My 10-year-old son is obsessed with the “Would you Rather” game where we ask each other questions like these: Would you rather eat a tiny worm with every meal or have ten flies walk over your food before you eat it? Would you rather have a Jack-o-Lantern for your head or tree limbs for your arms and legs? We play this game before bed, on long car trips and sometimes while eating lunch! And let me tell you—you can learn a lot about someone by listening to his or her answers!
Photo by Vic (Creative Commons)
What Would You Rather Do?
Just for fun today, I am inviting you to play his favorite game — and let you (perhaps) learn a bit more about yourself as a writer!
Would you rather read your writings to an audience of ten people who love you or to 10,000 people you don't know?
Would you rather publish one insanely great-selling book and never write again … or publish a string of 15 average-selling books over a 20-year period?
Would you rather be recognized wherever you go… or live a quiet (monetarily successful) life of anonymity?
Would you rather be rich and loathed or poor and well-loved?
Would you rather do a cross-country book store tour or blog tour?
Would you rather write in a rooftop garden surrounded by city noises — or in a quiet studio with cows as your neighbors?
Would you rather teach writing in a high school or go back to grad school for a Creative Writing degree?
Would you rather bravely share your writing or sit on the writing sidelines forever?
PRACTICE
Knowing your answer to my final question, please use your practice today to share with us a piece you are working on! Remember to leave feedback for others as well. And, if you re so inclined, let us know how you answered any of the questions above! Or offer one of your own! Enjoy.
Fun prompt, Marianne. I rather like the idea of writing on a rooftop garden in the city, specifically New York City, for all that it connotes.
Here’s a bit from my WIP, a children’s book set in northern Minnesota on the brink of the Great Depression. Fred is thirteen years old.
Fred has dreamed of this day; his first hunting trip. He imagines holding the shotgun just the way Papa taught him with the stock steadied against his shoulder. He’ll center the turkey in the crosshairs. Smoothly, yet firmly, he will pull the trigger toward him. The bird will let out one, short piercing squawk, rustle its feathers and fall down dead.
“Papa, I can hardly wait for that turkey,” Fred whispered.
“Let’s not talk. Christmas is only two days away. We can’t take a chance of scaring off dinner,” Papa whispered back.
At last they hear a tom turkey “gobble gobble gobble,” as if to ask, “Want to find breakfast?” A hen turkey responds with a single “cluck” and a long, soft “purr”.
“Old Tom” turkey swoops to the ground, swiveling his head, looking for trouble. He thrusts his tail feathers into a fan, as if to say, “Look at me. I’m king of the roost.”
“Old Tom” struts, his head held high, then snatches some seeds into his mouth. He swivels his head again, checking for danger. Papa motions to Fred to take his shooting position. Fred braces the shotgun into his right shoulder, lays his cheek on the gun, sights “Old Tom” and pulls the trigger. At that exact moment, “Old Tom” steps to one side. The shotgun pellets fly harmlessly past him.
“Drat. I thought I had him,” Fred said, trying not to let his disappointment show. “It sure is harder when the target can walk away.”
Marilyn, beautiful writing. I thought I was there looking over Fred’s shoulder.
Thanks for being so supportive, Adelaide. After I worked so long on that passage, I really appreciate your comment.
Marilyn, I very much like this section you have posted. One question which, perhaps, you explained in an earlier paragraph: Where did the turkey get the seeds? “…then snatches some seeds into his mouth.”
Adelaide
Yes, I explained earlier that seeds and berries were scattered on the ground.
Its a good piece. I’m curious to see what happens next, though I wondered where the seed came from too. I also wondered where the characters actually were. You don’t want to clutter this up much. If that’s covered previously, fine. Wait. I read it again, and i can see they are outside. The thing is, the opening of what’s here makes it unclear if they are outside, on a bus, or at a kitchen table. Pardon my nit-picking please, What’s here is very good.
