writers
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1. It's lengthy
2. It's drawn out
3. It's just describing the action as it happens.
4. I can look into it as far as I can and still only see 'events'.
It's creative, but if you look into it, it means nothhing. Look at Ray Bradbury-he's scifi, yet with tons of cultural meaning.
2. It's drawn out
3. It's just describing the action as it happens.
4. I can look into it as far as I can and still only see 'events'.
It's creative, but if you look into it, it means nothhing. Look at Ray Bradbury-he's scifi, yet with tons of cultural meaning.
1Could you give me a better idea of why the exerpt is lengthy, maybe with some quotes you think are unnecessary?
2-kinda the same as number one, right?
3-Isn't that the way books work? They describe the action as it happens, you can't know what's going to happen before you read the book. I don't really get this comment, could you be more precise?
4-I also don't really know what you mean by this however yours and anyone's criticism is extremely appreciative.
2-kinda the same as number one, right?
3-Isn't that the way books work? They describe the action as it happens, you can't know what's going to happen before you read the book. I don't really get this comment, could you be more precise?
4-I also don't really know what you mean by this however yours and anyone's criticism is extremely appreciative.
What I mean to say is that you have to ask yourself: "What do I mean by this; what idea am I conveying? IN the long run of this narrative, what does the narration represent in terms of an idea? Love, Humanity, Greed, the victory of optimism over pessimism, or perhaps an even broader artistic statement." It's long, because even though it is a short excerpt, it is basically stuck in the same place all through it. What you are doing is describing something, and true, life is describable. But however, you cannot simply 'pick up' the meaning that life holds by reporting on it (or in your case, predicting it). Words are inhernatly limited, and you have to create as much meaning with them as you can. Meaning comes in the form ofdeliberately created symbolisms, ideas, or relations. However, those have to come from your head, and you cannot acheive it from the volume of words that comes out of your mind in an inspired frenzy, nor does it come from close-up description of every element at play. By giving a little more to one priority, and a little less to another, you can make your story unique. That means abandoning your 'leaving no stone unturned' approach and instead thinking: A story is a complex web of menaing that does not simply exist moving forward in a nether-realm of action. It exists in 4 dimensions- forwards, backwards, left, right, and all throughout it in its entirety. The 4th dimension you create is meaning, and that renders all of the action in the book as important To make the step from 'extremely well-done and thought out' to simply 'powerful', you need to think on more levels than simply a narrative. You need to take chrage of how you feel in what you say. What you say is a connection to your soul.I think I may have something in the 25 pages of my story that you're talking about when you mean 'cultural reference.' But you have to remember it is an action scene and from what I know most action doesn't really need to have too much cultural reference.
Although this isn't the whole chapter and you really can't get a crystal clear picture from an exerpt I think of this scene all the time, the golden sun and a small transport diving into the ground to save someone who fell from a starscraper (my own word, by the way). I'll post another, more cultural exerpt when I get home in a few hours.
Although this isn't the whole chapter and you really can't get a crystal clear picture from an exerpt I think of this scene all the time, the golden sun and a small transport diving into the ground to save someone who fell from a starscraper (my own word, by the way). I'll post another, more cultural exerpt when I get home in a few hours.
And although it doesn't appear that you've gotten back to this thread, congrats, I'm posting the quote now: (its much shorter)
Ben Tsukul slammed his fist on the slightly greasy blue counter, his eyes piercing the glowing sockets of the service android. “I didn’t order this you hunk of brainless scrap metal,” he slammed a wrapped spheroid onto the table. The bot’s head pivoted to face the food, then returned to Tsukul’s face. It said nothing, and continued to stare at him for upwards of a minute.
Tsukul sighed and raised both is arms into the air, staring at the ceiling whispering “Why, why, why?” The machine turned around and strolled behind a door into the back room. Ben glanced at the near endless line behind him of people and aliens holding their arms at their hips and tapping their feet on the floor. He lifted his hand over his forehead, trying to mask his face.
