Beginnings can grow out of endings
Apr. 23rd, 2011 07:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bardiphoukaGenre: Fantasy
Word Count 1808
Contest: Brigit's Flame
Prompt Depaysement
There were rare moments, in the predawn breaths of sleep, when he knew where he was. And then breath would follow breath and he would wake slowly, knowing only the constant, that he had no home and the rest did not matter.
In this case he could feel the impersonal comfort of a hotel or hospital bed under his war scarred body. He concentrated on his breathing exercises. He felt no wounds as he flexed various muscles so he assumed that it was a hotel bed. Which meant in a moment he could get look over at the nightstand and find something to tell him what country he was in.
He felt like this was a practice he had been doing forever. He had a vague, vague memory of knowing where he was at once, because he knew nothing but home. He could stretch and feel the green of the trees overhead.
The room was quiet. This morning this was not a good thing, because it let him remember why he always carried this ache of not having a home.
He moved with caution into the edge of the clearing. An odd structure made of green saplings lashed together and of uncured hides stood at one edge of the trees as though asking their shelter. . To the side and back a little was an open fire pit. Although the fire was out, Dermot could tell that it had been used recently, since the last daybreak as a matter of fact. He pulled his knife out and held it loosely in his throwing hand while moving slowly.
There was a rustling in the tree next to him that he felt rather than heard or saw. With a smooth move he threw the knife like a hawk, followed by a thrust of the sword into the crimson foliage. There was the familiar feel of soft intrusion of steel meeting flesh and gristle that let him know before he withdrew the weapon that he had found his target. He pulled the length of the blade back out, blood coating it with a sheen that had already begun to turn dark. Dermot had already turned to see if there were other targets when the sound of tumbling through the branches brought him back around.
On the ground, blood seeping through the leaf gathering that served as a grim cushion, was the slight body of a young girl, perhaps 4 or 5 years old. Dermot’s knife was lodged in her slim throat while her blood-died shift was torn from hip to chest where his sword had penetrated. Dermot started, the venison he had eaten to break his fast rising in his gorge. This aimless killing of infants was something that he would never get used to. The child lay there at his feet. It did not even look like she had time to be startled before her breath was taken from her.
Dermot sighed and looked at the jumbled body of the girl as though waiting for her to rise and chastise him for his actions in the still space that surrounded them. Turning around at last he found himself face to face with an old woman. He felt a moment burst of self anger. Regardless of what was going on, nobody should have been able to get so close to him without his knowing it.
He looked closely at the leathered crone who stood before him, silent but staring. He felt he should make an effort to say something to her, if nothing else than to break her silence. But what would he say? That he was sorry? That it was not his fault that he had been brought to this clearing to bring to a violent end this small life that lay in a too still tumble of limbs before them? Or perhaps, as he tried to regain his inner balance, to just warn her to move? She might be old but these people, like his own, had created over the years more than their share of female warriors.
Although he was no bard, Dermot knew had to speak. But when he went to clear his throat. found out with some apprehension that he could not bring any words out. It was as though his very breath had been placed in a faraway deep lake where words would be brought at the peril of death. He tried to bring his bloodrust sword up but found he could not move his arm. Only his eyes, which a moment ago had been filled with resigned blue sadness, blazed with a blue grey thunder cap of hardness and anger that he had allowed himself to be caught in the Hag’s spell casting.
It seemed as though an eternity was passing to Dermot. The old woman stood, seeming to be wrapped in shadow and saying nothing. She just continued to stand there looking down at the corpse of the small girl child. He found himself wishing the girl would say something. Or at the very least move out of the shadow and raise her head so that he could see her eyes. He had learned long ago that much could be told about an opponent, even a foreigner, by looking into their eyes. Each emotion they told could bring a different strategy. Even though her magic hold him in stillness, Dermot had no doubt that somehow he would find a way to win this encounter. It was not bravado on his part or of a misplaced ego. Dermot simply refused to believe that he could be anything less than victorious. He had learned early on from watching others that allowing even the possibility of defeat was the first step on the road to being defeated.
That moment seemed to last for an eternity as they both stood there as though they were frozen. For an instant Dermot almost thought perhaps they were both under the power of some unseen third party. But then at last there came a moment when the shadows seemed to disappear while she raised her head. For a moment her thick dark tresses obscured her face in the way that shadows had obscured her. But then they slid to either side of her deeply lined face and he found himself pulled as surely as season pulls season. He eyes turned from hazel to a darkness more profound than anything he had every experienced. They reached out and absorbed the very essence of his soul, turned it inside out and examined every flaw and virtue with a shredding intensity. But still she said nothing. Dermot found himself sweating, trembling, and for the first time since his childhood, fearful. At length there was a feel of being returned to himself. It was as though he was being released from some dark inquisition, if not from the spell that continued to leave him bound speech and sword.