Equiteur, Zaire (Congo)
Only the roosters and the President stirred in the ebony of morning. The roosters heralded the dawn, the President praised the Lord. For God in all His wisdom had chosen him, Mobutu Sese Seko Nkuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga. Him, The All-Powerful
Warrior Who, Because of his Endurance and Inflexible Will to Win, Goes from
Conquest to Conquest, Leaving Fire in his Wake. Him, the only man strong enough
to lead God’s people out of the darkness of colonialism, away from communism,
and back to African Authenticity.
Rapt in daily devotion, Mobutu knelt on the padded prie-dieu in his private family chapel. His hands folded on the wooden shelf and his head bowed before the hanging crucifix, graced on both sides by narrow stained-glass windows. In the regal stillness, he prayed for his beloved family. For his father, the cook, taken away too soon. For his
mother, the hotel maid, whose sweat and labor paid for her precious Joseph-Désiré to receive a righteous Catholic education. For his young wife, Marie Antoinette, who sadly did not embrace Authenticity before her untimely death. May they all rest in peace. And then he thanked God for his new wife and her twin sister, Mama Kossia. A double blessing.
Nice beginning. Verbose, but appropriate because of what you have set up here. My only point: I don’t see dawn as “ebony”, but maybe I don’t know what dawn is like where the story occurs. I always thought of dawn as a gradual lightening of colors, depending on the weather. What happens next?
1. I’d rather have 10,000 unbiased souls evaluating my work. Loved ones try hard to not hurt you. So, I wouldn’t feel any honest opinions.
2. Give me the average string of books. I’d never get bored and I’d keep improving.
3. I am a private person. Give me my peace.
4. People loathe for so many different reasons that I’d cherish it. Others are thinking about you, which is fine.
5. Give me the cross-country tour! More people, more experiences.
6. The city awakens my senses. I love the quiet; I don’t want overkill, though.
7. I teach high school already. Give me that degree!
8. Share and share alike.
I’ve known for a long time that I would rather share my writing with strangers than with my loved ones. That being said, below is a link to a portion of my current WIP. It is a password protected page on my blog, set up just for this group. If you would like to read it, the password is: The Write Practice
http://kjamesp.wordpress.com/dystopian-wip/
Today’s practice: What am I working on? Lots of stuff. Current two projects, one stymied, one not. The “not stymied” project: “Tales of Timberlost County.” Timberlost county is somewhere in central PA, USA. Our protagonists are a husband and wife team of low to middling power level magical practitioners who have just moved into Their dream house. The house, they find out, is in need of lots of work, and lately the town has been plagued by a se
ries of bizzare beating incidents, somehow mixed up with the town’s main industry the local lumber plant.
I have difficulty plotting this sort of thing from start to finish, so feedback would be much appreciated.
My other project is more pulp action: Imagine somewhere far out in space, what’s left of an enourmous steel shell, or ring of satelites, enclosing a star. Within this sphere is enough room for a couple of hundred earth sized ecosystems. The sphere is badly damaged, but still functioning.
Imagine if all of the Victorian era sci fi novels like “Journey to the Center of the Earth” or “John Carter of Mars” or “Pelucidar” actually happened…on sections of this enourmous Dyson sphere.
Once again, plotting is a problem because the idea is so huge. I need help with memorable pulp characters that won’t get me sued, too….=-)
I would choose the 10,000 strangers, the quiet anonymous life, to be rich and loathed, the cross-country tour, the studio surrounded by cows, grad school and bravely sharing. My dream is to have a mega huge best seller, but I’d want to keep writing. I have lots of WIPs and am sharing them regularly, a scary but empowering act.
Scary and empowering usually go together!
I prefer the 10,000, the many books, the anonymity, poor and well-loved, blog tour, quiet studio, teaching, have sat on the sidelines writing anonymously most of my life. this year trying to change and share my work. Check out my six books on amazon as J.R. Biery.
Good points to ponder. Thanks for the inspiration.
The first question gets to the heart of my biggest fear- actually sharing my writing. I am sometimes terrified to share with family/friends, and the thought of 10,000 people seeing/hearing my writing is daunting. Most of the rest of the questions lean towards the anonymity side of things. And, you forgot to mention if the grad school was debt-free!
Hi David — and what is the fear about sharing? That people won’t like it? That your abilities will be questioned? I would love for you to break through that fear because my sense is you will experience something quite exhilarating!
