Literotica Writer's Group, Sep. 4

[KillerMuffin]

Drat. I've been pre-occupied lately. I admit to having gotten about zero writing done lately, up until last night where I suddenly produced 12 pages of magnificent prose and a wild terror that I would have a book on my hands. Again. Thankfully, I think I can end this one and make it a book.

Shall we start over? Let the rest of this week be feedback for previously posted stuff then Mondayish have the rest, whomever shows up, post?

 

[JUDO]

Focus

Sounds good. An extended schedule is needed. I say let's do what we originally intended, but with a longer schedule per KM's suggestion.

Certainly writing is tough enough without the additional distractions we have all been suffering with over the past weeks.

Let's get on with it and start doing what we love most. Our little contributions towards entertainment might actually help.

Best of luck.

- Judo

 

[Mickie]

Sounds good to me!

Mick

 

[KillerMuffin]

You guys are great!

 

[Bluetrain]

hmm; i haven't been pre-occupied, i just haven't been writing. well, that's not entirely true: I have been writing, but on my longer pieces, rather than on the train-picture inspired one.

the problem with teaching is that I put all my creative energy into it and thus feel drained when it comes to writing outside the discipline. still, i do have an idea ready to go for this week.

question: has anybody been reading anybody else's stories on literotica? I've gone back and read mickie's, km's, and a few others'. It helps me get a handle on what they're writing when i critique it.

From-a-confiscated-student-note: "sex iz like pringles, once you pop it you just cant stop it!"

i teach middle school.....

 

[JUDO]

Bumpity-bump!

Okay...okay...

Is this embarassing enough? I'd like to threaten you with "This is the last time that I'm going to blah, blah, blah..." but I know it isn't true, so...why not just post your stuff now and save me the embarassment?

Harass, harass, harrss -


- Judo

 

[Bluetrain]

hmm,

you have such a way with words, Judo. How can I not post, now that I've been harassed into writing. Expect one in the next day or so...

 

[Mickie]

Hi, everyone! I apologize for not getting to this sooner. I do have excuses, but not real good ones. Computer problems have made me have to re-install windows so many times it isn't funny. Finally figured out that SirCam virus had some left over problems that McAfee didn't catch. Funny enough, a free program caught them!

Now I'm trying to get some rules up for the discussion circle, and install a cable modem that doesn't want to work, and so on and so forth ad nauseum.

If it's all right, I'm going to opt out of this for the next two weeks to get all of this straightened out and running on a smooth keel. I hate to do it. This is a great group! But I have to have my brain for a while.

I'll keep looking in, though, and if I see anything I have time to comment on, I will.

Mickie

 

[Guest]

Well, I finally managed to do some reading. I think just about everything I might have said about JUDO's and Mickie's efforts has already been said, so I'll just add a personal note or two.

JUDO

I liked this - a good start to a story which made me want to read more. Minor complaint - the title didn't gell with the actual time the tale was set, but that's being hypercritical! Spazz' tiredness comes over well. I can relate to this, once having spent a weekend effectively swapping two mainframe installations over.
I liked too the way the subway atmosphere is built up - the hiss of air brakes, the clacking of the wheels, the humming of electric traction.
We don't learn much about Spazz or the girl, but enough seeds are sown to enable the characters to be developed later.

Mickie

To take your last question first, I don't think extra characters are needed. The concept of the Karma Train I found initially fascinating and it could so easily lead to other stories, but I think I would find it limiting quite quickly. A personal thing. The way you have started this tale does make me want to read more of it.
None of the characters are described and this matters not one jot. The reader assumes that Chris and Sara are (presumably) young(ish) and sufficiently normal to have found each other attractive enough for marriage.
Tom, however, had been riding the Karma Train for a century. Why him? This aspect could - I think should - be explained.
And why was this occasion different? Surely in a century of train rides, Tom would have come across other couples who died together trying to cling to each other in the afterlife. This bugs me - tell us more.
The paragraph on the aspect of physical form, while interesting, is probably redundant (but I'm not the best critic on THAT aspect!)