Ten minutes later the automaton returned holding a new sandwich. Ben snatched it from its extended arm and tore open its wrapping. It still wasn’t the type he had ordered.
“I asked for a turkey club, not an assorted slime surprise,” he growled, and paused, considering the circumstances, “I’ll take my business elsewhere!” He hurled both sandwiches at the robot’s face (both harmlessly flew by and splattered on the colorful menu screen) and stormed away, each member of the line issuing him a malevolent scowl.
He burst out into the plaza, the glass doors swinging behind him. That was the very, very last time he would take any crap from those cheap service bots at any McFadden fast food chains. It was just too much.
Ben Tsukul slammed his fist on the slightly greasy blue counter, his eyes piercing the glowing sockets of the service android. “I didn’t order this you hunk of brainless scrap metal,” he slammed a wrapped spheroid onto the table. The bot’s head pivoted to face the food, then returned to Tsukul’s face. It said nothing, and continued to stare at him for upwards of a minute.
Tsukul sighed and raised both is arms into the air, staring at the ceiling whispering “Why, why, why?” The machine turned around and strolled behind a door into the back room. Ben glanced at the near endless line behind him of people and aliens holding their arms at their hips and tapping their feet on the floor. He lifted his hand over his forehead, trying to mask his face.
Ten minutes later the automaton returned holding a new sandwich. Ben snatched it from its extended arm and tore open its wrapping. It still wasn’t the type he had ordered.
“I asked for a turkey club, not an assorted slime surprise,” he growled, and paused, considering the circumstances, “I’ll take my business elsewhere!” He hurled both sandwiches at the robot’s face (both harmlessly flew by and splattered on the colorful menu screen) and stormed away, each member of the line issuing him a malevolent scowl.
He burst out into the plaza, the glass doors swinging behind him. That was the very, very last time he would take any crap from those cheap service bots at any McFadden fast food chains. It was just too much.
Too much description can be a bad thing sometimes. It takes away the emphasis from the most important things. Sometimes you've got to leave stuff not so well described so that when there's something really important describing it will still be able to add emphasis to it and make it stand out from the rest... without having to drone on so long that it bores the reader.
Also, I guess I just don't like the mass-produced type of sci-fi that uses the typical sci-fi plots and sci-fi tech and is basically just rehashing the same things thousands of other writers have gone through in slightly different ways. In other words, Issac Asimov bores me. IMHO, the great authors just have a flow to what they write. Kurt Vonnegut for example -- my favorite. The style is more personal, draws the reader in. Having meaning behind it is also key of course, there has to be something that the reader can really relate to. I agree with what Congratulations said as far as Ray Bradbury, Bradbury wrote a lot of sci-fi that meant something to the individual in the here and now, it wasn't just about the future. The characters should be going through something that we face ourselves, even if they're going through it in a much different setting.
Maybe it's just the sequences you've posted that don't show it, but how much do your characters think? Is there any reflection going on internally in their minds? They don't seem very solid and real if they never question themselves. Do they grow internally, are they fuller people at the end of the story than at the beginning?
I'm a retired writer, haven't written much since I hit old age at about age 17 or so. Basically all I've done since then is occasionally go back to edit my favorite novelette (which I started when I was 16). I've got it online at http://spacetowns.com/pgk if anyone is interested in reading it. It's sort of philosophy set against a sci-fi background. The main plot is about an immortal being forced by the customs of his species to face death after ten billion years. It basically deals with questions of the meaning of life, time, and the place of god-like authority. Deals with human nature a bit also, and violence. I admit what I wrote probably isn't publishable, it's shaky in spots, but I do like it overall and especially the last chapter. I might as well post an excerpt like others are I guess, even though it's all online anyway:
Favuxo paused, looked away from his journey and towards himself, and contemplated a particular thought that had been bothering him, a question he'd been unable to answer: "The Elder brings me out of the nothingness, then after ten billion years gives me back to it. What do I gain from the long wait?"