Thanks for the encouragement, Marianne+Sandra. I don’t totally know why it is a hang-up for me. I guess I need to break some eggs if I want to make an omelette.
I know what you mean about wanting to hide away. I feel it has taken a lot of courage for me just to start writing and posting here and having a blog. I never feel its good enough. But I realize it will help me to get better. And I do dream of being good someday even though i know I have a long way to go. Because I know that the fact that i am here and trying to write and wanting to write means I probably have something to share and give to others.
Anyways I hope you do overcome your fear. That is what life is about to me, being afraid. Once you realize you are afraid of something, you have to keep trying to do more against your comfort level in order to be a better person.
Writing does take courage. I see that over and over again. Thanks for being honest. I can relate to what you say, and I know many others can too. We most definitely all have something to share though, so keep up the writing! 🙂
Thank you. 🙂 I will keep trying.
I have the same feelings sometimes, even with my own family, like you said. Typically I don’t share my writing with my friends at all, except for my brother, and here. We just have to share a little bit at a time and keep gaining confidence.
This is the first bit of my WIP. Reviews would be very much appreciated! (P.S. – Alex is a girl, it’s not made very clear in this section)
Chapter One
Kate crept slowly up the stairs, the dusty boards creaking under her feet like ghosts. The house was even creepier at night. She swept her flashlight around the cobwebbed walls. What was that? Kate could swear she saw someone stepping into the shadows at the top of the stairs, out of the beam of her flashlight. “Hello?” she called. “Is someone there?”
A man stepped back into the light, the hood of his coat obscuring his face. “Hello, Kate,” he whispered menacingly.
“How do you know my name?”
“I have come straight from your own nightmares.”
Nope. No good.
I deleted the entire section and tried again.
Kate snuck with agonizing slowness up the staircase, the ancient boards creaking like doomed phantoms
Crap, that was worse. Highlight, delete.
Kate
No. Just no. I peered down at the monitor of my laptop. Kate? It was so…blah, sounding. Why the hell had I named her “Kate” anyway? I couldn’t remember. Why did she need to go back to the house again? Who knew? I didn’t. I didn’t really explain that at the end of the last chapter. Nosy teenagers, haunted houses, murderous lunatics
that popped out of nosy teenagers nightmares (how did they get out, anyway? Maybe through your ears during the REM cycle); did this thing I had been hammering out for weeks actually have a plot? Not really.
I made a face at the laptop and banged it shut. Crack. Oops. That didn’t sound good. I
tossed it on the end of my bed without checking; I should just write the old-fashioned way, with paper and pen. If I could actually find a pen in here. My room was in a perpetual state of “Sweet mother of Jefferson Davis, did a bomb go off in here” kind of messy, as my mom liked to point out ten times a day. I was still holding out against her efforts to reform me, but at times like this I thought she was right.
I jumped off my bed and sat on the window sill. My block was deathly quiet that day. Hollywell Street was always quiet; not a lot of cars went up it I guess. My mom grew up
in New York and she always says that it’s weird not to hear traffic all the time and people getting mugged outside your window. I think the part about mugging sounds less strange in her head. I liked that it was quiet. All that noise would drive me nuts. But that day there was no breeze in the trees, no birds. It was August, going on September, and it was warm; it was one of those days where literally nothing was happening. It kinda of felt like everything had just been frozen in place, like when you pause a movie on TV.
I’d been inside all day and my brain had that feeling I get from staring at a computer screen too long, where this stupor gets in there and you can’t think anything because
there’s this fog filling up your head. I got up and started walking around them room, hoping moving around would wake me up. I started picking things up and putting them down. For a few minutes I played around with the Rubik’s cube on my desk, twisting it around and messing it up even more. My aunt Jen gave it to me years ago and I never solved it. It was kind of gross looking by then. The colored stickers were peeling off and the glue was all sticky and grey. I put the cube back and sat down by my bookshelf. I halfheartedly started picking up books and reading the backs. I had all these old fantasy books that I hadn’t touched since I was eleven. I used to be really obsessed with fantasy books when I was a little kid. It’s fun going back through your bookshelves and finding all these books you’d forgotten you’d had and rereading the back covers. It’s kind of like finding them in the library for the first time all over again. That day though looking at books made me feel a little depressed. When eighth grade ended I made this list of books that I was going to read over the summer and I was really excited because I was going to get so much done and read all this stuff and then it just never happened. When I had time to read a book I never felt like doing it.