I haven't done any critique on SteamyChik's work, as she seems to have left us for good. I wish her well.

I won't be submitting anything this time around - getting to grips with the job business is taking more time than I anticipated. It puts a big hole in the writing time! I expect to be back on an even keel in a week or so, and hope to pick up again.

Alex

 

[Alex De Kok]

I was definitely logged in, so why I came across as 'Unregistered' I have no idea.

Anyway, unregistered above is me!

Alex

 

[Bluetrain]

help!

hey all,

i haven't given up on the circle; i just can't inspire myself to write about the photo. I want to share a story in progress, but its already close to twenty pages long.

what should I do?

 

[Mickie]

Bluetrain -- if you want to share a story in progress, then pick the most illustrative scene you have to share here. Something that defines the storyline, or on that vein. Hope that helps...
Mickie

 

[JUDO]

Yeh!

ADK, Mick, and BT -

Hey, thanks for breathing life into this decaying corpse!

ADK - Yeah, I noticed the 3AM and midnight diff, too, but liked the title too much to change. And frankly midnight is too early to be tired. Hmmm...maybe "After Midnight on the Red Line"? But then that reminds me of that lame cover song that bad bands do. Oh well...still thinking...

BT- Like Mickie said...too bad about the photo, but just share something for now. Like KM has said, we're still trying to figure this thread out. Pick a page and post!

Speaking of, whatever happened to KM and cym's posts???


- Judo

 

[Bluetrain]

okay all,

here's the first page of my in-progress story. Keep in mind that the story is told from the points of view of each of the three characters, with each character having a different style and perspective on events. So this "nameless" character's introspective, flowery style isn't shared by the two characters!

I'm looking for:

-- what phrases or other parts do I NOT need, and
-- what overall mood to you get from th excerpt?

Also the title is NOT "The Dream;" that's just the subtitle of this first part. Every time this character tells the story, its in "The Dream."


The Dream

In the dream the light is everywhere and she is comfortably rocking back and forth. She feels like she’s being pulled and tugged and gently kneaded by ocean waves, like when she used to swim off of Carmel and would float on her back in the soft surf and let the waves do as they wished with her body. The light washes over her and around her and through her in gradations of pastel blues and greens. She sees vague, amorphous shapes that swim in and out of her periphery. What could they be? A logbook; something that looks like a life raft; two connected circles that might be goggles. The shapes, too, are rocking as if caught in an ocean swell. She feels as if she should be frightened, but she isn’t. The motion is comforting, soporific even, and though she has no control over this dream, she really doesn’t want any.

And so she drifts with the dreamswell in the light until the motion fades but doesn’t quite vanish, like a soft orchestral accompaniment to a soloist, and the shifting light steadies to an afternoon glow. She is sitting at a table in a whitewashed room with wooden floors. She holds a bone china cup of tea, and two young people, a man and women in their twenties, are sitting across from her, talking with one another. Their lips move, but their voices are muffled and echo as if a long distance away. She looks around the room, taking a long, long time to turn her head and take in the soft pink curtains slowly rippling in the warm afternoon breeze blowing through the wide open window. The curtains flutter and tremble and she sees the rooftops and a sunflashed skyline of curves, domes, and minarets of a half-familiar city she can’t quite place. The sky is a pale blue, without clouds, and almost whitewashed with the sun.

She takes in the framed sepia-tone photos on the wall – of George in the Duesenberg; of she and George in the plane just before she had taken off for Halifax, and from there to England -- she had been exhausted and nervous, having been up with name and name for close to 24 hours waiting for a break in the weather, and hadn’t really wanted the photo taken in the first place, but George had insisted, of course, for the newspaper and the publicity; of (California field) where she had had her first crash.

