I almost never read fiction. I did write down a sentence the other day and kept on going. I think I might keep on going depending on the criticism. In short: does what I've got so far have any potential? I haven't a clue.

Basic plot as I see it: I plan to follow around a crazy old man who is a religious zealot. He has constructed a version of Christianity in his mind whereby the people that are the gods are actually dead babies. So he is imagining these dead babies and being controlled by them. The story will make fun and hopefully provide some interesting scenarios. Below is what I've got. Excuse the punctuation...I don't know how yet!!

)

Jake







Back to business. Tired drooly deceased faces. He is babbling again. Directives. Mandates. Spaghetti-Os. A forlornness sweeps over this dwarfish audience; a billion burpers are brought in to mute the yawping roils. The fervor is infinite and those who stray shall be cast out - scribbles are made - the record is permanent and let the record show these scrawls are the dark hammer and stone of the good truth. Whosoever shall cry I shall cry the loudest, under the strain of the deepest dirt will my head be.

Assertive whispering amongst the infantilean elite and their slave angels. The topic now passing to our feeblest dweller asunder, that certain fleshy brother below who spreads and sprays a torrent through blooming cornfields. For him there is thanks. Delight in order and instruction. You will consume its fleshy cream in overabundance.

...

The dry sun, full of pentecost, spooked and ambled across the gravel lot of the filling station halting at the venerable face of an oiled and elderly preacher. Smiling his mind was far off. Tits the shape of candy, shades drawn and the variety of hues, forced concubines coming exhausted then reeling violently sprawled and impish in the excess. The pale corner of an adolescent's dress, dark, gently telescoping up and through the sparse silken ether webbing. Giddy from this apish indulgence his eyes - still - then suddenly darting. That jaded desert grin snapping shut.

In he went taking to an aisle, marveling. The selection vast and plentiful. As it should be, he thought. Lost in the wiper blades. Chuckling out loud at the face on a candy bar wrapper. Clever, said he to the cashier, locking eyes, pointing. Moving on to the glassed encasements, trapped old meat cage, enthusiastic spectator, tepid warm greasy buzzing. Fixating on a piece of chicken, humid avian flesh fermenting in the tepid grease bath. Great greasy wafts applying thick to the Delta air, coating all patrons.

Behind the yellowed glass a fat 50 something was met by a grin.

"Hot day," preacher's eyes bulged out and he had his hand around his neck as he sucked in the air. He poked his tongue out at the lady. An unaware fly struggling in the ointment. He received the chicken and sat at the booth nearest the window. Every now and then a car would pass some distance away on the highway and plane out of view. All is quiet on the storefront. He leaves. The penetrating of his uncovered orifices by the gravel dust sucking upward, a freakish vacuous occurrence in these dark flatlands, hissing and popping its way to the heavens ascending.

The car door slams shut and the young woman is still tied in the back. Fleshy tears are running down her chubby face. She has a freaked appearance. Mr. Preacher reaches back to offer his heartfelt condolences for her state. He sticks his thin hand on her belly, curious. Gazing into her begging eyes concerned and proving it with the wet sucking fishy kisses he sends her way through the air. He punches her in the stomach as hard as he could from the drivers seat while giving her a sympathy gasp. Somewhere a Nigerian toddler engulfed by a lion. He filled his cheeks with air and, pressing against them slowly with his fingertips, blew small spit bubbles the size of large sugar crystals into her eyes as her face toned blue. No sound coming from the anguished face and the station never as silent, her eyes appealing to the dirty window.

Under the car a scepter of a snake lay straight in a patch of shade cooling its barmy skin leather. In a million years this snake might have tusks. Robots might prize these elusive snakes sending whole android caravans in search of their fine ivory and the oil marrow kept in their gullet. The Sahara desert will have to be passed over, of course, because it is still uninhabitable by all but the insane. These snakes will all be trapped and stored in large receptacles capable of storing vast numbers of them. Feed will be released into the metal bins from a ceiling chute in the manner of hog slop dropped on a pig from above.

A younger male robot mans the helm of one bin watching as the snakes scave and slice and hiss and eat. He dreams bright yellow dreams of future expeditions whereby he is in charge of their capture, entire brigades at his command. The future not as the present imagine but more arcane, lush.

....