I was going to work on my story over the summer too, but I never did that either. Every time I wrote something, I went back and thought Holy crap this is bad. So the story still only had about ten pages. I’d spent the entire summer lounging around the house and bored out of my mind, which had kinda been a major issue for about a year.
“Alex!”
Uh oh. “What Mom?”
“Will you come here please?”
I groaned and got up. She was going to ask me to turn on the AC, do the laundry, or go to the grocery store with her. I went to the top of the stairs and peered over the rail. Mom was standing with her hands on her hips, looking up at me. “I’m going to the grocery store, come with me.”
“Mom, you know I hate going to the grocery store!”
“You’ve been cooped up in this house all day. Come on, no arguments.”
I sighed. “Fine.” I trudged down the stairs and into the front hall. “I could be writing or
something.” I used to be really embarrassed about my parents finding out that I wrote but after a while I got tired of making up weird excuses for what I was doing.
Mom gave me her omniscient-mother look. “I heard you walking around upstairs. Doesn’t sound like writing to me.” Our floorboards really did creak like doomed phantoms.
Mom held the door open for me. Sitting right outside was Juniper, my cat. “Hey June.” She meowed and rubbed orange hairs all over my jeans. “Thanks a bunch.”
Mom locked the door behind us. “Come on,” she said, and rattled her car keys.
First off, awesome job. You really capture Alex’s “drifting through life” feeling. Her wit and sarcasm is great and made me smile. : ) I really enjoyed being in Alex’s head. It felt real and personal.
Maybe you could try breaking up that last big paragraph into a few smaller ones, or add a little dialogue to them, though I know it’d be weird for her to be talking out loud to herself. : )
If you get a chance, will you critique the piece I wrote? Thanks and keep up the good work!
Love this. Is it okay to post your questions and my answers on my blog? I would of course credit you with the questions and provide a link to this post.
My answers:
1. 10,000 unknowns. Greater exposure and less bias.
2. Average string
of books. I’d rather have the joy of repeated writing that was well
accepted than the frustration of never being able to write and succeed
again.
3. Anonymity.
4. I’d rather be comfortable and loved than
rich and loathed or poor and well loved. I’m happy with the love that
comes my way. But if that wasn’t an option, than the poor and well
loved, I guess.
5. Now that’s an interesting one. On the one hand, if
someone was paying for my cross country trip, that sounds interesting.
It must be nice, though daunting, to see so many new places and meet so
many new people face to face. I do have a friend who did it, though, and
she says that it’s the most exhausting experience you can imagine. And I’ve got a good imagination…
6.
I love everything the city has to offer, except for the noise.
Especially when I write, I like the peace and quiet, which is why I
often write at night. Cows aren’t too quiet either, though, but I’ll
take that over blaring horns etc.
7. I still get the quakes just thinking about my brief stint teaching high school EFL, so this is a no brainer. Grad school.
8.
Working on the second, third, and fourth draft of my novel simultaneously so as to
hasten my novel’s introduction to the real world. (Finished the first
draft, I edit each section before taking it to my local critique group.
Edit after my group, and then send to my online critique group after
which it’s revised again. Since I started the groups separately, there’s
a gap between the sections being reviewed, but it still works well for
me)
Of course you can! Thanks for asking. 🙂
The last question makes me think about what it means to be a writer. If I had the choice of sharing my work or sitting on the sidelines, of course I want to be brave and share my work. I think where I lose confidence is when I read works from my peers. I get self-conscious and feel inadequate because I feel their works are so much better than mine. I question the audience I am trying to reach. I shared this dilemma with some of my Twitter buddies that my work feels more geared to youths and not to adults. It makes me wonder whether or not adults will like what I write. But then, I am reminded that I have to write for me and no one else.
