It wasnt about anything, something about making punch, and then we started fighting and I slipped and he had me down kneeling on my chest and choking me with both hands like he was trying to kill me and all the time I was trying to get the knife out of my pocket to cut him loose. Everybody was too drunk to pull him off me. He was choking me and hammering my head on the floor and I got the knife out and opened it up; and I cut the muscle right across his arm and he let go of me. He couldnt have held on if he wanted to. Then he rolled and hung onto that arm and started to cry and I said:
What the hell you want to choke me for?
Id have killed him. I couldnt swallow for a week. He hurt my throat bad.
Well, I went out of there and there were plenty of them with him and some come out after me and I made a turn and was down by the docks and I met a fellow and he said somebody killed a man up the street. I said Who killed him? and he said I dont know who killed him but hes dead all right, and it was dark and there was water standing in the street and no lights and windows broke and boats all up in the town and trees blown down and everything all blown and I got a skiff and went out and found my boat where I had her inside of Mango Key and she was all right only she was full of water. So I bailed her out and pumped her out and there was a moon but plenty of clouds and still plenty rough and I took it down along; and when it was daylight I was off Eastern Harbor.
Just started reading Hemingway's 'After the storm.' Can't put my finger on why its opening is so good:
Anyone else editing stuff now (or whenever you read this?) I just want to know I'm not suffering alone. I've got three stories I want to edit and get ready to send out to places this month (about 16,000 words) and editing can be such a long and intensive project. Also, what are people's editing process like in general?
Question. When you're plotting (if you plot), do you use spreadsheets or some other kind of organisation software?
I'll tell you why this is great. It's the reason I love all of Hemmingway's stuff. Never in all my life will I love anything in this world like that man loved absinthe. Seeing the story begin with basically "so we were drunk" is the most Hemmingway thing I can think of. But joking aside I think it's a great start because it gets us wondering from "why is he being attacked" to "Why is the guy crying?" Within paragraph one it gets us thinking, and thus engaged, in the story and it basically has the reader at that point.
In spite of this introduction of emotion, Mr. Frazer went on thinking. Usually he avoided thinking all he could, except when he was writing, but now he was thinking about those who were playing and what the little one had said.
Religion is the opium of the people. He believed that, that dyspeptic little joint-keeper. Yes, and music is the opium of the people. Old mount-to-the-head hadnt thought of that. And now economics is the opium of the people; along with patriotism the opium of the people in Italy and Germany. What about sexual intercourse; was that an opium of the people? Of some of the people. Of some of the best of the people. But drink was a sovereign opium of the people, oh, an excellent opium. Although some prefer the radio, another opium of the people, a cheap one he had just been using. Along with these went gambling, an opium of the people if there ever was one, one of the oldest. Ambition was another, an opium of the people, along with a belief in any new form of government. What you wanted was the minimum of government, always less government. Liberty, what we believed in, now the name of a MacFadden publication. We believed in that although they had not found a new name for it yet. But what was the real one? What was the real, the actual, opium of the people? He knew it very well. It was gone just a little way around the corner in that well-lighted part of his mind that was there after two or more drinks in the evening; that he knew was there (it was not really there of course). What was it? He knew very well. What was it? Of course; bread was the opium of the people. Would he remember that and would it make sense in the daylight? Bread is the opium of the people.
I just discovered I can write first person more smoothly and relaxed than third person. I loathed ever writing in first person but I scrapped something together last night and it came out well.
Anyway, who else has like two complete manuscripts who he hasn't published or properly edited?
So I have to write a paper for a World Religion's class that is only 1,500 words (not that much). Only problem is that I'm not sure how. My topic is Islamophobia and the rise of it throughout the election, but our paper is not a research paper, or a history paper, or even a "your thoughts on the subject" paper. I'm trying to wrap my head around what exactly I should do for it. The way the professor explains it is really weird, basically just says what I mentioned. I guess what he's looking for is a sound argument. I'm not entirely sure how to do that. I'm not sure if this is the correct thread to post this in and I apologize ahead of time if it isn't.
Just started reading Hemingway's 'After the storm.' Can't put my finger on why its opening is so good:
Question. When you're plotting (if you plot), do you use spreadsheets or some other kind of organisation software?
Got two I haven't published anywhere (still working on that ._.), but both are edited. Got a third that's only a draft in so no editing has taken place yet.I just discovered I can write first person more smoothly and relaxed than third person. I loathed ever writing in first person but I scrapped something together last night and it came out well.
