by AlicetheKurious » Sun Feb 10, 2008 2:59 pm
Thanks, Joe, both for your critique and your writing sample.
I know I should put in more description, but I've noticed in my own reading that unless they're both relevant and exceptionally well done, I tend to skim over long descriptions, while mentally saying, "blah, blah, blah".
Of course, that's just me.
What I usually do when I write something, is just write whatever comes to mind, and then go over and over it, ruthlessly cutting out extraneous words, until I've said just what I want to say. Sometimes not even that. I believe writing is more effective when some things are implied rather than spelled out. Also, the best fiction writers are hypnotists -- it's important to maintain a subtle beat so that the reader is relaxed by the rhythm and flow. Too many words and he or she is jolted awake. Not good.
To illustrate what I mean, here's the introduction to a short story by the wonderful Margaret Atwood:
When my mother was very small, someone gave her a basket of baby chicks for Easter. They all died.
"I didn't know you weren't supposed to pick them up," says my mother. "Poor little things. I laid them out in a row on a board, with their little legs sticking out straight as pokers, and wept over them. I'd loved them to death."
Possibly this story is meant by my mother to illustrate her own stupidity, and also her sentimentality. We are to understand she wouldn't do such a thing now.
Possibly it's a commentary on the nature of love; though, knowing my mother, this is unlikely.
Whew! I love how she says so much, using so few words.
Now, about your piece. Your first sentence was good: "sharp crack" immediately sets the tone of danger, creates a tension in the reader that reflects that of the protagonist.
But then, too many words dissipate the energy. "Laconic lightning bolt"? After that, the protagonist simply sounds like a college student writing between sips of latte. I'll say it again: too many words, and they're not selected carefully enough for how well they suit the tone and the story you are trying to create.
Just to let you know that I'm willing to stick my own neck out, I'll continue now (I've tried to be more descriptive):
Turning to face him on legs that felt numb, she looked at him directly for the first time. He looked back, smiling and saying nothing.
He was tall, but not especially so. His medium build, light brown hair, beige chinos and a green and white striped rugby shirt somehow combined to make him almost invisible in this neighborhood. Yet she had known. Once she looked properly at his eyes, she understood why. They were too alert, too knowing, too frightening to belong with the rest of him. If you covered his eyes, he'd look like someone from an ad for chewing gum. But his eyes ruined everything.
She heard herself speak without meaning to, "Is Reverend Michael one of yours?" His smile grew, and his eyes sparkled. "You are one paranoid bitch," he said. His voice was friendly. Then he glanced at his watch. "I'd love to stand here and chat, but we need to get you home."
It was then that she noticed an attractive blonde woman walking casually towards them. She wore a jogging suit and in her hand was a metal chain leash, at the end of which strained an enormous German Shepherd. "Hi, honey!" she grinned. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your new friend?"
"This is the famous Suzanne, the one who got away," he said, "but not for long!"
Suzanne watched the dog, who watched her back.
"Don't worry about Bluebeard, he's a sweetie," said the woman. "Unless, of course, you make any sudden moves," she continued, "in which case, he'll tear your fucking throat out."
"Now that we've all been introduced," said the man, gripping Suzanne's arm and leading her towards a navy blue van. Suzanne walked carefully, aware of the dog's hot breath against the back of her naked legs.
Suzanne felt tears in her eyes as the realization finally hit her that she had failed, that all her months of careful preparation had been for nothing. She looked desperately around her, but could see no way to escape, and no source of help. If she screamed or ran she wouldn't get past a few steps before she was killed by the dog, a tragic accident, for which the dog would get put down. Even if the police tried to take it further, as far as she knew, these two were as disposable as she and the dog, and they knew it. However, she was probably the only one of the four of them who cared about that. Not so much for herself, anymore. She was finished anyway.
How had they found her? It wasn't fair! She'd been so careful! How had they found her? As they walked in silence, her mind reeled with the question, as though it made the slightest bit of difference.
And then she knew. She almost stopped walking, as she realized her fatal mistake. The dog's wet muzzle against her skin reminded her to keep moving. She raised her hand and flattened it against her belly. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Chapter 2
At least, that's how I imagine it happened. Suzanne was my mother, and she was already carrying me when she was caught and brought back, almost 30 years ago. They kept her alive for a while after that, even after I was born, but I don't remember her.
Other than her name, I managed to learn that she was young when she had me, no older than 19, and much stronger than they thought, because she managed not only to get away from them, but to stay away for nearly two months, which must be some kind of a record. I don't really know that Uncle Simon and Aunt Mary were the ones to bring her back, but somehow that always seemed right.
Once, when I was fifteen years old, I made up my mind to ask him, and damn the consequences. I waited for Uncle Simon after a class he'd been teaching at the Rice Institute, or RI, where I was born and raised, and where I'd been taught everything I knew. At RI, we called our teachers "Uncle" or "Aunt", and all the others were brothers and sisters, regardless of their age.
I'd always been especially wary around Uncle Simon, who was known to be a real psycho, although he was a great teacher. His favorite motto was, "if it doesn't kill you, it'll make you stronger." Most of his students got stronger, including me, although it could have gone either way, and sometimes did. In such cases, there were no services, no tears, no eulogies. Nothing.
Two weeks earlier, I'd heard about my mother's escape from Paula, one of my mother's sisters, which made her my sister as well. My grades had slipped, and Paula was afraid for me. She whispered the story to me one night so that I'd be inspired by my mother's courage and determination. I think she also needed to talk about her sister Suzanne, whom she must have genuinely loved. I still miss Paula sometimes. Killing her was one of the worst things I've ever done, and I've done some very bad things.
But Paula had lit a fire in me with the truth about my mother. It was as though the empty spaces that in other people are filled with layer upon layer of memories, of sights and smells and sounds and feelings, the soil in which hearts take root and grow, gradually became filled with this fragment of someone else's second-hand account of my mother. I had a mother. Her name was Suzanne. She was brave, and smart. She had rebelled. It was all I had, more than I'd dreamed of, but I needed more.
His hair was starting to turn gray, but he still looked like he could be in a gum commercial, with his impossibly neat appearance, his friendly, open, face and athletic body. The classroom, with its beige soundproof walls, rows of elevated plush seats, lack of windows and discreetly fitted electronic equipment, looked like a small, brightly-lit movie theater.
As the brothers and sisters filed out, he sat gathering his papers at the desk before a large blank screen. I approached, and he looked up with those eyes in which there was no hint of human feeling, but which missed nothing. In contrast to his stillness, I felt myself shamefully unable to control my sweat, the loud thudding of my heart, the tremors of my fingers, my legs, my lips as I spoke. Nevertheless, I spoke.
"If you're not careful the newspapers will have you hating the oppressed and loving the people doing the oppressing." - Malcolm X
