Writers Blox.

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Intellectual dumb place, is giving some people credit for intelligence. This is becoming more like a schoolyard playground and the responses by people unmentioned, are giving the AH a bad rep by them.
Criticism, if given properly, is what every writer needs to grow from. Slamming a newbie writer for the quality of his/her work, puts them further behind, instead of ahead. The worst offenders seem to be those with nothing published here, or elsewhere and those who have had moderate success with their stories.
This is a forum for writers, those that are and those that want to be. The person you put down today, maybe the author you read tomorrow.

On the otherhand our naif's readers will certainly be non-writers, and they aint gonna give a crap about the elite status of our pissant lit masters who fill LIT like the city dump. If their writing sux they need to know it rather than play the fool. Better to be pissed at me than shown to be a Gomer no talent dipstick.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

I totally agree with your words!

The reason I posted here in the first place, was trying to give JBJ a wake up call.

I realize now that my time was wasted though.

Spare me your arrogance. I've lived long enough to know that people love flattery and sweet nuthins. I can charm a bird outta his tree but I'd rather be trusted.

 

[SweetMaj]

Spare me your arrogance. I've lived long enough to know that people love flattery and sweet nuthins. I can charm a bird outta his tree but I'd rather be trusted.

Did you know that I'm turned on by dictionaries...

 

[Stella_Omega]

Spare me your arrogance. I've lived long enough to know that people love flattery and sweet nuthins. I can charm a bird outta his tree but I'd rather be trusted.

And here we have an excellent example of pervasive, overall mood. Not of jbj's, but of everyone else's, as they deal with him.

This thread is chock full of the distrust jimmy has instilled in the people here. Nobody trusts him to be sincere, on account of his history of anti-social comments and sour nothings.

Here's a guy walking back into the virtual room with a smile pasted on his face with yet another social offering. But he has not, and never will, deal with the reason his offerings are tossed back in his face.

It would make a good scene.

 

[sr71plt]

I think Dr. M. should write it--so that maybe he'd get what the scene was all about.

And maybe "get" a bit better what chokes off intellectual discussions here. (Hint: It's not just the absence of his old friends.)

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

And here we have an excellent example of pervasive, overall mood. Not of jbj's, but of everyone else's, as they deal with him.

This thread is chock full of the distrust jimmy has instilled in the people here. Nobody trusts him to be sincere, on account of his history of anti-social comments and sour nothings.

Here's a guy walking back into the virtual room with a smile pasted on his face with yet another social offering. But he has not, and never will, deal with the reason his offerings are tossed back in his face.

It would make a good scene.

Then one wonders howcome you always return for more? I think your comments say more about you than me.

 

[lance gt]

Returning now to the thread already in progress, I have a question.

I was inspired by a song to write a story and several more songs have created scenes for me.
Has anyone else done that, or used songs as inspiration to write the story?

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Returning now to the thread already in progress, I have a question.

I was inspired by a song to write a story and several more songs have created scenes for me.
Has anyone else done that, or used songs as inspiration to write the story?

No, but lyrics are kissin cousins of music, and known to inspire.

 

[sr71plt]

yes. Also, I once heard Art Garfunkel stop in the middle of a song in a live concert and mention a poem he'd written in his poetry book Still Waters. He didn't quote from the poem, though. When I got home, I looked up the poem and trianglulated between that and the song Garfunkel had stopped singing and wrote a story inspired by the interesecting themes of those two.

 

[Stella_Omega]

One of my stories was inspired by a song. So, I wrote the song into the story as the catalyst for the action-- the main character is inspired by it too.

My intent with the story was to replicate the mood of the song, and i think I did that pretty well.

 

[JackLuis]

JBJ you were talking about mood and that seems a lot more Authorial that pissing and moaning about meaningless crap.

So, are you talking about the author, describing the mood in prose or conveying the mood by word selection and the tone of the narrative?

"It was a dark and stormy night..." is a bit hackneyed but does set up the scene.

"Murphy couldn't wipe the smile off his face for two days after meeting Jodie. It wasn't Jodie that held his imagination, but Maureen and her smile that tickled his fancy."

