Literotica Writer's Group, Sep. 4

[JUDO]

Book

KM -

Like I said, love the arena.

Have you ever seen the Larry Kasdan movie "The Big Chill?" It's a story around a bunch of friends who went to college together become re-aquainted at the funeral of a friend.

It's probably more commercial and upbeat than perhaps "Tierney" will be, but I think it has a good balance of exploring the quirks of the characters and the characters' situation.

The situation of very dramatic, but the quirks of the various characters, their likes and dislikes come out in the course of events as well. Kasdan used the quirks and behavior to help ease tension with humor.

It also helps some of the characters realize their own character flaws and resolve some of the infighting.

I'm suggesting it as research material in a general sense for "Tierney's" dramatic structure, you know, help with the "sturm und drang", "yin and yang", etc.

Best of luck with it. Sounds cool.


- Judo

PS - And hey, after the job you did on reviewing my stuff over on the other thread, you thought I could just do a light job here? Yeah, and never here the end of it!

 

[JUDO]

Oh yeah!

By the way, KM, I thought your idea of reviewing stuff in progress (by the way, in whatever form--some of mine isn't written, but only outlined so far) was a good idea.

Also, did I mention that...

YOU ROCK!

- Judo

 

[Bluetrain]

hey all,

its been a while since I posted; apologies. teaching and a six month old can do that to you. plus, since the baseball playoffs started (and dramatically adn unforntunately ended), i haven't had much night time to post. but here's a try.

i'll start with old news.

thanks, judo, for your critique. kudos on several of your points, including the whole showing, not telling aspect in regards to the shapes "she" sees drifting about in her dream.

which brings me to the next point. "She" is nameless througout the story, although her identity will be revealed in the final scene. Also, I can't have George there for reasons that will also become obvious once the final scene plays out.

The writing becomes more concrete once the point-of-view changes.

alex: thanks for your advice on dropping the previous owner; thats something i'll certainly consider when revising and refining.


Now, on to KM's story.

Jake reminds me of the old man in Stone's JFK -- the one who's helping train Oswald and Shaw, etc: wrinkled, grizzled, jowled, yellow stained fingers and mouth, thinning, greasy hair, sunken eyes. he's such a bitter and lonely man adn I'm curious why he truly wants Darren to come 'round. Can he admit distant affection? Or does he simply want attention.

I don't know - something about your last paragraph makes me think he feels a lot more for his Ruth than he lets on. The description in the paragraph is so nostalgic and rose-tinted; what does Jake really feel about this dead woman? Is he simply frightened of being alone and angry at her, unreasonably, for leaving him in a solitary circumstance?

Maybe Ruth, could she write, would be like the protagonist of Rita Dove's poem "Daystar."

I love the symbolism of the faded cushions. To me, they represent Jake himself - worn out and settling deeper into their own selves.

Some questions:

"Hell, it scared him almost more than he'd been scared when the old bat had died."

How can you give this abstract "thoughtshot" some concrete images? How can you either directly portray or hint at what he did, said, acted? I think it wold add some punch to a powerfully rhetorical statement.


"He took a drag and stared at the phone. Impulsively he picked it up."

Again, how could you expand this, especially the first sentence? Could youpersonify the phone? Or would Jake's world allow for personification?



Also, you have two long segments of dialogue. How can you flesh these out with "snapshots" and "thoughtshots" of what Jake is doing -- his expressions, mannerisms, actions; as well as his thoughts -- perhaps even descriptions of Darren's tone of voice or pauses?

I wonder what will happen when they meet? And I wonder what Jake really wants with what life he thinks he has left.


Good writing, KM.

 

[Bluetrain]

Dream, cont'd

Hey all,

I've posted the second and a half pages of my story in progress. I'm looking for feedback a la what Judo did to my first page: word and sentence flow as well as any jarring stylistic miscues.

Thanks all!

And might I second the



YOU ROCK!
accolades given to KM?!