She takes in the enormous bed that seems to take up half the room. It’s made from a dark wood – mahogany or maybe teak – that glistens in the cool, filtered, hushed light and contrasts with the smart white crispness of the bedding and the faintly patterned pillows piled up at one end. She remembers that she saw this bed before – in a friend’s of George’s house – and she had wondered what it would be like to sleep in it or even make love to George in it. She can feel the crisp, coolness of the white, fine-thread cotton sheets, how they would refresh her sweaty skin after George rolled off of her, how she would grip their cool folds in her fists and arch her back away from them as she came, how they would fold and ripple like the wrinkles and folds in an Italian painting, and how they would invite her body in and among them. The sheets were like a gentle lover in a way George could never be: soft, thoughtful, caressing, absorbing.

There are clocks everywhere in the room: Small mantle piece clocks with thin, ticking, dark hands on pale faces; larger show clocks in light, elegantly carved stands with gold hands and decorative numbers; large, dark, brooding grandfather clocks in ominous tones of teak and oak, lurking in the room’s otherwise bright, whitewashed corners. She’s somewhat amused and not at all surprised that all the clocks show different times.

 

[Bluetrain]

hello?
is it me you're looking for?
i acn see it in your eyes
i can see it in your smile
etc..

sorry for the cheesy lionel itchie quote..

 

[KillerMuffin]

I'm in the same predicament, only it's with a book. I've been vociferously plotting it and trying to decide if I could handle the backlash from the relatives should it ever be published. But then, I don't actually care about these people, so whatever. I started writing it, finished like four stories in a row, and can't seem to get anything like the picture in on it. Argh!!! They gave me antidepressants and it's seriously fucking with me. Happy and sarcastic, such a cynically joyful combination.

Cym is... dunno.

 

[JUDO]

BT

BT -

Getting to "The Dream." I've just got back in town and too tired to go into it now. Read it twice last Tuesday/Wednesday, but couldn't login...had to leave town, etc.

Get to it soon -
- Judo

 

[JUDO]

BT's Dream

BT -

Hey, sorry it has taken me sooo long to do this, but I've only been in town for four days in the last two weeks.

No excuse, no excuse...here goes.

The Dream

General: I like the wasy this first page flows from the loose imagery of a dream in the first three paragraphs to the more specific descriptions that begin to shape the beginnings of a story in the final two paragrphs.

Comments/Critiques: In the first paragraph, you get a few too many "shes" going on there.

In the dream the light is everywhere and she is comfortably rocking back and forth. She feels like she’s being pulled and tugged and gently kneaded by ocean waves, like when she used to swim off of Carmel...

Also, why start off with an adverbial clause "In the dream..." when we have just read the title "The Dream?" Just start with the imagery and let us feel her dream.

Also, you describe what she sees. "She sees vague, amorphous shapes..." Let us see the shapes. Describe them to us as we see them with her. In that way, it is the reader's experience as well. Describing what she thinks, she feels, she sees insulates the experience from me, the reader. Make it ours.

The descriptions of the man and woman in the second paragraph do not seem as distant for this very reason.

The detail of the final two paragraphs begin to take us, the reader, to another place, but of course, in a page we can't get there. No critique on that. That is simply an issue with our format here. I'd love to see how you pull the dream in and out of the real scenes (if there are any) and contrast their respective styles.

I love the description of the bed and you do seem to really try and find the words you are looking for to describe what your mind's eye sees. Some of the words seem to stick out once in a while. Like the use of "bone china" for the tea cup early on. China cup would have sufficed. The use of Bone seems to distract.

I also had a little trouble with the picture of George and her. I wish you would have introduced George by way of his description, then included that she was next to him, but maybe not revealing that it is her at first. You know, describe his clothes, his manner, his hair, his attitude and the woman with him: clothes, manner, hair, attitude then reveal her identity and go into the other descriptions you include about them.

Also, don't dreams often seque unusually? What was to birds at one moment becomes two lovers in the next? A good device to keep the dream up and running...

Good start, BT, now refine and rewrite.


- Judo

 

[JUDO]

Screw it!

KM -

Just go for it! Get the book rolling and publish. What? Do your relatives already know you're called 'KillerMuffin?' *doubts it*

Just jump up and down when it's published in front of those who already accept you for what you are: StudMuffin and the rest of us pervs. And if I don't get a signed copy, I'm keying your pickup!