The thought that his life was without a true and guiding purpose had for many years been buried deep within Favuxo's mind. Only the daily rigors of collecting knowledge for the benefit of the favuxian species had separated him from such thoughts. He'd pushed them out of his way by telling himself that the meaning of favuxian life was inherent in the collection of knowledge. In recent times, Favuxo had begun to ask himself why that might be such a meaningful activity.
Hundreds of favuxian voices echoed inside of Favuxo's mind. They repeated their message to him over and over again: "The Elder gives meaning to whatever he wishes. His wisdom is unquestionable." The explanation no longer satisfied Favuxo.
Frustrated, Favuxo projected a strong thought outward, towards the rest of his species: "What is the meaning of the Elder, and what is it about his nature that makes it wrong to question him?"
Fringend, the favuxian to whom the Elder had designated the responsibility of watching over Favuxo until the Inabilin, halted the question before it could reach any others. He joined Favuxo, in physical form, on the planet he was at. "It seems that each person asks the same sort of questions when approaching the Inabilin. No one ever seems to realize what dangerous questions they are to ask."
Fringend's sudden appearance startled Favuxo, as he'd forgotten that someone was observing him. He collected himself quickly, and responded. "Is it not more dangerous to live a lie?"
Standing motionless, Fringend stared curiously at Favuxo. "Why do you think the inferior life forms came into existence, when perfection had already been achieved?"
Not expecting that question, Favuxo tried to remember what the Elder had told him on the subject. "It has always been the way of things, to move away from the perfect and towards the chaos that will culminate with the end of this universe -- and the end of all favuxian life."
Fringend nodded. "The Elder was the first, and so the most perfect. He has arranged matters so that every favuxian has a purpose, as a small but significant part of a greater continuum. He is that continuum. The Elder uses the Inabilin to put the chaos to good use. Through the Inabilin, the Elder uses mortal life to declare the meaningfulness of favuxian life. The gift of the Inabilin is freedom from time, and thus from the imperfections associated with time." Fringend paused. He contemplated how he might explain himself to Favuxo in the simplest possible terms. "For a life to be meaningful, it of course must have a meaningful conclusion. The Elder can arrange this because he is a point unto himself; he is a meaning that no one can question, from which there is no outside. One cannot question this, for if one questions it one is in error."
Also, I guess I just don't like the mass-produced type of sci-fi that uses the typical sci-fi plots and sci-fi tech and is basically just rehashing the same things thousands of other writers have gone through in slightly different ways. In other words, Issac Asimov bores me.
IMHO, the great authors just have a flow to what they write. Kurt Vonnegut for example -- my favorite. The style is more personal, draws the reader in. Having meaning behind it is also key of course, there has to be something that the reader can really relate to. I agree with what Congratulations said as far as Ray Bradbury, Bradbury wrote a lot of sci-fi that meant something to the individual in the here and now, it wasn't just about the future. The characters should be going through something that we face ourselves, even if they're going through it in a much different setting.Maybe it's just the sequences you've posted that don't show it, but how much do your characters think? Is there any reflection going on internally in their minds? They don't seem very solid and real if they never question themselves. Do they grow internally, are they fuller people at the end of the story than at the beginning?
I'm a retired writer, haven't written much since I hit old age at about age 17 or so.
Basically all I've done since then is occasionally go back to edit my favorite novelette (which I started when I was 16). I've got it online at http://spacetowns.com/pgk if anyone is interested in reading it. It's sort of philosophy set against a sci-fi background. The main plot is about an immortal being forced by the customs of his species to face death after ten billion years. It basically deals with questions of the meaning of life, time, and the place of god-like authority. Deals with human nature a bit also, and violence. I admit what I wrote probably isn't publishable, it's shaky in spots, but I do like it overall and especially the last chapter. I might as well post an excerpt like others are I guess, even though it's all online anyway:Favuxo paused, looked away from his journey and towards himself, and contemplated a particular thought that had been bothering him, a question he'd been unable to answer: "The Elder brings me out of the nothingness, then after ten billion years gives me back to it. What do I gain from the long wait?"
