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Excelsior!

Sister site: [Fan-fiction]

File: 8b55b33edefdc85⋯.jpg (283.3 KB,595x585,119:117,1570557667282.jpg)

 No.16531

What do you think about this opening paragraph?

The night sky loomed oppressively over the city, blanketing it in darkness. Each star an eye watching all beneath it. There was no moon tonight, it was too scared to show its face to the cold and merciless night. Few lights not destroyed shoned damply letting small parts of the city be colored a mute yellow. Electricity was too costly for it to be shined any brighter. The air was not but dust and iron filling the lungs of the weak and sickly. The man wore a grey nylon poncho with a heavy air filter. His face covered by his hood. He took soft even steps walking through the city. His presence was left for brief fleeting moments throughout each street he crossed. He moved from building to building and street to street. Each street flowing to the next endlessly and each dark grey building no different from the last. After 16 blocks of walking he felt close to his prey. Only given a brief description and a name this was enough for the man to find his target. He was getting warmer and warmer with each step, creeping closer to the inevitable. Gunshots sing in the distance, the first movement of the night’s orchestra. Stopping briefly at a crossroads the man sees a pack of children half-naked carrying shanks, chains, and pipes. The man was staring at what would likely be the last generation of humans on this planet. They stared back meeting his cold sharp gaze with an equally cold sharp gaze. Orphan's all of them grew up on the streets. They knew not how to read or write, they couldn’t do math in their head or on paper, and they couldn’t tell you the history or future of the world. The language of violence is all the streets taught them and the language of violence is a zero sum game. You either take what you want and kill your enemies or you get taken from and die. The boys started to take steps closer to the man. He flashed his piece on his waist a hunk of cold iron and hot lead. The six shooter, a rare luxury that few possessed, caught the boys eyes and they scurried off into the alleys to look for weaker bodies. The man continued on slowly and methodically to his mark.

____________________________
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 No.16537

>>16531

My glance at only the first two sentences invokes my inner critic to pound out some commentary. However, I want to finish the whole before commenting and I don't have the time to do so properly just now. Hang tight. You are not being ignored.

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 No.16544

Cringed at the first sentence, and didn't get past the second sentence purely because the first sentence was just plain bad. In a word, too many words. You could get away with being wordy if you could come off as poetic, but given the tone you're trying to set that's ptobably not an option. Consider something more like "Darkness smothered the city."

Okay, moving on from that. Yeah, the rest of it suffers from the same problem as the opener. Lots of unnecessary words. You don't need three different ways of saying that the night was dark, or that the air was dirty. You could capture all the essentials of the paragraph in far fewer sentences and come off a lot less tedious for it. Also, try using more interesting ways of portraying the state of the world other than just outright listing them like a textbook. You're making art; get creative with it.

>A watchful darkness smothered the city. The moon, the stars, and the city lights all waned dim as they tried not to see the man, but the dark night eagerly pressed in to watch his every move. His cheap Filtrex mask rattled as he all but swam through the thick smog, and he walked a little faster as shadows began to look like unwanted attention. But if anyone heard his mask rattling as he flitted from empty street to empty street, they didn't seem to care. The sound of gunshots informed the man that he was approaching the company of his fellow creatures, tonight's target hopefully among them. A shirtless boy leered and waved a broken bottle at the man as he passed near what was doubtless the kid's "turf," but the boy wisely chose not to start any trouble when he eyed the steel weighing down the man's hip. Thatt steel had taken lives before. Tonight, very soon, it would take lives again.

I don't know if that's giving you any ideas of what you could do with this, but you definitely need to do something different with it.

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 No.16547

>>16531

>>16537

I've just had the busiest week of all this year. Lot of things came rolling in at once. On a positive note, I may have a new gig to attend to. If this comes through I'll be comfortably ensconced in genera trash and beer for the foreseeable future. Anyway …

>>16544

As per this poster, I am in agreement. There are issues. Lemmie see if I can be usefully specific.

>The night sky loomed oppressively over the city, blanketing it in darkness. Each star an eye watching all beneath it.

Mixed metaphor between a blanket of dark and lighted stars. You are trying to paint the idea of oppressive gloom, but are not quite communicating the image. A modern city, even a poorly lit one, typically has such a profusion of light pollution that stars are made almost completely invisible to one standing in such.

>The air was not but dust and iron filling the lungs of the weak and sickly. The man wore a grey nylon poncho with a heavy air filter.

I would drop "not". Such attempts at faux poetic effects will only confuse a general reader.