Just wondering?

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

JBJ you were talking about mood and that seems a lot more Authorial that pissing and moaning about meaningless crap.

So, are you talking about the author, describing the mood in prose or conveying the mood by word selection and the tone of the narrative?

"It was a dark and stormy night..." is a bit hackneyed but does set up the scene.

"Murphy couldn't wipe the smile off his face for two days after meeting Jodie. It wasn't Jodie that held his imagination, but Maureen and her smile that tickled his fancy."

Just wondering?

Go to the head of the class young man!

 

[lance gt]

Here's the song that started my story off and the opening chapter to my story, Blood of the Clans. This of course is not the final edit, but I wanted to show what I got out of the song.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9ofIZX1Eco


April 1589 – Loch Leven

The drenching rains fell heavy as they often do in April, in the western highlands of Scotland. Through the trees in the early morning, grey haze, a flash of lightning illuminated the murderous eyes of a small army of clansmen peering upon the sleeping village. The evil in the eyes of the leader showed the mindset on carrying out the events about to happen. They made their way into Ballachulish on the south shores of Loch Leven, the thrumming of rain on rooftops and puddles, covering their sound. Claymores, dirks and axes at the ready, the filthy, sodden men in poor highland garb, waited for the leader's signal, then entered one dwelling after another, slaughtering all who were inside, save a few young women for the men to enjoy later, the spoils of their one-sided war. Men and women, elderly and babies, any who lay sleeping in their beds, had their dreams and lives smashed from their skulls, staining the bed robes with lifeblood, the result of one man's greed. Screams of terror pealed into the damp air, as blades continued to wipe away any sign of life in the village. Before the wan, morning sun had made an attempt to brighten the gloom, only nine souls of Ballachulish were still alive. One soul, Callum McInnis, had secreted himself out of the village to safety, then skulked away in silence and regret to tell of what happened, while the other eight would soon wish their lives hadn't been spared.
One of those eight was Mary MacKinnon, a season left to be eighteen years, who lived with her parents in the small village and worked the kelp with them. Till today, her life was spent dreaming of marriage and children of her own and a good man to call her husband. One man who held her favour as that choice, was Callum, who now watched in dread, as her sod hut was entered by four men.
Standing now in front of the low fire in the hearth, with four vile men, had left her paralysed with fear and apprehension. In the dim light, she saw the glimmer of light play on the pools of blood trailing from her parents bed, her stomach churning at the sight. A bright flash came up to her face, the glint off sharp steel running along the razor edge caught her attention and quickened her breath and filled her with fear. The soaking stench of the man filled her with disgust, but the hand catching her nightdress brought about great dread. It took only a few seconds of keen slicing and Mary felt all the shame she had ever known,yet it wasn't close to how she would feel by the end of her ordeal. Her rounded breasts flushed fast and hard, as her embarrassment soared further, her unknown body about to be plundered for its wealth.
Lust-starved eyes gazed at her for a moment, taking in the prize for victory, before rough, bloody hands grabbed her arms and held her fast. The one before her held his hands out and grabbed her breasts, squeezing them hard, feeling the youthful firmness. In painful re-action, Mary kicked out and caught the man in his groin, stopping him instantly, but only for a moment. In as fast a response, Mary saw the world disappear and become a blurry smear of blood, as his fist brought her face into excruciating pain, by shattering her nose. With the fight taken out of her, her head reeling from the blow, Mary barely felt her legs being kicked apart, a rough hand pawing at her virginal sex and then her once prized maidenhead, shattered in searing pain. The feel of his manhood inside her, left her filled with such disgust, that her stomach emptied last night's meal, the sight not even discouraging her violator's needs, as he brought himself to fulfilment. The feeling of his hot seed filling her womb made her feel damned for eternity and the brief moment of him withdrawing, gave her a sense of relief, only to be repeated shortly once again.