And as far as participating...

What do I have to do to you? A whip? A collar and leash? Or is it wet towels in the Girl's Locker Room shower? Gonna mess you up, Muff!

Take a page out of the freekin' book and stick it in here for God's sake!

Yours...in restraint.


- Judo

 

[KillerMuffin]

Okay Judo, darling.

It's working title is Tierney. Why? The clan's last name. Not the real clan, just the fake clan. (I have my doubts that most of the real ones can even read...) Pull up a chair'n setcherself down.

*******

"Them damn kids." He looked over at Ruth just to watch her explode. One of the few pleasures left in this life was watching that woman lose her temper and try to give him hell through her smoker's cough.

The empty chair faced the yard as it had for the last twenty years. The falling rain had made circular patterns of dust on the cheap vinyl surface. Months of neglect and exposure to the elements had faded the cushions.
He settled more deeply into his chair and took another swig of his whiskey.

It was getting easier and easier to forget that the old bat was dead. Just like it was getting easier and easier to forget that he was alive. That terrified him. Scared him more than facing the Japs on Guadalcanal or finding out he was gonna be a daddy. Hell, it scared him almost more than he'd been scared when the old bat had died.

His stomach rumbled and he gave it another shot of whiskey. Cured what ailed ya. When was the last time he'd eaten? He could remember. He couldn't seem to work up the feelings to care.

He lit a cigarette and watched the wind brush over the dry grass. Grass that didn't know it was already dead. He watched the cloud of exhaled smoke dissipate and wondered if that was what he was. Grass that didn't know it was dead.

That damned woman. Contrary, mule-headed old bat. Didn't she know that he was supposed to die first? That it was the way of things? She always had to go on and ruin things for him.
He tossed back the last of his whiskey and threw the bottle over the porch. It clinked against all the other empty bottles. One of these days he'd have to pick those up. The city was always after him to mow his lawn and pick up his trash. A man shouldn't be bothered with those things. It was his property.

Disgusted, he shoved himself to his feet and shuffled inside after another bottle. He sat at the kitchen table and lit a fresh smoke. He took a drag and stared at the phone. Impulsively he picked it up. He'd scattered his kids all over the state, but he didn't much feel like calling any one of them. His grandkids were all just as worthless.

He stuck his cigarette in his mouth and called one of the only two numbers he knew by heart. He wasn't in the mood to call that Liz, she was bad as her mother. Damned woman.

"Hello?"

"Darren. You gettin' on okay? This's Jake."

"Jake."

Jake took a drag on his smoke and poured himself two fingers of whiskey. "Yep. It's me."

"Hi, Jake."

Something about that boy's voice never failed to irritate him. It was like that boy thought he was better than everyone else. He took a swig from the bottle and slapped it on the table. "Get on down here, boy. I'm lookin' to die soon and I wanna see you before I go on t' my reward."

"I can't just drop everything and come down there. I've got work to do. I've got an internship at an architectural firm. I told you about that last time you called."

"I'm dyin' boy. Prolly this week. Can't tell fer sure, the Maker ain't in the mood to tell me. I wanna see you."

"Shit, Jake."

"I kin do that."

"I'll be down this weekend. Friday night's the soonest I can get there."

"You do that boy." Satisfied, Jake hung up the phone and took a drag off his smoke. Now, he just had to live that long.

He took a deep breath and stared at the musty curtains. They'd been white at one time, now they were brown from dirt and neglect. He exhaled a cloud a smoke and scratched his nose. Ruth, that damned old bat, would have a hissy fit if she saw how dirty the trailer had gotten. He laughed, choking on it. That damned woman always doing things backwards. When he got up to Heaven, he was gonna give her a holy what for. He'd give her a piece of his mind on leaving first. She left him behind on purpose.

He stubbed the cigarette out and dialed.

"What is it now, Jake?"

"How'd you know it was me, boy?"

"I have caller ID."

"What?"

"Nevermind, what do you want, Jake?"

"You go on and call Elizabeth if I ain't around when you get here. That damned woman is just like her mother, the old bat."