In effect you are treating the city as a character, and here you introduce a new character with a change of focus. Start "The man wore" as a new paragraph. Also,

>His presence was left for brief fleeting moments throughout each street he crossed.

The nature of all that dust suggests what you mean here is he leaves foot prints on the streets. Unless you are hinting at something supernatural this should be plainly stated, not suggested.

>He took soft even steps walking through the city. His presence was left for brief fleeting moments throughout each street he crossed. He moved from building to building and street to street. Each street flowing to the next endlessly and each dark grey building no different from the last.

The idea I get here is he is furtively scurrying spot to spot ("building to building"). Flowing is an interesting adverb choice and may be attempting to suggest his movement is continuous, not scurrying. Also, modern cities are angular and grid-like at the street level. A flowing path implies something vastly strange about the city's construction, if that is the case here, and requires better description. What you might be trying to capture is the fuzzy and indistinct nature the poor lighting at street level lends to the city's appearance.

>Orphan's all of them grew up

Grown up or growing up.

>they couldn’t do math

I would suggest "do arithmetic" instead, but it's debatable. The POV here does not appear to be that of an omniscient narrator. Written the way it is implies we are hearing what the man sees and how he is interpreting the kids as a stream of consciousness. If so, the man's choice of "math" and the technical phrase "zero sum game" are highly suggestive of his own nature and may be perfectly correct as such.

>You either take what you want and kill your enemies or you get taken from and die.

If the above is true, you are demonstrating an unwillingness to commit to proper characterization by hedging your bets. With this sentence you insert yourself here as an omniscient narrator to clarify the meaning of "zero sum game" for the reader.

Pay closer attention to what POV you are writing in and stick to it. Following this rule will force such errors in bad form to mostly resolve themselves.

If you still need to clarify something for the reader, you throw it in a little later among some dialog, or with more subtle description, or characterization, etc. Not outright, not right after.

>waist a hunk of cold iron and hot lead.

Mixed metaphor again. I would write this as "waist: a hunk of cold iron to throw hot lead." Also note the colon.

Criticism bottom line. Your descriptions are a little weak and way too mixed. This appears to be your biggest issue.

Positive feedback. It was otherwise readable and I could certainly read more. Keep up with it. Keep at it.

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 No.16551

>>16531

How are there stars if it's a shithole probably wrapped in smog or dust?

Besides that, you're not really setting a tone or style. Weak setup. This shit ain't music to read. I bet you looked like your pic when writing this shit. Do you smell like fish and vinegar? How are you supposed to write this if you don't smell like dust and iron, rust and dying? Sniff pennies for a day. Don't drink water, don't eat any food for a day because you're wandering the wastelands. If you drink anything it should be alcohol (stomach pump time).

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 No.16552

>>16531

Hey let's all do OP's intro; this is my sanctimonious version:

The night trickled into the sickly haze of the city. No star cast its sanctimonious rays down to be seen. The pale vagabond moon had turned its face. Few muted yellow electric-fed lights suffered the night. Electricity was too steeply priced. The air was not but dust and iron shaving the lungs of the sickly weak. There is a man there who wears grey. His face is covered, by hood and heavy air-filtrate. With soft steps he passes down these streets. His presence leaves no stirring and no trace to speak. Moving from building to building in winding ways, flowing endlessly to each, no difference from next to last, stalking through the crisscross paths: his long sought mark felt close at hand.

Only given a brief description and name, this was enough for the man. He was getting warmer and warmer with each step, creeping closer and closer. Gunshots sound off in the distance, canon of the operatic night. Stopping briefly now, at a crossroads the man sees half-naked children carrying shanks, pipes, and chains, staring at what's likely to be the last generation of human being. They met his cold sharp gaze with one of their own; orphans growing through the many cracks of this concrete hellhole.

They knew not how to read or write, could not count within their heads, without history and no future to tell. They spoke the language of violence, and they played no games. Live or die were always the stakes.

Those boys started in towards the man – he flashed the piece on his waist: a hunk of cold iron armed with hot lead – the six shooter, a rare luxury that few possessed.

This caught the boys' eyes and they scurried off into dark alleys for weaker prey. The man continued on slowly and methodically to his fate.

finito

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 No.16553

File: 02789ea6ece1ed1⋯.png (1.64 MB,904x474,452:237,Heh. Heh. Heh.png)

Critique thread? Nah.

WE MUST CRUSH KILL DESTROY!