The thought that his life was without a true and guiding purpose had for many years been buried deep within Favuxo's mind. Only the daily rigors of collecting knowledge for the benefit of the favuxian species had separated him from such thoughts. He'd pushed them out of his way by telling himself that the meaning of favuxian life was inherent in the collection of knowledge. In recent times, Favuxo had begun to ask himself why that might be such a meaningful activity.
Hundreds of favuxian voices echoed inside of Favuxo's mind. They repeated their message to him over and over again: "The Elder gives meaning to whatever he wishes. His wisdom is unquestionable." The explanation no longer satisfied Favuxo.
Frustrated, Favuxo projected a strong thought outward, towards the rest of his species: "What is the meaning of the Elder, and what is it about his nature that makes it wrong to question him?"
Fringend, the favuxian to whom the Elder had designated the responsibility of watching over Favuxo until the Inabilin, halted the question before it could reach any others. He joined Favuxo, in physical form, on the planet he was at. "It seems that each person asks the same sort of questions when approaching the Inabilin. No one ever seems to realize what dangerous questions they are to ask."
Fringend's sudden appearance startled Favuxo, as he'd forgotten that someone was observing him. He collected himself quickly, and responded. "Is it not more dangerous to live a lie?"
Standing motionless, Fringend stared curiously at Favuxo. "Why do you think the inferior life forms came into existence, when perfection had already been achieved?"
Not expecting that question, Favuxo tried to remember what the Elder had told him on the subject. "It has always been the way of things, to move away from the perfect and towards the chaos that will culminate with the end of this universe -- and the end of all favuxian life."
Fringend nodded. "The Elder was the first, and so the most perfect. He has arranged matters so that every favuxian has a purpose, as a small but significant part of a greater continuum. He is that continuum. The Elder uses the Inabilin to put the chaos to good use. Through the Inabilin, the Elder uses mortal life to declare the meaningfulness of favuxian life. The gift of the Inabilin is freedom from time, and thus from the imperfections associated with time." Fringend paused. He contemplated how he might explain himself to Favuxo in the simplest possible terms. "For a life to be meaningful, it of course must have a meaningful conclusion. The Elder can arrange this because he is a point unto himself; he is a meaning that no one can question, from which there is no outside. One cannot question this, for if one questions it one is in error."
Hoth all I can really see wrong, at least from my perspective, is the lack of pronouns. Is this guy, Favuxo, one of those alien types who doesn't use pronouns? It's not quite uncommon so I understand if not using them is on purpose.
Yes, my characters do think, again just not in this quote. And, as before, I'm at school right now with no way of putting it on the website. Tsukul is supposed to be the comedy relief, he's not stupid he's really just a reflection of me, being actually intelligent just never given the chance to shine and always at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Yes, my characters do think, again just not in this quote. And, as before, I'm at school right now with no way of putting it on the website. Tsukul is supposed to be the comedy relief, he's not stupid he's really just a reflection of me, being actually intelligent just never given the chance to shine and always at the wrong place at the wrong time.