"You aren't going to die this week."

"Yes I am, boy."

"You said you would last week, three weeks ago, and some time around the Fourth of July. It's just another one of your games, old man."

"Don't talk to me thataway, boy. I'm a dyin' ol' man and I don't need no lip from you."

"Jake-"

"You set back'n listen, boy. If I ain't here, you call Elizabeth."

"I don't have her number."

Jake frowned.

"She's your aunt, she's a busybody who knows ever'body. Why ain't you called her?"

"Because no one in the family knows about me but you'n Richard and I don't have her number."

"He's your pa, boy, and don't you fergit it."

"He's not anything to me, any more than you are."

Jake took a swig of whiskey to dull the anger. That boy had no right to take that tone, to roll that frustration and hurt into one guilt-bringing voice and slap him with it. After all he'd done to make that boy a part of the family. "You just come down here soon as you can get here. I got Elizabeth's number. You call her."

He slammed the phone down before that boy could give him any more lip. The nerve of kids these days. Just because he was some college educated slacker he thought he could get away with giving lip. Jake lit another smoke and picked up the bottle.

"Ruth, that boy ain't nothin' but ungrateful and trouble." He stared at her empty chair and sucked on some whiskey to drown the lump in his throat. Damned woman.

She'd always been contrary from the time he met her up until she passed on. She had been five years old and he had been six. He remembered that day as clear as crystal. It had been warm and sunny. Spring had sprung and everything was green. She'd come waltzing out of Sunday school like the Queen of Sheba dressed in a knee sweeping, white cotton number covered in tiny blue flowers. She'd had on the shiniest pair of black shoes, even he could see the clouds reflected in them. He'd laughed at her when she tripped going down the church steps and she'd stuck her little pink tongue out at him. They'd been sworn enemies since.

It still amazed him, after all these years, that he'd managed to marry the old bat.

 

[JUDO]

Minor stuff

KM -

Okay, okay! I read this excerpt from 'Tierney' days ago, then again, then again, then today.

My first response was that I didn't have one. After all, how do you critique perfection? No, I'm not blowin' sunshine up your skirt, that's how I felt. I've always liked your 'fuck the world I'm trailer trash and proud of it' arena anyhow.

You've got a nice beginning, middle and end to "Jake, the phone call." Miserable, drunk and lonely, the Patriarch (<-overstated) of a distant family makes some intimidating phone calls to rattle his own sabers and try to get some family committment.

But today, reading this again, I became more aware of a couple of little spots where I had to back up and read again to try and get the meaning of the words. So, I thought you would want to know where those were.

Small stuff

By the way, small error (I think) in paragraph 4: "He could remember." I think you want "He couldn't remember."

[1]

You have a Freudian slip in paragraph seven "He'd scattered his kids..." This statement surely wouldn't come from Jake, he's not in a place to admit fault at this point. It might come from the Omniscient author, but...

How about "His kids had scattered all over the state..."?

[2]

Paragraph eight - "He stuck his cigarette in his mouth." After the cigarette machinations of the previous paragraphs, I'm getting too conscious of it. How about not mentioning the cigarette until he speaks. "Darren?" He began, mumbling around the cigarette. "You gettin' on okay? This's Jake."

If you use other ways of referring to the cigarette earilier, you might open up the descriptions of it a little as well. "Spit some tobacco, talked through the filter, stuffed his smokes in his shirtsleeve, etc."

[3]

Paragraph that starts "Something about that boy..." One too many "boys" here. Perhaps lose the second one..."It was like that boy thought..." to "It was as though he thought he was better than..."

[4]

"Shit, Jake." "I kin do that." Is this one of Jake's standard 'ha-ha' jokes?

[5]

"Ruth, that damned old bat..." "That damned woman..." "That damned woman." "Damned woman." Perhaps vary the description of Ruth a bit? Particularly, the two "damneds" in three sentences in the Paragraph starting "He took a deep breath..."

[6]

"He took a deep breath..." I was surprised he could without coughing or something. He does cough with his laugh (which is great), but the possibility of a deep breath seemed too improbable.