She was passed to the next, bent over retching and entered once again in demanded fulfilment a hardened appendage. In the far off recesses of her consciousness, she could hear the others crying out their pain at their own defilement, adding to her misery, as she knew who they might be. Her head was raised by a handful of her hair and she saw the remains of her virginity coating the still hard cock of her first violator, before he forced it into her mouth and made her clean it and she knew there was no redemption for her soul. Once more she felt the wretched warmth coating her inside and her mind submitted, giving over to their needs without protest, as she waited for the finish to it and her desired death, to rid her of the shame and humiliation her life had just become.
A huge man with long, unkempt, brown hair and beard, soaked from the rain, stood in the doorway, his cloak and kilt dripping with rain and blood, watched the men enjoy themselves and smiled. He looked at the naked, young girl and hoped she lasted long enough to satisfy his men's needs. This village was now in dire need of young women to serve them and do work, but there was no worry of it. There were plenty of small communes of farms and fishing villages around the area to acquire women of the right age for their purposes. There wasn't a worry of protest from any of their fathers or husbands, as death was measured out in consequence of their actions if they did.
James MacRae, leader of the MacRae clan, laughed, as he watched his men enjoying themselves defiling and humiliating the young woman. He waited till every man had his fill of sex, fuelled by blood lust, then had them collect the bodies and limbs and pile them in the shoddily constructed hay loft. The eight, young girls, naked and violated, were brought to watch their savagely killed families be disposed of, despite their pleas for mercy to be spared such a sight. As the rains subsided, the men tossed their torches around the inside of the building and in no time, it was engulfed in flames. Mary saw the bloodied faces of her parents among the growing flames and without anything more than a moment's thought, wrenched herself free and ran for the hayloft and into the burning pyre where her parents were, engulfing her bare, defiled body in flames. No honour or respect was paid to the dead by them. Once killed by their hands, disposal of their bodies was the only thing they desired to do. James laughed at what he saw her do, then heard the terrified screams from the other girls and laughed harder, before walking away from the inferno. The meagre possessions found, were divided among the invading clan, supplying the profits of battle that was now theirs to claim as won.
James looked about at the new lands of the MacRae's and felt powerful. They had been without a land of their own for hundreds of years, never having enough of a force of their own to maintain a hold on their once prized castle and Seat of Power. After joining with several other small clans, James MacRae had amassed an army of four hundred and fifty men, looking for a place to call home. Ballachulish would do for now, but James MacRae wanted a castle and had one in mind. A three day march to the north, would find them at the bridge to Eilean Donan, once a place they called home.
Five days passed and the peaceful village had become a place of evil, as young women were brought in by any means, to serve the men's needs. Any who tried to escape were stripped bare and flogged publicly in front of the others to show them what awaited, should the idea of escaping cross their minds. One unfortunate soul was hanging unconscious from a tree limb by her hands, barely alive, her naked body covered in striped welts from her breasts to her thighs, front and back. Blood oozed from numerous stripes, making crisscrossing rivulets down her body. Flies and other insects flitted about her body, feasting on her life force, as she clung to life. No one cared that she had only been married for a month and was now with child. Her purpose was to serve and she disobeyed.
Three men set out on horse back, led by Blair MacRae and passed her suspended body as they rode out of the village. Their purpose was to watch and take note of what
happened at the castle, the way they had here in this place. Covertly, they observed the daily routines of the MacDonnell's for two weeks, as they went about their lives, unaware they were about to be changed and thrown into bloody battle. They had met Laird Hamish MacDonnell, his wife Lady Anne and their children, telling them how grand their castle was and what a fine clan they were, one they would be proud to be kin to. Once satisfied with enough information, Blair and the men rode back to Ballachulish and reported to his father what they had seen. With only twelve men guarding the castle, they could surprise them with an early morning raid and take control, while most were still abed. Two days from now was market time and the gates would be opened early for villagers bringing crops and livestock in to pay for taxes, or sell and trade. James MacRae took no time to assemble the men and start the three day march north, while Blair and nineteen others sailed a stolen birlinn out of Loch Leven, then south along Loch Linnhe. Their goal was to reach Donan in the night and wait in ambush till the gates opened. The advancing force would secret into the castle and take it over by surprise, the defenceless MacDonnell's being taken with their guard down. If they took it, they knew they could hold it until James and the army came and secured it. Once in, they were never going to leave again.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

One of my stories was inspired by a song. So, I wrote the song into the story as the catalyst for the action-- the main character is inspired by it too.