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 No.16554

>>16531

Hey let's all do OP's intro; this is my version:

The night trickled into the sickly haze of the city. No star cast its sanctimonious rays down to gaze. The pale vagabond moon had turned its face. Few muted yellow electric-fed lights suffered the night. Electricity was too steeply priced. The air was not but dust and iron shaving the lungs of the sickly and dying. There is a man there who wears grey. His face is covered, by hood and heavy air-filtrate. With soft steps he passes down these streets. His presence leaves no stirring and no trace to speak. Moving from building to building in winding ways, flowing endlessly to each, no difference from next to last, he stalked through the crisscross paths feeling his mark close at hand. Only given a brief description and name, this was enough for the man.

He was getting warmer and warmer with each step, creeping closer and closer. Gunshots sound off in the distance, canon of the operatic night. Stopping briefly now, at a crossroads he sees half-naked children carrying shanks, pipes, and chains. He stared at what's likely to be the last generation of human being. They met his cold sharp gaze with one of their own; orphans growing through the many cracks of this concrete hellhole.

They knew not how to read or write, could not count within their heads, without history and no future to tell. They spoke violence, played no games; life was always at stake, death was always the stakes.

Those boys started in towards the man – he flashed the piece on his waist: a hunk of cold iron armed with hot lead – the six shooter, a rare luxury that few could take.

This caught the boys' eyes and they scurried off into the dark alleys for weaker prey. The man continued on slowly and methodically to his fate.

finito

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 No.16555

>>16552

>>16554

Bulwer Lytton tier post my friend.

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 No.16556

My Edits to my own shit

Two star == definitely better

One star == probably better:

**The air was not but dust and iron cutting the breath of the sick and dying.

**No difference from next to last, he stalked through the crisscross paths feeling his mark close at hand.

*He was getting warmer and warmer with each step, creeping closer and closer with death.

**He stared at what's likely to be the last generation of human life.

**Without a story and none to tell. (no history and no future line)

**They spoke violence, played no games; life was always at stake, and death was always the stakes.

*– the six shooter, a rare luxury that few possessed. (original possibly better)

**This caught the boys' eyes and they scurried off into the dark alleyways.

finito.

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 No.16557

>>16556

*"He stared at what's likely to be the last generation of human life" is a big maybe actually.

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 No.16558

I've perfected it OP. Sorry for double post, internet fucked up.

BO PLEASE DELETE FIRST OF DOUBLE POST ABOVE

The night trickled into the sickly haze of the city. No star cast its sanctimonious rays down to gaze. The pale vagabond moon had turned its face. Few muted yellow electric-fed lights suffered the night. Electricity was too steeply priced. The air was not but dust and iron cutting the breath of the sick and dying life. There is a man there who wears grey. His face is covered, by hood and heavy air-filtrate. With soft steps he passes down these streets. His presence leaves no stirring and no trace to speak. Moving from building to building in winding ways, flowing endlessly to each. No difference from next to last, he stalks through the crisscross paths feeling his mark close at hand. Only given a brief description and name, this was enough for the man.

He was getting warmer and warmer with each step, creeping closer and closer. Gunshots sound off in the distance, canon of the operatic night. Stopping briefly now, at a crossroads he sees half-naked children carrying shanks, pipes, and chains. He stared at what's likely to be the last generation of humankind. They met his cold sharp gaze with one of their own; orphans growing from the many cracks of this concrete hellhole.

They knew not how to read or write, could not count within their heads. Were without history and had no stories to tell. Thus spake Death: play no games; life was always at stake; violence is the pace.

Those boys started in towards the man – he flashed the piece on his waist: a hunk of cold iron armed with hot lead – the six shooter, a rare luxury that few could take.

This caught the boys' eyes and they scurried off into the dark alleyways for weaker prey. The man continued on slowly and methodically to his fate.

finito part tres

Please track my IP down if you wish to use it in your novel, I reserve full rights.

>>16555

You will like this one most of all. Wish I could delete posts.

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 No.16561

>>16558

paragraph 2, "He stared at (…) last generation of humankind" → changed to ". . . .last generation of human breed."

paragraph 3, "Were without history (…) no stories to tell." → changed to "Were without history, and without stories in its stead."

paragraph 3, "Thus spake Death: (…) violence is the pace." → changed to "Thus spake Death: play no games; life is at stake; violence is the pace; be quick or be dead."

paragraph 5, "This caught the (…) alleyways for weaker prey." → removed ". . . .for weaker prey."

paragraph 5, "The man continued on slowly. . . ." → changed to, "The man continued onward slowly. . . ."

>>16560

Are you going to create your own version?

>>16531

Are you alive OP?

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 No.16563

Two things every writer should know to improve their work.

1: The road to hell is paved in adverbs. If you have to add an -ly word to the description, you haven't described it well. We should already assume that word in your description.

