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| Looking at a first draft of a poem that I forgot about... inspired pile of rubbish. I'm like... was I for real? Maybe I think it should be easier by now. |
| Hi Joto-Kai! Can you help me review my very first piece of writing on this website? The link is here[[https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2162960-Berry]] Thank you! |
I've just edited an item in my portfolio:
It's a tiny edit, but it hasn't seen any action in a LONG time. One of my best works, and just about the only one I set in the real world. Check it out, let me know what you think or if you see any ideas. |
| In this piece, I get to lash out, put some of my more suspect thoughts--thoughts too edgy for a blog titled "Thoughts of Madman"--into the mouth of a character. This lout: an idiot, a troll, or does he have a point? For your consideration:
Edited for punctuation and completeness; third person objective. Comments on the sanity of the character's ideas welcome too. |
| It came to me that you would never want to be one of my Mary-Sues. It's just... not a good thing, as the story evolves. Carolie: evolved from a sheltered goody-two-shoes village healer, to eventually become the clone-daughter of the Dark Lord. Turns out, he-she starts out with good intentions, then gets frustrated and starts getting destructive. At that point, he-she spawns a clone who will put the original in his-her place, only to do the same 1000 years later. Or, in Carolie's turn, maybe this year... her plan to save the day? She 'cures' the free will of her friends and soldiers, so that they will be more comfortable while facing the legions of the old Dark Lord  Brannon: Started out as an interstellar rogue who gets caught up by accidentally 'buying' a symbol of the rebellion, a MacGuyver flying around playing Dr. Who. Ends up as a brainwashed spy who thinks he's liberating people and is really just setting them up to be assimilated by his old empire. Oh, and meanwhile, the two people he cares about most in the universe are BOTH trying to 'fix' his brain, and the only thing he can be sure of, is that nothing he sees or thinks is worthy of trust. Now, he has to choose. Easy enough, actually, except that the choice will determine the fates of millions of people. And that's before they move on to the next world. In sum: Don't be a Mary Sue. I will exact a heavy penalty.  |
| So I prepare myself for the descent into darkness. No, I'm not becoming depressed or going spelunking, though those aren't bad ideas. What I am doing is endeavoring to make a scene by scene synopsis of my beloved novel. So far, two scenes in, I nearly had apoplexy as I realized how starkly melodramatic the ideas are. I knew they were pushing it, after all it was a NaNo and it was genre-related to some really odd stuff that I watched. (No, nothing I will willingly admit to having watched.) And it's already Scifi. Please, may the PTB have mercy upon me. |
| That good idea |
| Thanks. Not my own; I like to listen to smart people. |
| That moment when: you are pleased that you got a great review about a poem whose subject that hurts to think about. |
| If you and your significant other build poetry together, does she have a copyright to it, barring you from building something derivative? What about in the privacy of your own thoughts, then. Wouldn't that be 'fair use?' I do wish she'd comment and tell me. Banning me from talking to her should have been enough, but it wasn't.  |
| That moment that the 'balding hairy ape' character, with the broken dialect and the penchant to treat everything like a broken droid, the character that never says anything even a little out of character, says something uncharacteristically insightful and true. And it's still 100% in character. If that isn't reward enough for being a writer, you're in the wrong hobby/profession/dangerous obsession. |
I've added a memoir entry to my blog, "Thoughts of a Mad Man"  : "Coinfall (hidden)" Every moment the chance of impressing Lauren slips through Jack's fingers, even here, alone as he steps out of the shower. He picks up his pants to put them on. Coins fall out of the pocket. They clatter on the linoleum, announcing his clumsiness to the cat, to the neighbors, to his fiancée. The urge to vent rose in his throat. Such passions are not allowed in his new world, and he choked them down. He closed his eyes and shook his head. In a calm, albeit pained, voice he says, "Really?" Surely that's allowed. He's heard her say the same thing. "You know, you're doing it to yourself, right?" (Continued in comments) |
| No, not allowed. He shakes his head and breathes. All his life, the man had been keeping coins in his pocket and picking his pants up. He'd never had such an experience, not before meeting her. He could not fathom how he was 'doing it to himself,' but he did not think in that fashion. He did not question her judgment just continually drove himself to live up to her standards. Instead, he pushed down his feelings. Without so much as a sarcastic "Yes, dear," he dressed himself and picked up the coins. Outside, his love began cooking. She fed him well, when she was there, and kept her cupboard well stocked. He just didn't have time. Nobody wanted to hire him, not at jobs she gave him permission to take. Not at all materialistic, she needed the substantial income in case her own went away. He walked up behind her. He knew her day had been hard, and wanted to make it up to her, at least a little. He stroked her shoulder and washed his hands to help her cook. As they sat down, in their unfurnished bedroom, with the pork chops, he smiled. She didn't know him that well, for all the secrets they had shared. If she ever suspected his eating pattern was dangerous, she never hinted. He assumed she would care, and did not want to worry her. "Thank you, my love." She started eating, and he followed suit. It wasn't like she could tell how much he was starving unless she took careful inventory of the food. She didn't have time for that. He didn't have much enthusiasm for food, didn't act all that hungry. Three weeks they had been living together, and everything that had drawn them together—their love of writing, the grand fantasies and romantic drama they had shared across the country—all had evaporated. Two things still they had. He followed her lead, her iron command no matter how gently stated, and— and well, she did approve of his weight loss, apparently |
| Well, it cost me thousands of dollars, loads of heartache, my apartment, and even some heirlooms (along with other asst'd junk that should have already gone), but I gained a valuable insight from my one-time, beta-reader/fiancée: the difference between a well-written character that has presence and a plot device-character. What's so instructive is that Binchenzo (the well-written character) is a tertiary character. What's the term? Supporting character, an ex-boyfriend (previous project of Scarlett, lead-supporting character). He doesn't exist for any reason than that he exists, not to drive the story. He's a fat, balding man in a sweaty white undershirt, chomping on a futuristic vaping box. (Well, it was futuristic when I wrote it.) He doesn't care about the story, so in every moment he just does what he would do. My other characters could be all that, but they are plot devices. They care about the plot, so they morph and change and I don't imagine them so clearly. They are a little bit like ciphers. |
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