to let you know, most readers here wouldn't have a clue what the big words mean.

 

[PennLady]

Well, I think you can write just fine, but these aren't exactly stories. I have no way of knowing from this whether you can sustain characters, or develop a plot, or move those things along to a conclusion of some sort. These are journal entries, and while I'm sure there's an audience for such things -- there is a letters & transcripts category here, after all -- I can't say they did much for me.

For example, in the first section, the narrator says he thinks he's more than a dominant -- so what is he? That's never answered.

The rest... meh. Again, well written, but nothing stayed with me or interested me to read more.

 

[sr71plt]

This would probably get more response if it were posted to the "Story Feedback" section.

 

[mynameisben]

Your sentences predominantly obey the rules of syntax and grammar consistent with the English language.

 

[SydneyBlake]

My advice is worth exactly what you pay for it

I think you write very well, and I did read several entries, tho not all of them. I think you've demonstrated a basic talent for the art, and if you really wish to pursue it further, then you could.

I would suggest that you pick up a how-to book about the kind of writing you want to do. Two that come to mind are "How To Write a Damn Good Novel" and "The Complete Idiot's Guide To Writing Erotic Romance." You could also try a creative writing class.

Journal writing has very limited appeal by itself, but can be a valuable tool to assist you with character development.

And no matter what genre you choose to write in, you're never going to please everyone. I submit your responses to your post as proof of that.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

A smattering of interesting thoughts, but a story is only implied. That might be good for some post-modernists, but few standard readers would find anything worth reading. Don't worry about the big words unless you don't seek a sesquipedalianesque audience, but do worry about your audience; I felt I was intruding on some narcissus extolling his virtues to his own distorted reflection.
Might I suggest reading others to see how they do it, and then finding your own way to accomplish what you wish. As to those who have encouraged you, don't be so vain as to miss that many are impressed by florid writing and varied syntax.

 

[Stella_Omega]

The first story:
I get so tired of these stories about the unplumbed depths of heteronormative submission. The truth is so banal and suburban; you have a girlfriend and the sex is HOTTTT.

M-dom stories are wedding romances that men tell themselves. Women fetishise the white dress, men want a lingerie set, but that's only a detail.

The last story:

Middle aged crisis is a very worthy subject to write about. But not so worth reading.

Random thought: She named the boy Isis? Really? The Mother Goddess, the overarching blue sky, the Mary archetype?

Not Paris?

Excuse me, I'm not in the best of moods...

 

[elfin_odalisque]

This would probably get more response if it were posted to the "Story Feedback" section.

You're right, of course, but typically so dismissive and pretorian. After the slap with the leather studded glove you could have stooped to offer a scintalla of your omniscience before returning to the heights of Olympus.

 

[elfin_odalisque]

praefect, as sr said, it might have been wiser to post to story feedback. It is more gentle there.

Nevertheless, I think Penn Lady gives good advice. For me, despite your writing ability, you don't give us a plot or characters, or any reason to want to know what happens - there is no conflict.

The reason I advise new erotic writers to avoid first person at first, despite its potential potency, is demonstrated in your piece. I counted 9 of your first ten paras starting with 'I' and the the tenth was 'We'.

However good, a monologue won't rock boats on Lit. You will have to get into plot, dialogue and a bit of conflict.

 

[sr71plt]

You're right, of course, but typically so dismissive and pretorian. After the slap with the leather studded glove you could have stooped to offer a scintalla of your omniscience before returning to the heights of Olympus.

Oh, god, there she goes again. I made a simple, straightforward comment--trying to help the poster get the question to the best place to be asking it.

 

[SydneyBlake]

Relax

My impression from the OP was that he was asking if we thought he wrote well enough, based on his journal entries, that it would be worthwhile to try his hand at something other than journal writing. Since he posted the question in this site, I assumed he was interested in writing a piece of fiction. I don't think he was suggesting that he would actually submit these entries.