2. Never tell the reader something if you can show it. Instead of telling us what the city looks like, how about start off by simply explaining the man walking through it and we see what he sees. Simple is better.

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 No.16567

>>16552

>>16554

>>16558

This is just what OP wrote but choppier and more annoying to read.

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 No.16571

>>16567

I literally tried changing it line for line and adding meter/rhyme after I read someone criticize OP's faux poetic line "the air was not but dust and iron. . . ."

So how would you yourself do OP's intro different or better?

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 No.16574

>>16567

I changed it up to address your criticism

https://pastebin.com/kF1ggB77

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 No.16577

File: 1d0f45366f749c7⋯.jpg (31.82 KB,540x540,1:1,tumblr_psdhuqXARS1rgh9tk_5….jpg)

>>16574

i like it - (op)

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 No.16579

>>16574

All right this one really is an improvement. It feels like you successfully set a "poetic" tone and therefore justified the wordiness. It's grim in an old-fashioned, gothic-slash-wierd-tales sort of way and suggests that the story is going to feel almost mythological, which is unusual for stories in this sort of setting and makes it feel more interesting. Good shit.

>>16571

>So how would you yourself do OP's intro different or better?

My own suggestions and meagre efforts are in >>16544

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 No.16580

>>16579

i wrote it after reading conspiracy against the human race

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 No.16581

>>16544

>>16579

I'm going to try and redo your version too.

https://pastebin.com/M65z3GVn

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 No.16582

>>16579

https://pastebin.com/zhga8ruF

And another version. Thanks for review. I wanted to do a poetic version because I think Lain wants some poetic stuff in their writing that turns depressingly, gravely, deathly ill grey and monotonous compounding reasoning in emptiness to grind away at the bones of the reader. I went with a mythological feel as you call it (don't know what I'd call it in this moment) to propel the reader forward into a fucked up book that inspires cognitive dissonance and mystical perceptions to survive and adapt to its depressing gravitas.

It's the people of a world attempting to escape the planet's crushing gravity, and one man does so with mercenary violence, shades of grey dusk and twilight conscience, a cloaking thick darkness that shields him from penetrating eyes and vaporous mystical states of mind, interspersed with crushing detail, visceratude and cognition of consequences that could have been avoided – hopefully.

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 No.16583

Should writefags post new threads for feedback as opposed to posting in the Writefag Thread? There's larger works in there that get less feedback relative to the effort involved in the provided exerpts.

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 No.16585

>>16582

>>16577

I think after a climactic assassination/head hunt in the poetic mythic prose, the voice or tone of the book should turn monotonous and droning, like a buzz that turns a person numb, by the use of grinding, splitting details and omissions of color. It would be good timing for the shift. Monologues or internal dialogues that remind one of the end of eva would be good. Just on repeat and repeat with the smallest changes each time. One at least would be good.

>>16544

Your writing seems more brown than grey, by the way. Wild west.

>>16583

Larger works should get their own thread, yeah.

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 No.16587

File: 8b55b33edefdc85⋯.jpg (283.3 KB,595x585,119:117,1570557667282.jpg)

I've like the changes people made, something that bothered me with what I wrote was the clumsiness of some of the sentences.

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 No.16594

>>16587

Post your rewrite and part 2 of your intro.

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 No.16596

>>16594

busy the next two weeks so don't hold your breath about it

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 No.16605

>>16531

Not bad, but a bit wordy and you kind of made up a word or two (shoned?)

Here's my version:

The city was dark and dusty. A killer dressed in grey crept through its streets, stalking his target. A gunshot cracked in the distance and his focus narrowed on the task ahead. His heart beat louder and louder in his head with each step forward, edging closer to the climactic release of his trigger that pulsed in his right hand. Wretched, primitive street children scrambled across his path with their scrap metal toys clanging in the cold night, their faces black from the city air. The gang of half-naked youths took a few steps closer to the man with an inkling of an idea to beat him over the head and rifle through his pockets, but the six-shooter glinted in the yellow streetlight and the marauders scattered.

Gief feedback pls

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 No.16621

>>16605

"A gunshot cracked. . . .his focus narrowed" I'm not sure what focus narrowing looks like to you. Show what you mean instead. It's also strange that he is holding his gun out; says a lot about the character's impulsiveness or narrow focus, or how dangerous and criminal the place is. You should demonstrate or hint more; the character of the person more, or imbue into the narrative a narrow focus and adrenaline as if the mental state of the character is infecting it. There's no consistent "voice", if I'm using that concept correctly.

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