Anyway, who else has like two complete manuscripts who he hasn't published or properly edited?
I just discovered I can write first person more smoothly and relaxed than third person. I loathed ever writing in first person but I scrapped something together last night and it came out well.
Anyway, who else has like two complete manuscripts who he hasn't published or properly edited?
So I have to write a paper for a World Religion's class that is only 1,500 words (not that much). Only problem is that I'm not sure how. My topic is Islamophobia and the rise of it throughout the election, but our paper is not a research paper, or a history paper, or even a "your thoughts on the subject" paper. I'm trying to wrap my head around what exactly I should do for it. The way the professor explains it is really weird, basically just says what I mentioned. I guess what he's looking for is a sound argument. I'm not entirely sure how to do that. I'm not sure if this is the correct thread to post this in and I apologize ahead of time if it isn't.
I need to start my own wiki lol
A lot of fantasy authors in a private group gush about Aeon Timeline 2 so that might be something worth checking out.
Hmm, in first person should I refer to the reader? Like.. 'you know how these things work " or," let me tell you.. " or stuff like that or should it be avoided?
Hmm, in first person should I refer to the reader? Like.. 'you know how these things work " or," let me tell you.. " or stuff like that or should it be avoided?
Hmm, in first person should I refer to the reader? Like.. 'you know how these things work " or," let me tell you.. " or stuff like that or should it be avoided?
Man, I just don't understand why I'm having so much trouble finishing this novel. The goal was to finish it sometime this year and here it is December and I have not written a single thing since like April. I sit down and try to focus on correcting this issue I had with my plot so I can push the story forward, but I cannot focus on it for more than 3 seconds before my mind drifts off to something else. Even with Nano reminding me to work on this I haven't done shit. This is supposed to be my shortest book with only ten chapters, but I've dragged it out for years now.
Why can't I finish this book?
Sometimes when I have this issue it's because my subconscious recognizes that there's something wrong with what I've plotted out. It's not exciting enough or the characters don't want to do what I want them to do. Have you tried changing things up?
Man, I just don't understand why I'm having so much trouble finishing this novel. The goal was to finish it sometime this year and here it is December and I have not written a single thing since like April. I sit down and try to focus on correcting this issue I had with my plot so I can push the story forward, but I cannot focus on it for more than 3 seconds before my mind drifts off to something else. Even with Nano reminding me to work on this I haven't done shit. This is supposed to be my shortest book with only ten chapters, but I've dragged it out for years now.
Why can't I finish this book?
Man, I just don't understand why I'm having so much trouble finishing this novel. The goal was to finish it sometime this year and here it is December and I have not written a single thing since like April. I sit down and try to focus on correcting this issue I had with my plot so I can push the story forward, but I cannot focus on it for more than 3 seconds before my mind drifts off to something else. Even with Nano reminding me to work on this I haven't done shit. This is supposed to be my shortest book with only ten chapters, but I've dragged it out for years now.
Why can't I finish this book?
You wake an hour or two after sundown, stretch, shower, shave if required by personal physiology, grab your hat and cloak and scabbard and rejoin this mortal world. You slog through the shadows, cursing the carts, the horses, their dirt and their dung, the streets still filled with merchants and messengers, performers and pilgrims. Maybe you’ll have eaten before you left your dwelling, or perhaps you’ll break your day’s fast on some street vendor’s produce, cheap and greasy and stinking of spices. Either way, you push open the great doors of the Watchtower, muscle past the early evening crowd, climb the creaking wooden stairs to the third floor and collapse behind your desk.
Paperwork envelopes you in a wave of yellowing paper and sharp edges – reports, statements, official requests and who-knows-what pieces of crap the Silks demand. You peck away at it, methodically, systematically, knowing that this (boring and tiring and irritatingly complicated as it is) is at least as important as everything else, perhaps even moreso. You drink a steaming mug of Scratch’s Brew, thick and rich, a dark, bitter concoction that invigorates better than any mage’s draught. You chatter idly and trade barbs with anybody else also trapped behind their desks and watch the Slate with one eye as the night wears on.
At some ungodly hour, a messenger from SD will kick you awake, urgency written plain across their face. They will tell you at least these three things: the name of a ward, three numbers and letters, and the time this information was received. You pull on your cloak and rush to the address thus received, where a Hound, maybe two, will in all likelihood be standing over the cooling remains of a life recently departed.