 

[SydneyBlake]

Random thought: She named the boy Isis? Really? ...

No, the child was a girl.

 

[sr71plt]

My impression from the OP was that he was asking if we thought he wrote well enough, based on his journal entries, that it would be worthwhile to try his hand at something other than journal writing. Since he posted the question in this site, I assumed he was interested in writing a piece of fiction. I don't think he was suggesting that he would actually submit these entries.

On that basis, yes, this is a good writer. Would need to guage his(?) audience well, though, to find a readership. The writing is a bit dense and emphasizes introspection. For most target audiences, he'd need to be careful to get enough action and storyline in there to keep the read moving and not give the reader a feeling of being bogged down in the words and nonactive phrases.

 

[EmeraldKitten]

I'm just going to get to the point. I write a lot. For myself. I share with few people what I write, those closest to me. This is because what I write about is often of a very personal nature, a means for me to work out things for myself.

That's just it.
I write for myself. I like when people like what I write, but really, I don't care. I do it for me. My non-erotic work on here is very dear to my heart... because it's from my heart, and 99.8% true.
Can you write? Sure. In fact, I read the entire entry. Slap something together that is 750 words long and submit it. See what kind of responses you get. I'd lay money that something you say speaks to someone. I saw into you a little when I read it... keep that depth, but dig deeper. Does that make sense?

Welcome, by the way.

 

[EmeraldKitten]

On that basis, yes, this is a good writer. Would need to guage his(?) audience well, though, to find a readership. The writing is a bit dense and emphasizes introspection. For most target audiences, he'd need to be careful to get enough action and storyline in there to keep the read moving and not give the reader a feeling of being bogged down in the words and nonactive phrases.

For target audiences? Can't someone just write for the pleasure of it?
If someone isn't trying to be a best-selling author, does it really matter?
Jeepers. I think ya oughta lighten up.

 

[sr71plt]

For target audiences? Can't someone just write for the pleasure of it?
If someone isn't trying to be a best-selling author, does it really matter?
Jeepers. I think ya oughta lighten up.

Sure they can. If just writing what you want to write is the point, though, why would the OP even be posting this thread? The whole thrust of the question was writing beyond a personal journal.

When a writer comes here for guidance on what/how to write, why would they be asking if they were only interested in writing for personal pleasure?

I don't think I was being "heavy." Certainly not as "heavy" as your post.

What is it with all this backbiting?

 

[mynameisben]

Hey there

I'm just going to get to the point. I write a lot. For myself. I share with few people what I write, those closest to me. This is because what I write about is often of a very personal nature, a means for me to work out things for myself.

My partners keep referring to me as a writer, and encourage me to write something other than a journal, but I have a feeling they aren't the most objective judges, or the most honest ones, for that matter.

I hope to find no pretensions here. None of you have any interest in making me feel better about myself. I would like you to take a look at a sample of my journal, if you would be so kind and if you have some time to spare, and tell me flat out if you think that I may actually, potentially, have a talent for writing, or if that persuit would be a waste of time.

Even though you never explicitly say so, the very fact you've taken time to post and solicit responses here implies that, at some level, you have an interest in writing something beyond journal entries. If your interest is genuine, then no, I don't believe your pursuit of writing can ever be a waste of time. Live, do and learn. It's good for the soul. Let your success be measured not by the bitter barbs or patronizing praise of outspoken critics (we're all insane anyway), but by what you do and learn along the way. You may discover you have a real talent for writing but you can't stand the time and effort it takes to get things just right. Or you may learn your writing stinks like a dead dog's ass, but you love airing it out there to the public anyway. If there's anything you want to try, then do it. Everybody with an opinion who is not you that thinks you shouldn't can go suck it.