The woman seemed to gather the strands of some ancient power to herself before she spoke. “I see you are not by your inner nature a truly cruel man. You are, however, a very, very foolish and quite ignorant one, which can be as dangerous to the innocent. You have brought death to this place for no reason but the idle dreams of some foreign tyrant who does not realize he himself is truly without power.” Dermot was surprised at her voice, which was soft and melodious. It was not what he would have expected from the ancient, withered crone in front of him. His heart gave a lurch in its ordinary rhythm as the woman herself appeared to change appearance before his eyes. Without him having noticed it appeared she was no longer a hag. Instead it seemed she had about her a stern, ageless beauty that he would have ascribed to the warrior goddess Morrigan if he had ever been called upon to describe her.
“Do not get me wrong for a moment. This does not mean I do not think you deserve to die a most horrible death for what you have done” she continued. “If you were a human I can guarantee that you would be face to face with whatever gods you worship before three times three breaths had passed between us And I doubt the Older Folk would really argue with me about it. But I feel they have other plans for you. ”
He felt himself reeling in confusion. Not Human? He knew himself as well as any man. He was Dermot Mac Dubhradh, born and raised along the smooth green plains of home along with 6 other brothers. He had drunk, fought and bed at least as well as any other man. So what did this strange, shape shifting woman mean? He began to fear that he was not only under the control of a woman who was possessed of magic powers but of an insane woman who was possessed of those powers.
She looked at him, through his as though she seemed to be reading his mind. Actually, he reconsidered; she more than likely was reading his mind, or what little he had left of it to his own at the moment. “I know you have no idea what I am talking about.” She continues speaking in her soft whisper of a contralto, and probably more is the pity of that for all of it. But done is done. You have many lessons to learn before you can begin being what you should yourself be. Starting with what the true and important victories in life are. “
“I free you, Dermot Mac Dubhradh, but do not think at all that I have decided to release you. I believe that for you to learn what it is like to be a victor you must first begin by spending some time as those you believe to be the defeated. After a few turns on that cycle perhaps we shall see what you have learned about the reality of victory and of true power. Now leave me to my grief from your actions this day.”
He heard the door open and reached under the pillow. His eyes widened as he realised that there was no weapon there. He turned to the door trying to think.
“Why you decided to wake? I hope you like everything bagels.” She sat the carrier with its bag of bagels and two paper cups of coffee with the universal cardboard sleeves. She crossed over and kissed him lightly on the forehead, her waist length hair cascading over him like soft mist as she did.
He looked up into her eyes and felt a moment of perplexity at what he felt. It was something distant, something grounded. It was more than love. It was the beginning of a way home.
Word Count 1808
Contest: Brigit's Flame
Prompt Depaysement
There were rare moments, in the predawn breaths of sleep, when he knew where he was. And then breath would follow breath and he would wake slowly, knowing only the constant, that he had no home and the rest did not matter.
In this case he could feel the impersonal comfort of a hotel or hospital bed under his war scarred body. He concentrated on his breathing exercises. He felt no wounds as he flexed various muscles so he assumed that it was a hotel bed. Which meant in a moment he could get look over at the nightstand and find something to tell him what country he was in.
He felt like this was a practice he had been doing forever. He had a vague, vague memory of knowing where he was at once, because he knew nothing but home. He could stretch and feel the green of the trees overhead.
The room was quiet. This morning this was not a good thing, because it let him remember why he always carried this ache of not having a home.
He moved with caution into the edge of the clearing. An odd structure made of green saplings lashed together and of uncured hides stood at one edge of the trees as though asking their shelter. . To the side and back a little was an open fire pit. Although the fire was out, Dermot could tell that it had been used recently, since the last daybreak as a matter of fact. He pulled his knife out and held it loosely in his throwing hand while moving slowly.
There was a rustling in the tree next to him that he felt rather than heard or saw. With a smooth move he threw the knife like a hawk, followed by a thrust of the sword into the crimson foliage. There was the familiar feel of soft intrusion of steel meeting flesh and gristle that let him know before he withdrew the weapon that he had found his target. He pulled the length of the blade back out, blood coating it with a sheen that had already begun to turn dark. Dermot had already turned to see if there were other targets when the sound of tumbling through the branches brought him back around.