[7]

Paragraph that starts "He took a deep breath..." Possibly reverse the last two sentences. "She left me on purpose. When he got up to Heaven..." I thought the 'Heaven' sentence completed the thought better than the one you have now.

[8]

Once in a while, the narrative seems to cross over into Jake's mind.

Paragraph starting "He slammed the phone down..."
The first sentence and the last sentence seem to be action, while the middle two "The nerve of kids..." "Just because he was some..." seem to be the thoughts of Jake. Not sure how you clear this up, but Jake's thoughts surely could have the same contractions, etc. that you give his dialog...

"Jus' 'cause he's some college educated slacker, he thought he could get away with givin' lip."

End O' Critique

That's it...small stuff. Love how this starts and ends. Where are you going? Flashback story? Possibly interrupted by nasty present day occurances with onery family memebers?

I bet someone gets beat up or shot.


- Judo

I see Jack Nicholson as Jake.

 

[KillerMuffin]

Judo.

I love you. That was wonderful! Can I keep you?

Jake is a real person. He loved his family. But he never told them that. He loved his wife beyond reason, but he always acted like he couldn't stand her. Actually, everyone in the book is a real person except for Darren. Trailer-trash carrying on like they're royalty.

Anyway.

This thing broke down somewhere along the lines. I'm not too sure where it did or if it can be fixed. Like Mickie is doing with the story discussion circle, is there some way we can fix this? Would it be easier if the author picked a piece of writing they've already done where it's weak and we discuss it? Not posted stuff, but the stuff we're working on? We do one, then when we're finished we move onto another?

It seems easier than a regular writing exercise and that way people would only have to worry about writing what they've already got written or planned. If ya'll are like me, you'll have miles of stuff already half written.

 

[KillerMuffin]

The book, oh yeah.

Long and short of it.

It's the story of a funeral. Jake's.

There is a main theme, I'm trying to weave it so it's the least obvious, about familial acceptance. Specifically Darren's into a family. He's a bastard from an adulterous affair and everyone likes his father's wife. His mother died a while ago and Jake's the only family he knows.

The sub theme, which is what I'm trying to make on the surface and more obvious, is how the family makes peace with itself. Everyone has specific family roles and some are jealous of the others and there's a lot of fighting.

Jake dies at the end of the first chapter and I think Elizabeth's character will take over in chapter 2. She's the matriarch who doesn't want the job.

 

[Alex De Kok]

Guilty, your honour

KM said

This thing broke down somewhere along the lines. I'm not too sure where it did or if it can be fixed. Like Mickie is doing with the story discussion circle, is there some way we can fix this? Would it be easier if the author picked a piece of writing they've already done where it's weak and we discuss it? Not posted stuff, but the stuff we're working on? We do one, then when we're finished we move onto another?
It seems easier than a regular writing exercise and that way people would only have to worry about writing what they've already got written or planned. If ya'll are like me, you'll have miles of stuff already half written.

I plead guilty to not contributing. I started working again September 24 after completing a degree course. I'm now in a part-time teaching environment which is a completely new field to me and it is taking more of my time than I expected. I haven't written anything for ages, but like the Muffy-gal says, I have a lot of stuff hanging around on my hard drive that could probably do with looking at.

I want to be involved, but I'm not sure how at the moment.

Alex

 

[Alex De Kok]

Bluetrain's 'The Dream'

I finally manged to find some time to read this (again) and say something. Not a lot, as I think Judo just about said it all.
I like the dream imagery. The couple sitting at the table suddenly sharing the room with the bed had me going, but then, it IS a dream. And funny things happen in dreams, don't they.
I can almost feel those cotton sheets against my own skin. That piece of description was really nice.
The only piece of this that I would drop - certainly on a first draft - would be the previous owner of the bed, unless he becomes important - include him then in that case.
Overall, this piece does rather make me want to read more.

Incidentally, I won't be writing anything myself about the second picture KM posted for us. I get nothing from it that inspires me, unfortunately.

Alex