My intent with the story was to replicate the mood of the song, and i think I did that pretty well.

PLAY MISTY FOR ME comes to mind!

Songs are a terrific way to do lotsa things.

 

[Stella_Omega]

PLAY MISTY FOR ME comes to mind!

And we saw that coming.

Songs are a terrific way to do lotsa things.

Like what?

 

[dr_mabeuse]

BLOOD MERIDIAN by Cormac McCarthy

Depicting mood and affect without saying it. McCarthy lays out his wares and the reader furnishes the feelings.

'The kid's encounter with the penitants he finds butchered in a canyon and his attempts to speak with one of them, Chapter 22, Page 315.

The kid rose and looked about at this desolate scene and then he saw alone and upright in a small niche in the rocks an old woman kneeling in faded rebozo with eyes cast down.

He made his way among the corpses and stood before her ... She did not look up ... He spoke to her in a low voice. He told her that he was an American and that he was a long way from the country of his birth and that he had no family and that he had traveled much and seen many things and had been at war and endured hardships. He told her that he would convey her to a safe place, some party of her countrypeople who would welcome her and that she should join them for he could not leave her in the place or she would surely die.

He knelt on one knee, resting the rifle before him like a staff. Abuelita, he said. No puedes eschucharme? (Little grandmother, can you not hear me?)

He reached into the little cove and touched her arm. She moved slightly, her whole body, light and rigid. She weighed nothing. She was just a dried shell, and she had been dead in that place for years.'

That's a powerful image, but it's not the kind of thing I think about when I think about the problem of showing emotion in a story. I'm more concerned with more prosaic and subtle everyday emotions than the kind of horror depicted in the vignette above: the little doubts and hurts and subtlety of emotions that go on between people all the time.

I don't want to turn this into a critique of Cormac McCarthy because I haven't read him much. I find him hard to read because to me he seems overly stylized (his style and technique become distracting, as in that description of the Apaches) and because from what I hear he seems to deal mostly in ultra-violence and grand guignol, which I don't much care for.

I'm going to take exception with Lance's excerpt too, not because it's especially bad writing, but because it's just not my style and the writer does a bunch of things I take pains to avoid. He's very tell-y in that we're basically told what Grayson's feeling inside, and the external shows -- the blushing and the wan smiling -- seem kind of cliched displays of emotion.

It was a tragedy for writers everywhere when people stopped smoking, because you used to be able to describe a whole raft of emotions and feelings by what your character did with his or her cigarette, whether they puffed on it nervously or let it dangle from their lips or crushed it out underfoot or let the smoke drift from their mouths. The cigarette was like a little magic wand of emotion and mood. Now we have to find different tells.

 

[Stella_Omega]

Here's a mood-setting prelude to a pegging.

At least-- I think so. To me, the writer, the mood is quite clear. I wonder if it is to the readers?

AND NOW I WANNA BE YOUR DOG!

Yuri stops in mid-sentence of his conversation to hear the words of the song that blasts out on the nightclub speakers. Leaning across the table, he plants one elbow down to support his chin. His strange, light-colored eyes are burning, his long mobile face is drawn and tense.

AND NOW I WANNA FEEL YOUR HAND!

The heavy black forelock falls into his eyes; he pushes at it impatiently. “Who is this man? Who is singing of such pain?”

“Iggy Pop,” Petey says. “From the seventies, really old song… dude used to just smash himself up onstage, I remember.”

“Ah, yes.” Yuri smiles. “You are so much older than your friends here, I know.”

Petey doesn’t return the smile. She’s tired of making small talk with someone who barely speaks English. She wants to leave the table, cruise the action a little. There’s a group of girls by the dance floor — fresh, suburban. It would be easy to cut one out of the herd. Like that one, with her brown hair hanging around her face, too-dark lipstick making her look much younger than her I.D. claims she is.