part 6 of my epic poem
SUFFERING
Streams of gore and pus
I await my exodus
The mucus covered bodies
And their never ending supply’s
Calling out to me with wailing cry’s
Shout and yell, for their years of lies
Never to be an end, no limit to the torment
Feces fills the mouths of those who now repent
The coals of fire
Burn forever, never tire
The screams of thousands
Make the winds, while hands,
Protrude out of the fiery water
I sit with eyes looking while I suffer
For my sin, death to self
I must watch this, torture of every one else
My eyes with no lids to cover
Are a constant flow of tears that smother
All that is my vision
And the sky, ground and dirt all crimson
Blood filled the air, for all to breathe
Watch and hear the endless moans and screams, of souls pushed to fiery sheathe
Gasp for that air as I sit, pustules break all around and discreet
In to the atmosphere, and pools of urine evaporate to thee ether, from the heat
the smell of decay, like that of compost, lie stagnant and never turned
smoke to steal the very breath from you and obscure the vision with black suit of coals rise, as fires burned
(c) jonathan ryan alligood 2002
SUFFERING
Streams of gore and pus
I await my exodus
The mucus covered bodies
And their never ending supply’s
Calling out to me with wailing cry’s
Shout and yell, for their years of lies
Never to be an end, no limit to the torment
Feces fills the mouths of those who now repent
The coals of fire
Burn forever, never tire
The screams of thousands
Make the winds, while hands,
Protrude out of the fiery water
I sit with eyes looking while I suffer
For my sin, death to self
I must watch this, torture of every one else
My eyes with no lids to cover
Are a constant flow of tears that smother
All that is my vision
And the sky, ground and dirt all crimson
Blood filled the air, for all to breathe
Watch and hear the endless moans and screams, of souls pushed to fiery sheathe
Gasp for that air as I sit, pustules break all around and discreet
In to the atmosphere, and pools of urine evaporate to thee ether, from the heat
the smell of decay, like that of compost, lie stagnant and never turned
smoke to steal the very breath from you and obscure the vision with black suit of coals rise, as fires burned
(c) jonathan ryan alligood 2002
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yeah i know what you man , but thats the thing part 10 of my poem damnations twist reflects this, as torment you would be immuned but theirs something else about hell that makes the torment all ways be and hurt. i will post it later..
(british voice) well then, cheerio!
Here's the freshest new slice of warmth from my story: (BTW the first paragraph with her thoughts are supposed to be in italic)
Arius awoke from her slumber in a stark white room wearing a gray tunic and loose pants.
This is it, she thought, cracking her eyelids, a pit forming in her stomach; I must’ve been unconscious for days. Wait! I just said unconscious, I never say unconscious-I hardly know what unconscious means, much less use it in my vocabulary. Vocabulary? I hardly ever use that word either…
She immediately felt the side of her left eye, her fingers running over metallic veins and plating. Her other arm grasped the sides and undersides of her legs, touching more and more cybernetic implants. At will her mind raced with calculator-like speed, whizzing through complex equations at her command. She jumped off of the soft bed onto the polished, tiled floor and sprinted through the corridor outside of the room, searching for a doctor of any type. She glanced at each end of the hallway. The place was barren and devoid of any intelligent life.
She sped down the beautiful stairs made out of some type of alien stone and out the door to one of the floating cities. Arius glanced at the desolate arena of buildings around her, at the amber shell of particles enclosing Vantanas, and at a long wave of ships departing the planetoid, their azure streams of fire all that she could see from this distance. She patted the obvious metallic implant encircling her left eye, activating a sensor sweep. She switched through various menus and submenus with her pupils, finally ordering her robotic components to search for a ship that could leave this place. There’d been a mass exodus for some reason and she didn’t want to wait around to find out why.
And then at the edge of this floating metropolis there was a lightfighter, and as she zoomed in and analyzed the infrared readings she realized that it was in perfect condition, engine ready to go and nearly bursting with enough fuel to take her to the other side of the galaxy. She activated the leg implants and rocketed through the bowels of the megaliths, the buildings entire structures hurling by every few moments. The wind smothered her face and pushed her mane of short, black hair directly behind her head, each strand swirling as if they were all independent beings. Her legs pounded the concrete, thumping and even cracking it with each meter-long stride. She quickly reached the lightfighter, climbed inside and programmed part of her brain to handle the controls while her eyes gazed outside the canopy of the ship and into the fizzing particles of the atom shield. She scanned the amber-tinted void of space, her pupils catching a group of moving lights, causing her to quickly order her eyes to zoom in as her arms danced about the control panel of the craft. She could see what they were, now. Each was in the shape of a thin isosceles, almost sliver-like triangle and many miles long. They were smooth and sprinkled with bright windows, and at some points she could even glimpse people moving about inside.
But they were approaching very quickly.