It could be the shattered remnants of an argument briefly won or the long-foregone conclusion to a once-domestic relationship; a bar brawl taken beyond commonly accepted limits or an intricately-planned, cold-blooded killing. It could be a poorly-performed mugging, a slightly-too-vigorous self-defence, or a simple, everyday suicide. It could be many things, with many causes, and in this city of cities it’s your job to find out what’s what. Who did this? How? Intended, accidental, the first few notes of a drawn-out song of slaughter or some poor bastard falling and hitting his head?
The Hounds will keep the crowds at bay, if there is a crowd, but in the meantime, you get down on your hands and knees and do what you must. Poke. Sniff around. Look for irregularities in a place wholly unfamiliar to you. The order of operations is your duty, your responsibility, your burden. What’s important? What’s not? What’s first on your list? You pull on thin gloves of sheepskin and determine your approach.
The firsts-on-scene must be debriefed, their information checked, absorbed, tested. Witnesses must be found and gathered, sent onwards to be questioned; will you wrangle them yourselves, or leave it to the Hounds? Perhaps it’s best you look over the body instead, attempting to discern history and meaning from its mangled, broken form. Or stalk the scene, eyes scanning for blood splatter, patches of fabric, an abandoned weapon - anything that seems even vaguely out of place.
Failing that you can call a forensics crew in, the technomancers, and see what they can conjure up. Or sketch the position of the body, the state of the room, capture it all in paper and ink. Your time is limited, by daylight, by jurisdiction, or simply by the measure of your own endurance. No crime scene lasts forever. Eventually, with copious amounts of soap and water and other things besides, the site of even the bloodiest murder will be fit for human habitation once more. Men and women will eat their food and drink their beer inches from where some poor fool, broken and bleeding, left this earthly realm.
So you take your notes and sketches and scrawlings and leave, add them to the growing mound of papers and scrolls that litter your desk, and look at the Cage. If you’re good – if your Hounds are real barkers – if you’re lucky – you’ll have witnesses. You might have one. Or three. Or five, or twelve, or none at all. They might be human, elven, tribal, or Company; guild-affiliated, wealthy, poor as dirt or drunk as lords. Haughty, tired, scared, belligerent. What they will not be is helpful, not until you can trap them with words, cross-reference their claims, beat them over their heads with a stick forged of fears and facts. Who’s lying? Who’s merely avoiding the truth? Does their crap match the crap you already know for certain? Who’s pissing on you and calling it rain?
Some of them will be bystanders, unlucky fellows with no connection to anything save that they were there, somewhere in the vicinity of a crime most foul. Others might have seen something, heard something. Still others knew the stiff, or knew of them, or had hated them, or had in fact loved them. They might’ve sold something to them, or bought something from them, stole something from them or made something of them. Whatever they were, now they’re witnesses.
And you browbeat, bluff, threaten or ply any information you can out of them; weave it into a web strong enough to stand on its own, to catch others in its strands, to take their words and add it to itself. What’s relevant? What’s true? Slam a hand into a table. Yell a bit. Remind some poor bastard that the majesty of the law holds a truncheon in the other hand. Lock someone up. Get some blood on your hands, perhaps, in days gone by, or rooms not talked about in polite company.
If you do, if you don’t, you might yet need more. There’s always more to do, more to think about, more to examine. Wait for the technomancers to get back to you, show you that he couldn’t possibly have held the knife, that there’s no way in the twelve minor hells that blood’s hers. Revisit the scene, make measurements, conjecture wildly. Call people, name names, listen to rumours, tell tall tales, yell at even more people. And while you’re in the midst of this ethereal process, while you’re busy and rushed and holding four stories in your head at once, you keep one ear open for the next call to come in, the next body to hit the floor. It’s not a fear – it’s an inevitability.
Because it’s your job, damnit, and the truth is that the bodies never stop coming, the work never stops piling up. No city this big can go without, Solstam a victim of its own success. In a robust metropolis teeming with factions, races, policlubs, gangs, incorporated companies and all manner of violently healthy individuals, it makes sense that not all conflicts are resolved peacefully. That bad things occur. Accidents can happen. Murders, too.