YEAH, NOW I WANNA FEEL YOUR HAND!

“Oh, he knows what he is talking of!” Yuri exclaims. Petey looks back at him politely. Yuri shifts his weight jerkily, one hand searching blindly for his cigarette. “Petey, I must be fucked.” Petey grins, about to answer, but is cut short. “Petey, you must help me.”

“Oh. You mean really fucked. Look, Yuri, you can’t come on to a dyke in a dyke bar, don’t you know that? I’m telling you as a friend.” She makes a friendly face at this presumptuous man. “You ought to check out the Meat Market, okay? Down at the end of this block.”

“Petey.” He touches her bike-gloved wrist, pulls away at her look. “Sorry,” he says, referring to the contact. “I prefer women.”

“Yeah, and so do I,” Petey snaps. “You’re wasting your time.”

“And I prefer you.” He sees her face, and holds up a placating hand. “Sorry, my English — I mean that you might prefer. You see, I want to — I need to get fucked. It hurts, always, I never get used to it. I cannot hold still… So you’ll have to tie me up. Perform rape, really.” He stubs out the cigarette. “You, I think you would like that?”

“Jesus.” She leans back to think about that. Russian emigrant, actor, he’s told her, working in the corner store while he waits for his break. Lean body, strong legs with nice little buns and a hugely developed chest and shoulders. Shaggy black hair half obscures a face nearly girlish in spite of the hungry intensity of expression. The boys down the street would lay down and die for this one, so why her?

“Why me?”

“Perhaps you have the… will.” The bar lights show the skull under the skin, suddenly. “A little talk about you comes my way… to look for a woman all in black leather, taller than most… motorbike she rides, a little old, but not either so loud….”

“Yeah, I keep it tuned right.” Petey is defensive about her old Triumph. “Gonna get a paint job, maybe end of this summer. What else little talk came your way?”

“Ah, that you are so unkind with nice women name, perhaps, Denise, is that correct?”

“Hah!” A bark of laughter in confirmation. Yuri grins.

“So you are hurting feelings of such a pleasant girl who only wants to talk to you — even that you hit, sometimes, some girl, and scare her so that she is running afraid…” Yuri’s grin expands. The music drops to silence suddenly, and his words are shrill and loud. “And so her friend runs to find this woman who has the desire to hit a woman. And so she becomes happy. And I think, perhaps she can be so cruel for me. And now I too have find you with your little whip, in these scary clothes.”

Petey laughs outright. “A five foot blacksnake isn’t what I’d call little, baby. Want a taste?” He’s already given his consent, she figures. She stands up, checking quickly behind her to make sure no innocent is in range, and hurls the whip forward. A red vee appears on Yuri’s left pectoral, just under the collarbone. Lovely placement.

Yuri’s eyelids fall to his cheeks, his face uplifted. The single impact sways him back, then upright again. His hands drop away from the table, fall to his sides and he stills himself. Petey is helpless against the rush of tenderness she invariably feels for her victims. “You held still for that,” she points out.

“My own will… is not big enough.” He chuckles, a ragged sound lost in the bass pulse of the speakers. “My body is strong, and I change my mind halfway into it. It is the instinct of preservation. I have everything at my house, if you wish to come there.”

“You live over near Denise and Deb. You drive?”

“No, bus merely.”

“Okay. I’ll give you a ride home.” Petey gets up from the table abruptly, smiles at nothing in particular, and heads for the dance floor. Her companion sits thoughtfully, watching Petey delight and terrorize a young girl with brown hair…

 

[lance gt]

Okay Stella, here's my take on it.
I got the sense of the mood and how the characters were feeling, but I found it was more tell, not show. I found I couldn't quite connect with it personally. it read cold to me.