On the ground, blood seeping through the leaf gathering that served as a grim cushion, was the slight body of a young girl, perhaps 4 or 5 years old. Dermot’s knife was lodged in her slim throat while her blood-died shift was torn from hip to chest where his sword had penetrated. Dermot started, the venison he had eaten to break his fast rising in his gorge. This aimless killing of infants was something that he would never get used to. The child lay there at his feet. It did not even look like she had time to be startled before her breath was taken from her.
Dermot sighed and looked at the jumbled body of the girl as though waiting for her to rise and chastise him for his actions in the still space that surrounded them. Turning around at last he found himself face to face with an old woman. He felt a moment burst of self anger. Regardless of what was going on, nobody should have been able to get so close to him without his knowing it.
He looked closely at the leathered crone who stood before him, silent but staring. He felt he should make an effort to say something to her, if nothing else than to break her silence. But what would he say? That he was sorry? That it was not his fault that he had been brought to this clearing to bring to a violent end this small life that lay in a too still tumble of limbs before them? Or perhaps, as he tried to regain his inner balance, to just warn her to move? She might be old but these people, like his own, had created over the years more than their share of female warriors.
Although he was no bard, Dermot knew had to speak. But when he went to clear his throat. found out with some apprehension that he could not bring any words out. It was as though his very breath had been placed in a faraway deep lake where words would be brought at the peril of death. He tried to bring his bloodrust sword up but found he could not move his arm. Only his eyes, which a moment ago had been filled with resigned blue sadness, blazed with a blue grey thunder cap of hardness and anger that he had allowed himself to be caught in the Hag’s spell casting.
It seemed as though an eternity was passing to Dermot. The old woman stood, seeming to be wrapped in shadow and saying nothing. She just continued to stand there looking down at the corpse of the small girl child. He found himself wishing the girl would say something. Or at the very least move out of the shadow and raise her head so that he could see her eyes. He had learned long ago that much could be told about an opponent, even a foreigner, by looking into their eyes. Each emotion they told could bring a different strategy. Even though her magic hold him in stillness, Dermot had no doubt that somehow he would find a way to win this encounter. It was not bravado on his part or of a misplaced ego. Dermot simply refused to believe that he could be anything less than victorious. He had learned early on from watching others that allowing even the possibility of defeat was the first step on the road to being defeated.
That moment seemed to last for an eternity as they both stood there as though they were frozen. For an instant Dermot almost thought perhaps they were both under the power of some unseen third party. But then at last there came a moment when the shadows seemed to disappear while she raised her head. For a moment her thick dark tresses obscured her face in the way that shadows had obscured her. But then they slid to either side of her deeply lined face and he found himself pulled as surely as season pulls season. He eyes turned from hazel to a darkness more profound than anything he had every experienced. They reached out and absorbed the very essence of his soul, turned it inside out and examined every flaw and virtue with a shredding intensity. But still she said nothing. Dermot found himself sweating, trembling, and for the first time since his childhood, fearful. At length there was a feel of being returned to himself. It was as though he was being released from some dark inquisition, if not from the spell that continued to leave him bound speech and sword.
The woman seemed to gather the strands of some ancient power to herself before she spoke. “I see you are not by your inner nature a truly cruel man. You are, however, a very, very foolish and quite ignorant one, which can be as dangerous to the innocent. You have brought death to this place for no reason but the idle dreams of some foreign tyrant who does not realize he himself is truly without power.” Dermot was surprised at her voice, which was soft and melodious. It was not what he would have expected from the ancient, withered crone in front of him. His heart gave a lurch in its ordinary rhythm as the woman herself appeared to change appearance before his eyes. Without him having noticed it appeared she was no longer a hag. Instead it seemed she had about her a stern, ageless beauty that he would have ascribed to the warrior goddess Morrigan if he had ever been called upon to describe her.
“Do not get me wrong for a moment. This does not mean I do not think you deserve to die a most horrible death for what you have done” she continued. “If you were a human I can guarantee that you would be face to face with whatever gods you worship before three times three breaths had passed between us And I doubt the Older Folk would really argue with me about it. But I feel they have other plans for you. ”
He felt himself reeling in confusion. Not Human? He knew himself as well as any man. He was Dermot Mac Dubhradh, born and raised along the smooth green plains of home along with 6 other brothers. He had drunk, fought and bed at least as well as any other man. So what did this strange, shape shifting woman mean? He began to fear that he was not only under the control of a woman who was possessed of magic powers but of an insane woman who was possessed of those powers.