The lightfighter lifted into the air and screamed away from the city towards the top of the bubble, Arius switching off the mechanical side of her brain and piloting the ship herself, activating the nuclear las cannons and blasting a sparkling hole through the metal catwalk that generated the shield itself. She rocketed through moments before the molecules that made up the metal repaired themselves, the hole shrinking into nothingness.
The planet quickly shriveled into a tiny dot as she sped away, her mind racing as she tried to figure out where to go. Arius had no family, she had run away from the filthy rich pigs she called her parents and siblings, had joined the Lexau at age fourteen and lived in Vantanas for the rest of her life, until she heard about Pluribus, and the promise of a life without problems that could not be solved in fractions of a second. Where could she go? There was no one in the known universe with as many cybernetic implants as she had volunteered for, how could they accept her? She had trouble with just being genetically engineered, but now she would be the obvious focus of anyone who happened to notice her. She whirled the nose of the silvery, mercury-skinned lightfighter around to face the distant planet and brought up a navigation display inside the cockpit, running the edge of her armored pointer finger on its leathery skin, the white nail encompassing thousands or even tens of thousands of stars. She selected a random area in the Orion arm towards its outer edge, and the map zoomed in. She pressed a star at the opposite edge of the screen, noticing immediately that that it was a binary star system with only a single planet, luckily perfectly ideal for humans and rife with oceans and clouds. She plotted a course for it and was about to shove the tachyon throttle forward but her concentration was distraught by a gigantic explosion in the distance. Huge fireballs rained away from a blue core in all directions until they dimmed into nothingness. The planet was gone.
Arius sighed and pushed the lever forward, switching her body into recharge mode, ready to experience for the first time the flow of subatomic neutrinos powering her generators.
Here's the freshest new slice of warmth from my story: (BTW the first paragraph with her thoughts are supposed to be in italic)
Arius awoke from her slumber in a stark white room wearing a gray tunic and loose pants.
This is it, she thought, cracking her eyelids, a pit forming in her stomach; I must’ve been unconscious for days. Wait! I just said unconscious, I never say unconscious-I hardly know what unconscious means, much less use it in my vocabulary. Vocabulary? I hardly ever use that word either…
She immediately felt the side of her left eye, her fingers running over metallic veins and plating. Her other arm grasped the sides and undersides of her legs, touching more and more cybernetic implants. At will her mind raced with calculator-like speed, whizzing through complex equations at her command. She jumped off of the soft bed onto the polished, tiled floor and sprinted through the corridor outside of the room, searching for a doctor of any type. She glanced at each end of the hallway. The place was barren and devoid of any intelligent life.
She sped down the beautiful stairs made out of some type of alien stone and out the door to one of the floating cities. Arius glanced at the desolate arena of buildings around her, at the amber shell of particles enclosing Vantanas, and at a long wave of ships departing the planetoid, their azure streams of fire all that she could see from this distance. She patted the obvious metallic implant encircling her left eye, activating a sensor sweep. She switched through various menus and submenus with her pupils, finally ordering her robotic components to search for a ship that could leave this place. There’d been a mass exodus for some reason and she didn’t want to wait around to find out why.
And then at the edge of this floating metropolis there was a lightfighter, and as she zoomed in and analyzed the infrared readings she realized that it was in perfect condition, engine ready to go and nearly bursting with enough fuel to take her to the other side of the galaxy. She activated the leg implants and rocketed through the bowels of the megaliths, the buildings entire structures hurling by every few moments. The wind smothered her face and pushed her mane of short, black hair directly behind her head, each strand swirling as if they were all independent beings. Her legs pounded the concrete, thumping and even cracking it with each meter-long stride. She quickly reached the lightfighter, climbed inside and programmed part of her brain to handle the controls while her eyes gazed outside the canopy of the ship and into the fizzing particles of the atom shield. She scanned the amber-tinted void of space, her pupils catching a group of moving lights, causing her to quickly order her eyes to zoom in as her arms danced about the control panel of the craft. She could see what they were, now. Each was in the shape of a thin isosceles, almost sliver-like triangle and many miles long. They were smooth and sprinkled with bright windows, and at some points she could even glimpse people moving about inside.