Mr. Preacher had an iron paperweight inside his trailer the size of a small brick. He seized this and the block of ice just purchased in town. As he bought the ice, the starched white store clerk had gestured at the blob of blood, the size of a pair of pink nipples or milk tops, stationed near the left side of Mr. Preacher's short sleeve shirt. He put the ice in his bucket that he had set out on the floor in front of the couch and proceeded to beat the ice with the heavy paperweight. Slow, dull strokes compacted the face of the ice. The blue ice seemed to only get denser until finally a sizable chunk separated from the main. He continued until the ice was totally crushed and descended his ankles slowly towards the silvery bucket as he poured water laid out beside. He closed his eyes. He opened them and kept them open for ten minutes except to blink before he dozed off. When he woke it was about ten a.m.
..........
Sterilized and cold the former Earth infants sit on high. Velvet pillows adorn their shiny limbs and brains less tarnished. Frocks elegantly laced. A dead baby talks to the other little dead babies. A can of spray paint jammed into his eye socket. Confident tongue babel. He says Mama and Dada with fervor--they are listening. He picks up a soft golden milk bottle with a silk strap. He slams it back down. The audience, astonished. Blessed are the meek. A cipher is brought forth by a red dead obese woman and is dangled under under false pride to the weary infants. Maggots adorning the lining of her **** taper out falling to Earth full of grace. Bless them. Half of the infants receive the cipher spectacle with the greatest joy in the universe as the rest are crying. The red woman is not sure of herself. She jostles out of the room.

......

He is traveling. Direct orders to rescue two black strippers out of the Greenville strip joint so says He.

"You are to seize them."

In the passenger seat lies forty feet of rope, two rolls of duct tape, and a carving knife with a yellowed plastic handle--dull blade. Cotton fields jolt by. For miles our driver sustains his gothic course. His breath stinks terribly. A hot dead dog passed and gone with no heed paid. A turtle lies inside, feeding enormously. The sun bearing down with it's humid snort. Nearby, in a placid and stagnant ditch - pitch black, full of bug killer and charred entrails of soybean murk - a coral snake envelops its head around a fetal possum who goes softly. Crickets in the nettles fry in the tremendous heat. Masses of worm are **** on from above by overwrought bovine strain. Nefarious citizen of the barnyard! These slugs adorn the black below, frozen in their slimy molt. A bundled collection of used tampons ferments and putrefies in the air-filled stenchcavern of a tightly sealed grocery sack.

On this day, a black boy pops this very sack with his grandma's push mower. He feels genuine remorse as the earthy detritus and foul brown fungus paper churn through the blades entirely depositing the dry, goopy sledge into the grasscatch. Upon releasing this waste into the compost, he violently vomits on an ant pile. Carrot; liver; kidneys; ketchup; eggs. The ants are furious as the two powerful scents combine themselves into one more potent. What strange compost now.

Laurentius Johnson sniffs and feints, plunging nose first into the new pile. He comes to and runs to the faucet but it does not turn on. This is a chore, and by geometry giraffes would not have made such a fall, Lord.

Laurentius enters. Puke and mud bound to his face while the ants and their larvae make themselves known as groups swim up and recede hopelessly into the grey mixture which resembles some horrific conjuration--a prehistoric stinking plaster of paris or some corrupt, rank, and living offal oatmeal that had been left in a swamp to wretchedly curdle and accumulate never before wrought demon flavors. Grandma let's forth a shriek. The boy does not pause.

I think it's drivel. Pure rubbish. Too fanciful. It does almost nothing to please the reader.

Clearly a troll post. In the far distance OP is serious: if you don't have time to read, you don't have time to write. Btw: didn't read much.

I read it twice because I don't get it. I get parts of it. To me good writing makes the reader feel something strongly while they read it. There are spots where you made me feel eerie, or spooked. Not really scared more just uncomfortable. So then it is good writing in places to me. It might all be good and I am just unable to follow it. Felt like this was the middle of the book not the start and I was lost or something. Lots of good books start off like that and later the author fills in the vague parts.

If you enjoyed writing it then write more, screw what people say about it I say. I will read it if you post more.

it's like j.j. had a stroke or something.

i envision the way you wrote this as being similar to how south park depicts family guy being written. (ie: manitees choosing orbs filled with adjectives)

I didnt read all of it so take it with a grain of salt (I'll go back and read more when I have time) but just the first few paragraphs seem like you wrote it to show off your writing an not to tell a story or rope me into your world. Seems kinda pretencious imo no offense.

imo writing is like food, the more you **** with it the worse it usually tastes. Just let your writing be the medium for the story, not the story as a medium for your writing.

but yeah what Stuey said, F whatever we think its what you think that counts. If you enjoyed it then keep going, if you want to polish it for other people then you can always rewrite it. Remember too though you're going to get crtitiques here that are a lot more "harsh" (not sure if thats the best word for it) than your typical audience.

I stopped after two sentences. It brought to mind Second Pass' analysis of Dos Passos' fragmented style in USA Trilogy:
Emphasis mine.