She looked at him, through his as though she seemed to be reading his mind. Actually, he reconsidered; she more than likely was reading his mind, or what little he had left of it to his own at the moment. “I know you have no idea what I am talking about.” She continues speaking in her soft whisper of a contralto, and probably more is the pity of that for all of it. But done is done. You have many lessons to learn before you can begin being what you should yourself be. Starting with what the true and important victories in life are. “
“I free you, Dermot Mac Dubhradh, but do not think at all that I have decided to release you. I believe that for you to learn what it is like to be a victor you must first begin by spending some time as those you believe to be the defeated. After a few turns on that cycle perhaps we shall see what you have learned about the reality of victory and of true power. Now leave me to my grief from your actions this day.”
He heard the door open and reached under the pillow. His eyes widened as he realised that there was no weapon there. He turned to the door trying to think.
“Why you decided to wake? I hope you like everything bagels.” She sat the carrier with its bag of bagels and two paper cups of coffee with the universal cardboard sleeves. She crossed over and kissed him lightly on the forehead, her waist length hair cascading over him like soft mist as she did.
He looked up into her eyes and felt a moment of perplexity at what he felt. It was something distant, something grounded. It was more than love. It was the beginning of a way home.
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no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 01:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 02:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-24 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 11:19 am (UTC)I usually include concrit in my comments as well, so I think if you were to look at this again you can take care with your pacing (the look shared between the main character and the old woman is very long-winded) and also just neaten up some of your sentences for missing words and other easily fixable typos.
This was a great piece from you, good luck!
no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 11:39 am (UTC)How you revise the scene really depends on the emphasis you want to put on it - it's an important moment in time. My only concern is that, because you use phrases like "it seemed to last an eternity" more than once and the whole thing is more than two paragraphs long, it may be induce a reader to skip ahead to the next bit of action and miss something important - which is major DO NOT WANT!
Looking forward to your future installments! :D
no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 11:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 11:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 11:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 04:28 pm (UTC)I did find the italicised section to be a little stilted (particularly the hag's dialogue); when you're describing things, it's great, but I feel the prose there doesn't quite live up to the beautifully strong beginning.
I, like many other people, would like to know what happened between the hag and the woman with the bagels -- I was very intrigued by this! I hope we get to see this expanded soon. :)
no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 06:15 pm (UTC)EDITOR: Part One
Date: 2011-05-16 01:05 am (UTC)There were rare moments, in the predawn breaths of sleep, when he knew where he was. And then breath would follow breath and he would wake slowly, knowing only the constant, that he had no home and the rest did not matter.
Awesome intro! Not only is it well written with great descriptive detail, but it also provides clues about the narrator AND provokes questions – precisely what a solid intro should do. I think the only part I can get nitpicky about is the comma after “constant”. I feel like it might serve better as a colon or hyphen. The comma doesn’t provide enough pause for the revelation that he has no home. But, that’s just my personal opinion, not a must-do edit.
Which meant in a moment he could get look over at the nightstand and find something to tell him what country he was in.
Hmm… There’s some awkward phrasing in this sentence, namely in the “…he could get look over…” area. I think what happened was you had one phrasing idea in your head and it got muddled with the one that ultimately ended up in the story.
He felt like this was a practice he had been doing forever. He had a vague, vague memory of knowing where he was at once, because he knew nothing but home. He could stretch and feel the green of the trees overhead.
I appreciate the anonymity of the speaker very much. It’s a concept I enjoy quite a bit when reading: a vaguely defined narrator allows the reader to assume whatever identity they want for the character, even their own. The only drawback to this is that it limits the identifying terms, which can then lead to the problem of repetition. That’s kinda what’s happened here. All three of these sentences start with “he” and are of relatively the same length. This makes it read a little flat, especially when compared to the vividness of the paragraphs before it. See if you can tweak this a little so that at least one line has a different structure.
An odd structure made of green saplings lashed together and of uncured hides stood at one edge of the trees as though asking their shelter. .
A couple very small things here (sorry for all the nitpicking, but that’s pretty much all I can provide for you *grins*). First off, there’s some awkward phrasing here, particularly in the “… and of uncured hides…” I get what you were describing, but the way the description is worded I had to read it twice before I was like, “Ooooh… got it.” Second, there seems to be a random extra period. Now, that COULD just be from me copy/pasting this into Word for editing purposes, but in case it’s not I thought I’d point it out.