On some nights, the Sparks never stop clanging away. The illegal guilds at each another’s throats in Ashtown; some complete lunatic with an axe running down the streets of Wildton Down. Other nights, well, you watch the flies copulating on the windowsill and wish it were actually possible to read by the flickering gleam of the new-fangled, half-useless ley-lights.
It’s not all footslogging and brain work; once every few rotations, your street skills may be required once again. But for the most part, if swords are drawn and bullets flying when you arrive at the scene, you’ve gotten there far too early – but chances are your services will be required later, since you’re here anyway. A good detective is about the wreckage, the carnage, the remains of life exhumed. A heady mix of forensic pathology, non-clinical sociology and a rough dosage of gut instinct will serve you well.
Because you’re the best of the best, gods damn you, and everyone knows it. Because to be recruited to work homicide is proof enough that you are one righteous individual who can do more than wrestle drunks into submission or stand guard by major monuments. You’re not just some thief-taker or guardsman, riot squad or bully-boy. You can read a crime scene like a book, navigate the city’s burgeoning underworld like a fish, take the shortest path from a dead body to an explanation.
And your reward for your skills, for your results, is even more work. In this city, in Solstam proper, your average detective will solve seven murders as a primary, stay on fourteen as a secondary, and leave a good dozen or so mouldering in an archive somewhere – per year. That’s straight-up murders, of course, killings that are beyond-reasonable-doubt known to be the result of one sentient, thinking individual deciding to shorten the life of another. That’s not counting the honour duels the Dwarvar play at, or the sanctioned assassinations that are out of your jurisdiction. That’s not counting the unannounced suicides, suspicious deaths, deadly falls and thousand and one other ways to die in this city. That’s not counting the inevitable results of neglect or carelessness that has tragic but predictable consequences.
That’s not even counting magic.
you could also try pushing forward without connecting things and see where you go.
it's helped me a few times where I am not sure what to do, and when I start writing later stuff I figure out the threads I was missing... but obvious YMMV.
I think the important thing is to build a name for yourself as a competent writer first and foremost, regardless of genre.
I've gotten six rejection letters now... going strong on my sequel, though!
Speaking of rejection: What's a good amount of time before re-sending a story (revised)?
Most of us get stock rejections. Vague and safe, like "I don't think I'm the right agent to represent you with this" without going into specifics. Do they hate the concept, style, or what? You get stuck, wondering if you should even bother to re-send a fully-revised spec because you were never told in detail what was wrong with the original.
Or are you better off not sending anything at all for a second time, regardless how much you re-worked your story? I don't know.
I think you're putting the cart way before the horse here. I mean, there's technically a chance you won't even finish the book, let alone get it published, which as far as I can tell, is about as likely as winning the lottery.My question is this: If I finish the Western novel and I'm able to get it published, will I miss having readers/an audience if I decide to publish in Sci-Fi or another genre in the following novel I'd publish? I would like to write Sci-Fi novels and my enthusiasm for Westerns is not big enough that I could see myself writing more than one Western novel. However, that could change if I were somehow able to spin off the themes into other novel ideas that had more Sci-Fi in them or blended the two.
It's probably not worth sending back. If I had to guess--which I am--I'd say most rejections come from your query letter itself. Yeah, an agent says he/she will closely look at your submission, but closely look might mean the first half of your query letter. There's no definition of "closely look."Speaking of rejection: What's a good amount of time before re-sending a story (revised)?
Most of us get stock rejections. Vague and safe, like "I don't think I'm the right agent to represent you with this" without going into specifics. Do they hate the concept, style, or what? You get stuck, wondering if you should even bother to re-send a fully-revised spec because you were never told in detail what was wrong with the original.
Or are you better off not sending anything at all for a second time, regardless how much you re-worked your story? I don't know.
It's probably not worth sending back. If I had to guess--which I am--I'd say most rejections come from your query letter itself. Yeah, an agent says he/she will closely look at your submission, but closely look might mean the first half of your query letter. There's no definition of "closely look."
I know word count can be a big turnoff. I've had agents straight tell me they were rejecting my first book because it was too long. Didn't even read the samples. I wonder if the same has happened with the second, because while it's much shorter, it's still pretty long for YA (by about 10k words).
Speaking of YA, man agents want that but they don't define what they want. "I'll take anything YA" means genre fiction to lit fiction, and I bet some that have rejected me hit the word "horror" and went no further.
It's hard to know for sure though. If you're really adamant about sending it back, I'd give it a six month buffer.