It's like the worst dead baby joke ever.

Actually I think this thread could be pretty cool since theres a lot of ameteur and professional writers in the lounge. OP do you mind if I post something ive been working on? I dont want to derail or hijack your thread unless its ok with you....I know you were probably looking for more feedback.

livin, fwiw, a long time ago someone talked about making a book of 2p2 posts - a poker strategy book. It was pointed out to him that all posts made on this website are property of 2p2. I am not sure if this applies to non-strategy posts as well, or if anything would ever come of it...but just a fair warning in case you ever hope to publish your writing.

Maybe we should ask Mat or somebody? It sucks because I think this is a cool idea and it's potentially something I would be interested in.

James

oh i know...we addressed that back when we did the short story contest. This thing is barely started and wont be publishable in the near to distant future (if ever). I think a mod said soemthing back then about removing them if requested though....and actually Ive always wanted to self publish online...so if by some miracle its good enough to share in its entirety by the time its done I'll probably just set up a blog and post it on there. Seems like an easier way to make money than traditional publishing tbh.

Should I wait for OP's permission to hijack, just hijack or start a new thread? I think this could be fun. The writing contests are fun but take time and planning...plus I dont want to run it.

Also, OP, just wanted to say congrats for posting this. By seeking feedback you give yourself a huge leg up on anyone who wants to one day be published. Very ballsy and I tip my hat to you. I can't say I really got the story, and i agree it's too dressed up. Simple is better when you are starting out IMO. In general, readers will want to be wowed by an occasional brush stroke of brilliance as opposed to be overwhelmed by a wall-sized abstract painting. Unless you are someone like David Foster Wallace - whose control of the language was so complete that he could kill it with this sort of writing - language this heavy will tend to make your readers resent you. Writing like this also forces you to make everything MUCH more polished as your readers will be a lot less forgiving of the errors that you are making yourself more likely to make. For instance, you claim that you know nothing of punctuation. This isn't going to fly when you are using language the way you have.

nvrmnd...im reviving the workshop thread.

Link to short story thread? That sounds great.

Publishing via a blog is a very interesting idea.

found it:

http://forumserver.twoplustwo.com/63...s-only-376407/

excited

with adsense and a couple writing related CPA offers mixed with SEO traffic building I could probably do better money-wise than a lot of newly published authors....even if their stuff is a lot better. Add myspace/FB and twitter marketing and I could probably make some decent cash off it.

sorry if my internet marketing lingo doesnt make sense

oh...god.
Im still pretty embarrased about my submission there. The flash fiction contest was really fun too but again my submission, even coming in 2nd was pretty bad imo looking back on it. lol hopefully you're not a WW2 buff like some people in the lounge. (you'll see what i mean)
However that story taught me a valuable lesson....always double check your facts.

Everybody seems to like those contests, but running them is bit of a bear, and judging them is a bit of work too. Therefore, almost anyone volunteering to run one could probably do it after getting the blessing of the mods that be. So you guys should consider the possibility of new contests as open as your desire to personally do any of the work.

RE: contest
Im just afraid i wont be able to put in as much time with it as it needs....or I would have probably asked wook, katy and db a long time ago.


Writers Workshop has been bumpided...please be kind.

I have no desire to enter a contest of any kind. Just happy to share writing and read the work of others....and sharpen my tools, as a wise man would say

James

good advice itt
I took a number of creative writing classes in college and the criticism here is better than 90% o' responses I heard/ read from students.

What I read seems to lack coherence. I'm wondering where we are much of the time, what is happening, etc. Not unusual for good writers just starting out.

The writing is not bad. You structure sentences well. Maybe overuse of adjectives. You do a good job at times of varying sentence length.

I would say you have potential; idk about this story.

Reading fiction is probably a must if you want to properly develop as a fiction writer.

he definitely has some skill at prose and style. he needs an editor. then, he needs a story that has more "accessibility". in other words, i don't think i can relate to someone worshipping gods who are actually dead babies. i don't get the point.

find a story/plot that people can relate to more. don't drown the reader in far-out prose. you gotta give them an island somewhere along the way.

keep trying.

OK, I got my purple title from the last short story contest (thank you very much, Lounge!), and I want to chime in:

It's off-putting that you refuse to learn how to do what is necessary. You should read more.

That said, if you wrote this, and you're serious:

In my opinion, you have one strength in one very important element of writing fiction (or, at least, a particular sort of fiction): you seem to have both the desire and ability to express yourself with, well, a flourish.

But yes, you're all over the place.

On the other hand, some folks have gotten by just fine being "all over the place." Read Askyonov's "The Burn."

Huh?

Good luck. Read more.

i made it through 5 words and stopped