There was the familiar feel of soft intrusion of steel meeting flesh and gristle that let him know before he withdrew the weapon that he had found his target.
Adore this line. That is all. Actually, it’s not. It’s just as important to know WHY a reader loves something as it is to know why they don’t. What I love about this line is your descriptive ability. It isn’t bogged down with unnecessary words or details, but it provides just enough for the reader to see, feel, and hear what’s going on. It’s a perfect balance.
He pulled the length of the blade back out, blood coating it with a sheen that had already begun to turn dark. Dermot had already turned to see if there were other targets when the sound of tumbling through the branches brought him back around.
Very small detail here: “already” is used in two consecutive sentences, and in very close proximity. This makes it read repetitively, so just be mindful of that for future pieces.
On the ground, blood seeping through the leaf gathering that served as a grim cushion, was the slight body of a young girl, perhaps 4 or 5 years old.
Okay, HERE there’s just a little too much going on. I love the details very much. You have a lovely, fresh way of describing things. But this sentence is too crowded over with it. I’d suggest either simplifying this or breaking it into two sentences.
EDITOR: Part Two
Date: 2011-05-16 01:06 am (UTC)Should this be “momentary burst”?
That it was not his fault that he had been brought to this clearing to bring to a violent end this small life that lay in a too still tumble of limbs before them?
Again, the phrasing here is a little jumbled. I feel like there are too many unnecessary words, that maybe it could be simplified to something like: That it was not his fault he had been brought to this clearing to violently end this small life? The “tumble of limbs” part is too similar to the description used in the paragraph above, so I’d also suggest either changing that or deleting it entirely.
Although he was no bard, Dermot knew had to speak.
Whoops! There’s a missing word in here.
But when he went to clear his throat. found out with some apprehension that he could not bring any words out.
Missing word here as well, and I think you intended that period after “throat” to be a comma.
He tried to bring his bloodrust sword up but found he could not move his arm.
Bloodrust? Is that a story specific word, like dhampir, or is this an error?
Only his eyes, which a moment ago had been filled with resigned blue sadness, blazed with a blue grey thunder cap of hardness and anger that he had allowed himself to be caught in the Hag’s spell casting.
You’re letting the descriptive prettiness get the better of you here. Don’t worry, you’re definitely NOT alone in this regard. I have that same problem, and one of the hardest parts when self editing is trying to part yourself with the pretty. The issue with this sentence is that all of that lovely description actually bogs down the important action – that being that the child murdering dude here just got himself hexed.
She just continued to stand there looking down at the corpse of the small girl child.
Girl and child are fairly synonymous, so it’s unnecessary to say both.
Even though her magic hold him in stillness, Dermot had no doubt that somehow he would find a way to win this encounter.
Slight verb issue here in “magic hold him in stillness”. Should probably be “held”.
That moment seemed to last for an eternity as they both stood there as though they were frozen.
This is pretty much exactly what you said in the paragraph above. Be very careful about repetitive phrasing and word choice.
He eyes turned from hazel to a darkness more profound than anything he had every experienced.
This should probably be “her eyes”, correct?
Dermot found himself sweating, trembling, and for the first time since his childhood, fearful.
Okay, this paragraph is REALLY LONG. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but part of the reason why paragraphing is used is to give the reader a break in the text. It allows them to focus better and keep track of where they are. This like here would be a great place to start a new paragraph. It signals a change in event and subject.
EDITOR: Part Three
Date: 2011-05-16 01:07 am (UTC)Again, a new paragraph should probably be started here. As it appears in the story, the old woman’s dialogue gets completely lost when mixed in with equally long narrative. Keep this rule in mind with pairing narrative and dialogue: keep the character’s dialogue with the character’s narrative, and keep it all separate from another character’s dialogue and narrative. It makes things nice and organized for the reader, makes it so we can keep track of who is doing or saying what better.
His heart gave a lurch in its ordinary rhythm as the woman herself appeared to change appearance before his eyes
A running thing I’ve noticed throughout this entire piece is unneeded wording. It’s nothing major, just a bunch of little words that could be trimmed out to make this read more smoothly. For example, here I’d suggest cutting “in its ordinary rhythm” (it can be assumed by the use of lurch – a sudden, abrupt motion – that his heart rate has broken), “herself”, and “appearance” (again, it can be inferred by the way you’ve been describing things that it’s her appearance that’s changing).