Dream, cont'd


She sips from her cup and tastes saltwater. She accepts this without surprise, just as she accepts that the room she is in is an impossibility. The pictures on the walls drawn from many houses of her lives, the skyline outside, the furniture around, some from her house in New York, some from her father’s house, some from George’s first wife’s house, the clocks, all coexisting in anachronistic harmony. Things are coming together in spirals here, she thinks, like they do in dreams she has where her times mingle and cross and dissolve like leaf-fall patterns, zephyrs, ocean currents.

She’s drawn back to the young couple at the table with her. The girl is thin, dark-eyed, and sharp looking. She has her blond hair in a heat-escaping ponytail and wears a light-colored cotton shirt and pants. She has a strange pattern of freckles across her nose that reminds her of waves breaking against a shore. Her arms are pale and lightly haired and she holds her teacup with both hands. Several thin gold bracelets hang loosely from her wrist. She wears no rings. She is pretty in a summer romance fashion, and carries herself well; her small breasts are almost lost in the cotton folds of her blouse, but the dimples show the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

The young man is dark-haired, thin, a tanned, leathery face, loose fitting clothing. He smiles too much and waves his hands when he talks. His lips are full and sensual, Sir Richard Francis Burton lips that both complete and distract from his face. They’re lips she could kiss for hours, that would envelope her breath; they’re lips that George never had. His were pursed, intent, focused. When she kissed him, it could be like kissing a statue; oh, his body was warm and willing, but his lips, like his eyes, seemed always distracted by what lay ahead, by the exigencies of the next morning. The young man’s obviously smitten by the girl next to him: he laughs at what she says and touches her arm often to punctuate his conversation. She remembered how she used to be like that with George before all the publicity started, before the constant lecture circuits and performances and barnstorming. Before the wild, frantic race to fly around the world. Before George changed from a lover and a husband to a promoter and a check writer.

Now both the young man and the woman are laughing at something and she can all of a sudden feel their laughter. It rolls through her and she’s caught up in their spontaneous joy, their affection for each other. The young man touches the girl’s arm and she can feel his touch on her own; she can feel the girl’s hand on her forehead as she self-consciously brushes her thin blond hair back; she can feel the slight hesitation in the girl, the slight distancing she shows towards the young man, just as she can also feel his too-eager affection for the girl, his racing blood and thoughts, his passion that starts stirring within her own loins, just as it’s growing in his.

Soft, pink curtains ripple and flutter and tremble in the dry breeze, and she feels as young and as excited as she did when George first came into her hotel room in New York long ago. But doubt clouds her, and she knows she shares the girl’s feelings more than the man's. And in the dream she thinks of


Louise, the only other woman pilot with her in Carmel. Short, thin, angry Louise who fought with her men and with her mechanics and with her until they submitted to her in the end. Who fought her planes until they, almost, submitted to her control. Who briefly held the women’s altitude record, but refused to acknowledge it, saying that flying itself was an entity that did not care about gender and records. “I don’t know how high I flew,” Louise had said after she had landed and was sitting in the dim, cool hanger, surrounded by the other pilots and mechanics, with her jump suit still on, goggles dangling around her neck, cigarette hanging from her lip, “because I took the altimeter out before I went up.”

Who never really understood that flying was like getting to know a nervous lover, one who had to be teased and cajoled and catered to before accepting you. And so she really wasn’t surprised when Louise’s small yellow Curtiss stalled over the airfield, and fluttered down like a weighted fall leaf to crumple in smoke and dust in the green vineyard. They had all raced to rescue her, but she knew even as she was running that it was pointless, and when they found Louise’s body, she couldn’t tell through her tears what was blood and what was grape juice.

But, before that, Louise had controlled her, too, and she had wanted to be controlled. Why? Because it was easy. Easier than fighting the planes; easier than fighting the men and the promoters who seemed to demand so much more of her than they did of their fellows. Easier than risking her life each day to pay off her father’s bills. And so when Louise had appeared in the hangar with a couple of bottles of dark, red wine, she had joined her in finishing them, and then had let Louise take her hand and lead her to the small office in the back of the hangar and had watched, feeling light and airy and excited and not a little drunk, while Louise first removed her own slacks and shirt and thin panties, then peeled off her flight suit and t-shirt and shoes and socks and panties, too, and had sat her down on the heavy, wooden desk and had kissed her full on the mouth.