But they were approaching very quickly.
The lightfighter lifted into the air and screamed away from the city towards the top of the bubble, Arius switching off the mechanical side of her brain and piloting the ship herself, activating the nuclear las cannons and blasting a sparkling hole through the metal catwalk that generated the shield itself. She rocketed through moments before the molecules that made up the metal repaired themselves, the hole shrinking into nothingness.
The planet quickly shriveled into a tiny dot as she sped away, her mind racing as she tried to figure out where to go. Arius had no family, she had run away from the filthy rich pigs she called her parents and siblings, had joined the Lexau at age fourteen and lived in Vantanas for the rest of her life, until she heard about Pluribus, and the promise of a life without problems that could not be solved in fractions of a second. Where could she go? There was no one in the known universe with as many cybernetic implants as she had volunteered for, how could they accept her? She had trouble with just being genetically engineered, but now she would be the obvious focus of anyone who happened to notice her. She whirled the nose of the silvery, mercury-skinned lightfighter around to face the distant planet and brought up a navigation display inside the cockpit, running the edge of her armored pointer finger on its leathery skin, the white nail encompassing thousands or even tens of thousands of stars. She selected a random area in the Orion arm towards its outer edge, and the map zoomed in. She pressed a star at the opposite edge of the screen, noticing immediately that that it was a binary star system with only a single planet, luckily perfectly ideal for humans and rife with oceans and clouds. She plotted a course for it and was about to shove the tachyon throttle forward but her concentration was distraught by a gigantic explosion in the distance. Huge fireballs rained away from a blue core in all directions until they dimmed into nothingness. The planet was gone.
Arius sighed and pushed the lever forward, switching her body into recharge mode, ready to experience for the first time the flow of subatomic neutrinos powering her generators.
I am now faced with a total bummer. I'm stuck hundreds of miles from my home and have forgotten to email myself Evolution (the scifi story) and the as yet unnamed fantasy that I've been tinkering with. But it so turns out that I may be able to make these few days useful. I picked up a copy of The Lord of the Rings and luckily it came with a map, and let me tell anyone who hasn't read the series or looked at the maps that J.R.R Tolkien's son, Christopher Tolkien, is a genius mapmaker!
I've used a very basic style of his to make my map lookgood , and I've almost completed the first of three continents. I plan to post a picture later, but I really thing they are just gorgeous. It's my belief with fantasy that a complete map really enhances the ability to make a complete story, and this is just one step to make a plot frothing in my head come to life on paper.
Does anyone have anything good or bad to say about the last quote? Or do you just have nothing to say? Say something, at least!
I've used a very basic style of his to make my map lookgood , and I've almost completed the first of three continents. I plan to post a picture later, but I really thing they are just gorgeous. It's my belief with fantasy that a complete map really enhances the ability to make a complete story, and this is just one step to make a plot frothing in my head come to life on paper.
Does anyone have anything good or bad to say about the last quote? Or do you just have nothing to say? Say something, at least!
Happy 200 posts, congrats, ya never know, someday you might feel the pride of heaving a thousand and twenty something under your belt.
Now to your reply: "and.....?"
I've written a language and drawn out a fourth draft of the map. I'm going totally overboard.
Now to your reply: "and.....?"
I've written a language and drawn out a fourth draft of the map. I'm going totally overboard.
Oh, ha ha congratulations, you DEVIL child. I'll see if I can take a picture of it this saturday or sunday and maybe have it up here posted on monday, since at the moment I am stuck on vacation away from home (needless to say its not much of MY idea of a vacation).
Hello, I am from the planet known most commonly as earth. We write these "stories" in an attempt to advance ideas. Every idea that has any impetus has come from this medium. Often our poems reveal a medium too abstract and limiting for any real ideas. The Love Song of J. Alfred Proofrock is a good case in point. It says very little, a message of the impact of hesitation, yet dresses the idea in uninteresting, vague prose. In this way poetry can only be viewed as the inferior little brother of actual writing.