To answer the next part of the question, I have two works in progress, both short stories. The first is a rewrite of a story that was published when I was in college, about a young man on a family trip with overbearing mother. He meets a kindred spirit and they learn what it means to set boundaries for their respective parents. This story is the one I want to share with my Twitter buddies as soon as I type it up. The second is a new story about a guy, recently dumped, who has a chance encounter with an older woman. For one night, they share an intimate connection. This story is in the first draft stage; I am about to start editing and writing a second draft.
George, no one can be better than you at saying what you have to say. Never feel silenced by other people’s words; the only thing you can do is strive to grow as a writer. It is a process, and we all improve with time and dedication.
As to writing to adults or young adults: I don’t think it’s mutually exclusive. Many YA novels are read and enjoyed by adults as well. I know that we’re told to write for our audience, but in truth, you’ve got it right. You first have write for you.
George, I would love to see you move beyond your self-doubt and realize that you have a unique voice worth sharing!
I’d rather share my writing with 10,000 people I don’t know. I would rather sell 15 average selling books and continue writing and improving. I would prefer the quiet studio with cows as neighbors. Since I teach writing to middle school students I’d like to move up to high school. I’m going to bravely share a couple of paragraphs from my middle grade WIP “Small Town Secrets”.
Cold and confusion surrounded his senses. Numb and disconnected from
everything around him he wondered if he was supposed to be somewhere? All of these questions invaded his mind. He shivered with a feeling, unlike any he had
ever felt before. He drifted upward toward the branches of a tree. Looking
down, he saw the body of a boy lying on the ground. The boy looked familiar, did he know him? A bright light appeared tugging at him. Warmth and love emanated from it, calling to him. He felt safe as he looked into the light.
A noise drew his eyes from the light. He noticed a red bicycle lying in the road, its back wheel bent. Did the bicycle belong to the boy?
He remembered that he had a bicycle just like this one, except his initials were painted on each side of the back fender. It was the first time he had used his father’s tools and paint. His father had stood proudly watching him. The boy heard the creaking noise again and followed the sound to the edge of the road. An older, balding man stood at the back of his truck with the tailgate down. He noticed the man’s blue shirt, striped tie,
and neatly pressed dress pants, and assumed the man was someone of importance. The truck looked familiar. Its flame blue body was shiny and showed the owner had some money. He couldn’t remember where he had seen it before. The man walked over to the bicycle, looked up and down the road before picking the bicycle up and placing it in the back of his truck.
The man looked up the hill in the direction of the boy body. The boy wondered why this strange man stealing the boy’s bicycle? It had to be the boy’s because of the size. He was sure the man had seen the boy lying on the hill, so why did he leave him there and not check to see if the boy was hurt? The man covered the bicycle with an old blanket he kept in the back of the truck, closed the tailgate, and staggered to the driver’s side door. As he opened the door and slid in, he took one last look up the hill, checked the road for other cars, and drove off leaving the body on the hill covered with leaves.
Confused and alone with the body he noticed the funny way the boy was lying in the grass and leaves. Why didn’t he get up? He approached him and noticed the
dirty, torn clothes. Blood ran from his mouth and nose, while a small trickle of blood slid down his cheek from his left ear. He went to the other side of the body, and
screamed, recognizing the face staring back at him as his own. Whatever he was supposed to remember, no longer mattered. Daniel Butler realized he was dead.
Sandra, I think you did a great job with this!
I like how the story is going from one point to the next well and that by the end I can see the story is starting.
Wow! I’m hooked. Please keep me updated.
The Broadway East Cues & Brews
Rudy
Hudson opened the bar doors, letting them slam against the wall.
“Damn
it, Chekkie! Fix your damn fans”, Loob Derk yelled.
“ You
start payin’ fer yer games, Loob, an I’ll get the fans fixed. Hey, my
beers cold ain’t they?”