Without him having noticed it appeared she was no longer a hag.
One minor thing and one not-so-minor thing. The minor thing: the use of “appeared” so closely together. I won’t mention it beyond this point, but REALLY watch out for word usage. The not-so-minor thing is the contradiction of information. In the sentence before this, he most DEFINITELY notices she’s changing. He has an actual physical reaction to that change. So… how can she have now changed without him noticing?
“… And I doubt the Older Folk would really argue with me about it. But I feel they have other plans for you. ”
There’s an extra space between the closing quote and the period.
He was Dermot Mac Dubhradh, born and raised along the smooth green plains of home along with 6 other brothers.
Alright, a quick word about numerals in prose. Unless it’s referring to a date or a location, they aren’t really used. Especially for numbers under ten. ALWAYS spell the numbers out.
He had drunk, fought and bed at least as well as any other man.
Should be “bedded” – it becomes a verb rather than a noun when being used as in “to screw around”.
She looked at him, through his as though she seemed to be reading his mind
Missing word here as well.
Actually, he reconsidered; she more than likely was reading his mind, or what little he had left of it to his own at the moment
The semicolon should probably be a comma.
She continues speaking in her soft whisper of a contralto, and probably more is the pity of that for all of it.
Everything after the comma is very unclear, to be honest. It reads like there are two common phrases being mashed together, and neither of them want to play nice with the other.
“…But done is done. You have many lessons to learn before you can begin being what you should yourself be. Starting with what the true and important victories in life are. “
There’s an extra space between the period and the closing quotation marks here.
He turned to the door trying to think.
I think there needs to be a comma after “door” since there are two distinct actions going on.
“Why you decided to wake? I hope you like everything bagels.”
The first part of this quote reads like she’s asking him why he woke up. To make this more of a “why, never” statement, you need to add a comma after “why” – kinda like I did in the example.
She sat the carrier with its bag of bagels and two paper cups of coffee with the universal cardboard sleeves.
She sat it on … what? This is an incomplete statement. Be careful of that.
EDITOR: Part Four
Date: 2011-05-16 01:07 am (UTC)You have a very lovely, very descriptive style. I really like the juxtaposition of the old world/magical elements with the new world/normal ones. You adapted your style to suit both of them perfectly while still managing to make it cohesive from start to finish. The questions that the opening provoked got some clarification, but by the end there were more questions needing answers – which is FANTASTIC for maintaining reader interest! Nice work with that. Your transitions between sentences and paragraphs was solid as well.
There were a lot of little errors throughout this, I won’t lie to you about that. Lots of missed words, small punctuation errors – the majority of which a spell check SHOULD have caught. At least they triggered on mine. There were also some structural issues as well, namely with knowing when to start a new paragraph. Sometimes as well, it felt like the description kinda overran the functional elements of the story. You are NOT the first writer this has happened to, and you certainly won’t be the last. Just try and harness it a little for future pieces.
Overall though, like I said, I really enjoyed reading this. Great job, bardi!
Re: EDITOR: Part Four
Date: 2011-05-16 11:14 am (UTC)And I am aware of the over ornateness for lack of a better phrase. In my (weak) defense the only prose I have been writing for the last few years has been for NaNoWrimo..in which that sort of writing is encouraged. And yes,..there are a LOT of minor issues.
btw..bloodrust. I was reading the Elder Edda that week and it just seemed to be the sort of word that the protaganist would use.
Re: EDITOR: Part Four
Date: 2011-05-16 04:45 pm (UTC)I don't think the overly ornate phrases are necessarily BAD. It's part of what makes you descriptive elements so vivid. What IS bogging it a bit are the unnecessary words -- which, now that you mentioned the NaNo aspect, makes perfect sense. I think one of the hardest things for me with NaNo was trying not to write words but trying to write words that matter. It's very hard, especially with that "ZOMG WORD COUNT!!!" drive.
RE: bloodrust. Ah, okay. That makes sense. *nods* Carry on!
Re: EDITOR: Part Four
Date: 2011-05-16 05:53 pm (UTC)Generally when I edit my NaNo work I end up with 10-15k. But then like most people I can be my harshest critic. That and as a poet I tend to be a bit skeletal.
Re: EDITOR: Part Four
Date: 2011-05-16 11:16 am (UTC)Re: EDITOR: Part Four
Date: 2011-05-16 04:39 pm (UTC)