ETA: I love Iggy Pop, since way back with the Stooges. Still like grooving to Pumping For Jill.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

That's a powerful image, but it's not the kind of thing I think about when I think about the problem of showing emotion in a story. I'm more concerned with more prosaic and subtle everyday emotions than the kind of horror depicted in the vignette above: the little doubts and hurts and subtlety of emotions that go on between people all the time.

I don't want to turn this into a critique of Cormac McCarthy because I haven't read him much. I find him hard to read because to me he seems overly stylized (his style and technique become distracting, as in that description of the Apaches) and because from what I hear he seems to deal mostly in ultra-violence and grand guignol, which I don't much care for.

I'm going to take exception with Lance's excerpt too, not because it's especially bad writing, but because it's just not my style and the writer does a bunch of things I take pains to avoid. He's very tell-y in that we're basically told what Grayson's feeling inside, and the external shows -- the blushing and the wan smiling -- seem kind of cliched displays of emotion.

It was a tragedy for writers everywhere when people stopped smoking, because you used to be able to describe a whole raft of emotions and feelings by what your character did with his or her cigarette, whether they puffed on it nervously or let it dangle from their lips or crushed it out underfoot or let the smoke drift from their mouths. The cigarette was like a little magic wand of emotion and mood. Now we have to find different tells.

But you get the idea!

 

[Stella_Omega]

Okay Stella, here's my take on it.
I got the sense of the mood and how the characters were feeling, but I found it was more tell, not show. I found I couldn't quite connect with it personally. it read cold to me.

ETA: I love Iggy Pop, since way back with the Stooges. Still like grooving to Pumping For Jill.

It is cold, actually. The whole situation is cold.

The characters warm up slowly.

I think.

 

[JackLuis]

It is cold, actually. The whole situation is cold.

The characters warm up slowly.

I think.

Like a January day
Sunlight breaks and the frost thaws
evaporating into the air like a fairy of the night.

 

[Stella_Omega]

Like a January day
Sunlight breaks and the frost thaws
evaporating into the air like a fairy of the night.

Save for what our desperate hands can grasp;
the bright shards of sensation

 

[dr_mabeuse]

There's nothing wrong with taking inspiration for a story from a piece of music, or from a painting or photo or even another story. The danger comes when you try to use a piece of music to set the mood of a scene by having it playing in the background.

But just because you find the Pachelbell Canon swooningly romantic or Jay Z's Interlude #1 hot and dirty doesn't mean your reader will have any idea of what they sound like or what kind of mood you're trying to convey. So the attempt falls flat and the reader not only resents being shut out but wonders what kind of shitty writer you are that you can't even set a mood without dragging in outside sources who can obviously do it better.

Stella's example uses explicit lyrics rather than music, and they're more a device for advancing the story than they are mood-setters. The scene works whether the singer is Iggy Pop or Mario Lanza.

 

[sr71plt]

The danger comes when you try to use a piece of music to set the mood of a scene by having it playing in the background.

But just because you find the Pachelbell Canon swooningly romantic or Jay Z's Interlude #1 hot and dirty doesn't mean your reader will have any idea of what they sound like or what kind of mood you're trying to convey.

It doesn't mean that you can't convey the mood by being in the mood yourself, though, does it? You like to pontificate on what a writer can do and cannot do without really being able to say they can't do it through their own writing talent. There's no saying that a writer can't convey a mood by putting him/herself in that mood--even when he/she isn't revealing to the reader what put her/him in that mood. The conveying is in the words and the writer's talent in creating mood with words, not the background music. You can't say a writer isn't capable of doing that.

And backtracking and giving a smug "well they can't do it on a crap story garbage pile like Liteoritca" doesn't say that a writer posting stories here can't--and doesn't--do it either.

 

[Stella_Omega]

Simply stating the name of the music won't create a mood, for sure. That's like all the other "by the numbers" descriptions we so often decry around here. I would also provide some sort of description of the music--but more importantly, provide some emotional reaction to the music. Pachavel might be the sense of sweetness and contentment that the simple, repeated melody brings to the listeners. Brahms or Beethoven or Led Zeppelin might shake their bones, and hip-hop might make them move. Technodance might jangle their nerves-- it does mine.