“In
this heat the cold don’t hang around long”, Loob tied a faded
yellow bandana around his head. The sweat still rolled off and left
wet splatters on the worn, green felt. Someone at another table
yelled, “Christ, now the flys are getting’ in!” The 30 year old,
pimple faced, sixth-grade drop-out started hacking, “Effin’ hell, I
just swallowed a fly! She-it, another one’s in my beer!” He threw
his cue stick on the table and headed to the bar. “Chekkie, I want
‘nother beer. On the house.” He pointed at the fly making circles
in his beer.
Chekkie
leaned over the beer. “Can’t do it, Rudy.” “Why the hell not?”
, pointing at the now still fly.
“Fer
one thing”, Chekkie bit off the filter of a cig, “It ain’t my
fly”. Chekkie lit his cig and walked away.
“Whad’ya
mean dis ain’t your fly?” “Nope. I think it’s from the bar
across the street. See if they’ll give a free cold one fer returnin’
their fly”. Despite the heat, Rudy picked up the beer and took aim
at Chekkie, who turned around holding hard rubber tire thumper. Rudy
quickly changed his aim and threw the beer out the door, missing
Deekie Boneer’s head by small inches.
“Chekkie,
I’ll take the next one at the bar”, said Deekie Boneer.
“Draw?”
“Bottle.
Make it a deuce”. Deekie handed the second bottle to Rudy. “Thanks
Mr. Boner”. Deekie yanked the bottle back. “Sorry. I mean Thanks,
Mr. Boneer”. He handed the bottle back to Rudy.
Loob
pointed his cue at Rudy, “Rhymes with ear. How could you fergit?”
Deekie
went over to an antique snooker table. It was only used for the rare
tournament. Deekie held up a $20 and put it on the a corner pocket.
Chekkie looked at his watch and nodded at Deekie.
I love your dialogue! And the concept of a fly belonging one place or another!
Thank You!
That was terrific. Very entertaining. It kind of reminded me of the pirates jeering at one another in Pirates of the Caribbean.
I always thought of writing comedy as being too difficult to do. Because it is so easy to either be too dry or go over the top but I think you have a good comedy going here.
Thanks. I did spend a couple of hours and beers in pool halls taking notes.
ha, good idea.
It was very entertaining and funny. I like the way you worded it when Rudy was about to throw the beer: “he took aim”. I also liked when the sixth-grade drop out pointed at the fly in his beer.
Personally I think the profanity was unnecessary and the piece would have been just as funny without it. : ) Keep up the good work!
Wow! This gets to the heart of writing. Thank you, Marianne!
I feel like I’m torn between most of the questions, but I think I’m more bent towards the recluse side. I’d rather write one great book, I’d rather live a simple happy life, rather than be rich and famous, and I wish so so much that I was the type that bravely puts her writing out there. I know that it’s a common struggle for writers to share what they’ve written. Thankfully, this blog and everyone here encourages me. Thank you all!
good for you. you sound like someone who could find happiness. I mean because of the answer of living a quiet life.
10,000 people I don’t know. But I will probably learn more from the 10 people I know, because I will notice every cringe, and it will push me. But ultimately success is having people you don’t know read your work.
one great book.
to be known wherever I went.
poor and well loved.
book tour? A blog tour may be cool to have too though.
I don’t want to be either place. I will take one slice of surburbia please? I guess with the cows..
Teach writing.
Bravely share my writing.
I have not written much yet, but I do have a story idea now. A woman who has been alone for as long as she could remember, has vague memories of having had a family. She is on a quest to find the people in her memory.
Thanks! I spent a couple of hours and beers in pool halls with ‘character’ .
Definitely 10,000 people I don’t know.
Publish 15 books over a 20-year period. I’d never stop writing!
Live a quiet life of anonymity.
Poor and well-loved.
Cross-country book store tour.
A quiet studio with cows. Milk forever!
Teach in a high school.
The last question’s hard. A lot of times I’m too afraid to share my writing, but there are times when I just go for it and share what I’ve written. Deep down I believe I want to mostly keep my writing to myself. Maybe that sounds selfish, but when I write I often reveal much of who I am, so writing is deeply personal for me. But I’m working on sharing what I write.
Here’s some of my practice:
His work finished at last, Shadow headed out the door. It was time to check out the lead HQ had sent him.