As far as the samples of your journal entries go, I gotta tell you. I thought they were pretty boring. I couldn't read them all, for fear of passing out so early in the day. I found it odd that, although you were writing for an audience of one, you took pains to adhere so faithfully to a stodgy and formal writing style. I mean, if somebody had told me your excerpts were taken from a journal written in the 1820's, I would have readily believed them. There is no denying, however, that you lay your soul bare within those pages, and that is an essential element of writing great fiction.

Your journal is all about you, as it should be. To make the leap to writing fiction, you'll have to go beyond mere introspection and the logging facts. You'll need to invent characters and get into their minds too, and get them to interact with dialog and plot and motives and scenery. There's a whole wide, breathing world out there beyond the mirror of your journal. It's really quite a leap, but I'll be damned to say you cannot do it.

By no stretch of the imagination am I a great writer. From time to time I bare my soul and toss my scribblings to the wolves. I suck, and I'll never make dime one from any of my writings. I know that, but I still keep at it anyway. I toddle along with the mindset that everyone who takes the time to give me a review is someone I can learn from (and, it may not necessarily have anything to do with writing). I do it for fun. You should, too.

 

[EmeraldKitten]

Sure they can. If just writing what you want to write is the point, though, why would the OP even be posting this thread? The whole thrust of the question was writing beyond a personal journal.

When a writer comes here for guidance on what/how to write, why would they be asking if they were only interested in writing for personal pleasure?

I don't think I was being "heavy." Certainly not as "heavy" as your post.

What is it with all this backbiting?

I knew I shouldn't have said anything. Yikes. I wasn't trying to be a bitch.

I didn't realize I was being heavy either.

And I'm not sure about the backbiting. But it's part of why this place isn't as nice as it used to be.

 

[sr71plt]

I knew I shouldn't have said anything. Yikes. I wasn't trying to be a bitch.

I didn't realize I was being heavy either.

And I'm not sure about the backbiting. But it's part of why this place isn't as nice as it used to be.

Yes, well. When you tell someone to lighten up when they are just trying to give the OP the help they've asked for . . . which was stated as being help to write beyond personal journaling, thus obviously for some sort of audience beyond themselves.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Youre gonna starve if you try to make a living writing.

On a positive note your writing wont likely excite anyone enough to stalk you.

 

[3113]

I would like you to take a look at a sample of my journal, if you would be so kind and if you have some time to spare, and tell me flat out if you think that I may actually, potentially, have a talent for writing, or if that persuit would be a waste of time.

You write okay journal entries. And that's about all we're can really say. As Pennlady pointed out, we've no idea if you can write anything else. I've know people who were brilliant at writing non-fiction including blogs, reviews, reporting, etc. But when they tried their hands at fictional story telling, even fiction based on real life, they were a failure. One of them couldn't even write a fairytale he was so bad at it.

Give us a story. From these entries we can't tell if you have a talent for writing anything. All we know is you can relate the story of your own experiences in a fairly clear and concise, if not gripping manner.

As for a writing being a waste of time...you seem to be wasting your time with journal writing. Why worry about wasting it with other types of writing? I mean, seriously. Either other types of writing give you as much as journal writing does and they're not a waste, or only journal writing gives you what you need and so only it is not a waste. Yes?

 

[sr71plt]

From these entries we can't tell if you have a talent for writing anything. All we know is you can relate the story of your own experiences in a fairly clear and concise, if not gripping manner.

We also know that he handles grammar, spelling, and punctuation well and is literate, with an extensive vocabulary. That's a lot of good things in the world of writing right there.

 

[3113]

We also know that he handles grammar, spelling, and punctuation well and is literate, with an extensive vocabulary. That's a lot of good things in the world of writing right there.

I'd say, then, that he has all the abilities he needs to be a very good editor

 

[sr71plt]

I'd say, then, that he has all the abilities he needs to be a very good editor

That too. But these are requirements for being a good writer too (and before it goes to edit).

Those who aren't well grounded in these elements have no idea how much easier it is to write well when you have a good foundation for written expression. You can then concentrate more fully on the content.