Stop sending people in the wrong direction. Bradbury was an interesting side note. His works forma good start for the actual sci-fi writing to come. It was also very plain, with no real merit. Try instead something from a talented author; Clarke as you said is a good example. IMHO Frank Herbert represents the true pinacle of this genre. Dune being his most heralded work.
Try not to emulate the form of other authors, though. You need explore and find your own. Clarke, Bradbury and Asimov all focused on more banal structures of what could best be deemed robot-writing. Herbert broke the mold with the merging of epic and sci-fi. Just find the form that best fits your style.
I was working on a piece that could be classified as science fiction. It is now on the back burner for a project that seems more relevant right now. I am writing a modern high-school drama. It follows the events leading to a school shooting. It was the stem from a long outburst of idiocy. "How is it possible? They are just kids." "Why would they do that?" It started as a way with coping with my experiences and has progressed to a mission. It is an issue of increasing gravity.
I did like Herbert and read up to 'God Emperor of Dune.' My only problem with him was the lack of any real action whatsoever except the very end, this excludes 'Children of Dune,' which was probably (in my humble opinion) the best science fiction book ever. I did read the first book of Asimov's Foundation Trilogy and started the second but couldn't quite get through it, however I really did enjoy 'Foundation' even though it really had no action at all (except for this guy who was vaporized), just more...intellectual psychological storytelling. I always loved Clarke and read every book I know of that he wrote (Rama series, the songs of distant earth, one more that he wrote a long time ago that I forgot, the 2001 series). I did read Bradbury but his worked seemed really grounded in the sixties, you wouldn't believe there was life on Mars now, which shows how linear I think his work is.
The greatest feat a science fiction or fantasy writer could hope to achieve above all is the ability for his work to last throughout the ages and be continuously thought of as what the future will be. Tolkien has done this as has Herbert and Clarke. Asimov was close but his ideas were grounded in nuclear technology which will probably be as obsolete as oil lamps are now.
The greatest feat a science fiction or fantasy writer could hope to achieve above all is the ability for his work to last throughout the ages and be continuously thought of as what the future will be. Tolkien has done this as has Herbert and Clarke. Asimov was close but his ideas were grounded in nuclear technology which will probably be as obsolete as oil lamps are now.
I went through the Foundation series. They were interesting yet lacking in complexities. You stopped at the wrong point in the Dune series. The last two books are the best in the run. Heretics was the best in the series. All of course IMHO. They each have easily a factor of ten times the action in the earlier pieces. The twists are also superior. Teg must be the best character introduced so far. He may appear a flat persona of a hero, but then you need look closer. In the last book he breaks free of the training. It is a cryptic ending. But would it be a Frank Herbert novel lacking that?
Clarke's works are not action driven, yet their believability compensates easily.
I am currently reading David Copperfield. I am only wading in, but so far it is pure genius. I had to run for the dictionary on ab archaic term (caul), but the work truly is timeless. Huckleberry Finn is yet another example of such writing. Twain's use of Southern Drawal and excellent storytelling put this one above the rest. Catcher in the Rye is also a great tale about a youth exploring his surroundings.
My last choice of great work may surprise: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson. The best excercise in coherency yet written.
Exactly. They are extremely dated. Martian Chronicles is the only work I've read so I may be a bit jaded.
Clarke's works are not action driven, yet their believability compensates easily.
I am currently reading David Copperfield. I am only wading in, but so far it is pure genius. I had to run for the dictionary on ab archaic term (caul), but the work truly is timeless. Huckleberry Finn is yet another example of such writing. Twain's use of Southern Drawal and excellent storytelling put this one above the rest. Catcher in the Rye is also a great tale about a youth exploring his surroundings.
My last choice of great work may surprise: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson. The best excercise in coherency yet written.
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