After taking a minute to verify the location he’d received from HQ, Shadow raced out of town and put on speed until the world was a blur around him. The coordinates led him into the woods.
He slid to a stop beside a weathered cabin. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the front porch. One of the porch steps sagged. The window in the front door had been knocked out. A chill tickled up Shadow’s spine and he whirled, drawing his firearm and aiming at–
–nothing.
His pulse pounded. He drew a deep breath, then exhaled. The place was old and quiet. Nothing more.
Still he snapped safety off as he approached the front porch. He tightened his grip on the pistol and aimed it at the floor. Reaching carefully through the jagged remains of the door window, he felt for a lock and eased it clockwise. He twisted the handle and pushed the door open.
The smell hit him first.
He wrinkled his nose and tried to ignore the odor as he moved through the room. He could taste the blood, the smell was so strong.
His shoes crunched broken glass. The open door provided little light in the way of light. After Shadow’s eyes adjusted, he could make out the silhouettes of a couch, coffee table, and loveseat in the center of the room. On the left side of the room, a hallway stretched away from him.
The flashlight was cool against his fingers as he touched it. If he clicked it on, he would see what was causing that foul odor. He was tempted for a moment to make his way in the dark.
Gripping the flashlight handle, he lifted it, pointing it at the middle of the room.
He flicked it on.
Very vivid setting description – I especially like the line about the smell of the blood, it’s eerie. I would definitely be interested to know more about this piece
Thank you. : )
Really like your use of the senses. I can what’s going on.
Thanks!
Huh, mysterious XD Leaving that as the ending was just cruel, but writers tend to do that to readers, don’t they?
I could feel the atmosphere of the house really well– it helped me to see it really clearly with minimal description, which I think is great.
I am a bit confused about that beginning part– is he driving, riding a motorcycle, running? It never really specifies *how* he’s travelling. Also, if you slow it down a bit more it will be easier to get right into the story. It kind of feels like it’s being rushed.
Otherwise, I thought it was great! The emotions were well played out; obvious without being over-the-top and in my face.
I cringe as I post this.
*cringes*
It’s got virtually no editing and I would not have let anyone read it, except that this post made me feel like I should XD
~~~
The Young King’s cloaks were slightly too small for him. It was amusing, thought Jack, as he lounged against his chair. It was normal, since the Young King didn’t have access to any of the kingdom’s funds until he was officially crowned High King, and usually by the end of their three year trial they had outgrown their Princely robes. Previous Kings were in the habit of dying directly before their heir’s growth spurts. Unfortunate, but true, and definitely amusing.
“Duke Ace, I’d invite you to join us in this discussion, but you appear to be otherwise occupied,” someone sneered, and Jack fixed his gaze on the Young King’s military captain, Philip, as chosen by the late King. Jack smirked; he didn’t need to be a part of this discussion– it was a pointless argument on who would enter the pavilion at what time preceding the Young King’s coronation.The Young King frowned uneasily at his captain’s tone of voice, and turned to address Jack.
“I assume there is something on your mind, Duke?” he inquired, politely. The Young King was always polite. Almost painfully so– his every move was calculated to sooth, to avoid conflict. It irritated Jack.
“You know, High One,” Jack said, letting sarcasm seep into his tone in an undercurrent. Not enough to detect as anything more than slight impertinence. “You’ll never lead the kingdoms with that attitude.”
The Young King frowned, and placed a hand on Philip’s arm as he made to rise from his chair, face becoming a peculiar mix of purple and yellow. His face appeared to be a giant bruise. “What exactly do you mean by that, Duke Ace?” The Young King’s tone was mild, in check. Jack felt the rising urge to work this man into a frenzy, to make him show some kind of emotion of passion. He quelled it, reminding himself to stick to the plan– and the Young King had just presented him with a formidable opportunity. Shocked higher nobility lined the long oaken table, in rapt attention to the show that unfolded before their eyes.
“You’re oblivious,” Jack exclaimed smoothly. “You think men can be lead through goodwill and well-meaning deeds alone?”
The confused, shocked look on the Young King’s face clearly denoted that he had, in fact, thought this possible. He was handsome, but even at the age of seventeen, traces of baby fat lined his face. He was naive. Good at heart, but his men would play him for an ignorant fool– which is exactly what he was.
“I don’t think you have what it takes to lead this kingdom,” Jack said smoothly, insidiously. “Why do you think Lord General Philip Vandergueef is so keen on getting you the throne?”
“Are you suggesting that I have ulterior motives?” the Lord General blustered, never one for subtlety.
Jack grinned, flashing his sharp smile across the room. Some of the nobility was getting edgy– he was sure that the most of them would rather have Young King Orlan as their High King, for he was easy to manipulate.
“Why, of course I am!” Jack said, now smirking. “And, of course, you do. Tell me, Young King, do you intend to make Philip the official Lord General when you ascend to the throne?”
The Young King frowned slightly, and nodded. Naive, but not stupid. He was starting to see where Jack was going. “Now, do you think if you were defeated, that the next High King could possibly be stupid enough to name the right-hand man of the defeated Young King the Lord General?”
Young King Orlan hesitated, and then shook his head again. “What are you suggesting?” he demanded. Philip had turned completely purple by now. It was really a lovely colour, deep and rich.
“Countess Helene– please take note of the colour of Young Lord General Philip’s face colour. I’ll have to order a pair of robes in that exact shade,” Jack said, cocking his head and smiling. Countess Helene looked startled, and vigorously nodded her head. She looked terrified, poor thing. “Just as soon as I become High King.”
The Young Lord General, who had been gasping intelligibly at Jack’s outrageous comment, wrestled himself into composure, puffing out his chest, and said, “Do you wish to challenge Young King Orlan for the Crown?”
There was a scattering of murmurs among the stupider nobility as they finally put Jack’s facade together, like marbles rolling across the room. “Ah, yes, that was what I meant to say,” Jack said grandly, leaning back and spreading his arms, smiling broadly. “I wish to challenge Young King Orlan for possession of the crown– I would also wish to win, but it would be idiotic to wish for something that is surely yours already.”
There was a temporary silence, and then the room erupted into whispers, yells, protests and excited tones. Someone called out, “He can’t challenge you, the coronation is tonight!”
The Young King’s face had gone calm, now that he understood the situation. He held up a hand, and the room quieted. “As it is decreed, so it must be– I have not yet been crowned High King, and on the last day of my trial, only a duke may challenge me.” Orlan nodded slightly at me. “As you are a duke, no laws have been violated.”
I grinned viciously. “Of course not. What kind of King would I make if I hadn’t bothered to do my research first?”
Very entertaining and interesting to read! Jack is quite charming. You’ve got a great idea for a story there. : ) Maybe try using a few less -ly words, but other than that it was great. Keep up the good work!
If you get a chance, would you critique my post? I appreciate it! : )
Thank you! 🙂 I’ll go through it and edit those into something perhaps a little more eloquent.
I sure will! Warning: I’m not very good at critiquing… plus I’m fourteen, so my knowledge is limited.
And I thought I was young at seventeen! Keep up the work!
Thank you! I’ll keep doing my best for sure
I’m seriously not sure about some of them, but I know I’d rather live a quiet life, be poor and well loved, write in the city rather than the country (my book is set in inner-city Boston!) And DEFINITELY share my writing!
Here’s a piece of my book:
The hospital cafeteria was noisy, deafeningly, like always. And like
always, Dr. Jacob McCarthy found the most secluded, and, if possible,
quiet table there. His lunch in hand, he sat facing the crowd, not
minding watching, but from a considerable distance, enough to where
no friendly chatterboxes would strike up a useless conversation. But
from here, they entertained him, and even distracted him, something,
though he wouldn’t admit it, desperately necessary. Though he tried
to look past it, thoughts from his earlier conversation crept in,
bits and pieces standing out, most prominently the ones he wanted to
avoid. He shook his head suddenly, trying to whisk away the
unpleasantness of it all. There was no way he would willingly go back
there again……
I’m a beginner, but I’m not afraid to share!
Thanks for the fun article!
“In all you do, do to the glory of God”