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OK. I've been writing this story for about three months now - very on and off stuff. Thing is, I'm not too keen on it now - I like my skeleton of a plot, and I like some of the ideas I'm putting into it, but I'm not sure if the style is actually any good. In fact, I'm rapidly loosing my ability to write. I just realised that, aside from coursework, I have never written anything readable.
So, I would really appriciate it if some of you read the start, and I would really appriciate all the critisism you can muster.
---
Right now, I'm sitting on the edge of a cliff. Ahead of me there is the ocean, bathed in the deep reds and oranges donated by the sinking sun. It's a very steep drop down. My name is Edward Alexander Mendes. I'm sixteen. I just received my GCSE results. 5 A*s, 3 As, and 2 Us on a computer printout represent the last two years of my life.
You could dismiss my story as teenage angst, something to go between Dawsons Creek and American Pie in the big bookshelf of credibility . You could tell me to go and turn some nu-metal up really loud and choose not to listen to the story, then you can go off to your nice little suburban semi and order some plastic takeaway food, before turning on the television and being entertained until you go to bed. Of course, this would achieve exactly nothing, but hey - when has that been any different?
I'm not going to tell this in chronological order. That's not what this story is like. Imagine a series of photographs being show randomly. That’s what this is going to be like, but each photograph moves for a while and each photograph is much deeper than it looks and each photograph represents parts of my life.
There is no beginning, there is no middle, and there is no end.
Only change.
When there are so many books in the world, eventually you have to start judging them by their cover.
Right now, I'm smoking pot. I smoke a lot of pot nowadays. It's all I have, my only solace, my only escape. Believe me, I need escape like a tramp needs a degree. Not something that society expects of me, but something that is essential if I am to lead a better life.
It's also damn hard to get.
Right now, I'm contemplating suicide.
Right now, I'm remembering everything that has lead up to this moment on top of a cliff.
Right now, I'm in assembaly at school on the first day of year 10. The head of year is saying how happy she is that we've all come back safe from the summer holidays, and warning us that the next two years are going to be the most important ones we will spend at this school. She adds something on to the end of this boring speech - she mentions that the sylabus is even bigger this year, because apparently the brains of 14 year olds are getting larger.
That last remark is her own private rebellion against the board of education. She keeps this up because it makes her feel like she's actually doing something to change it. She's not. She won't make a difference.
Assembalys are exactly what school is about. There must be 120+ people in this room, none of whom want to be. But we're there because we all feel we should be, or have been told to do so. It doesn't make any sense.
I'm probably sitting on one of the rock hard benches that have probably wrecked many a students posture, I'm probably thinking about the movie I watched last night, and I'm probably exited because I'll be seeing some of my friends for the first time in 6 weeks. Summer holidays are never as good as they sound.
If someone in this room wanted to get a gun out and shoot me right now, they could.
The bell rings. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it stayed silent for another 20 minutes. But that’s how I remember it, so that’s how I'm telling it. It's not like you have any alternative sources anyway.
So, I would really appriciate it if some of you read the start, and I would really appriciate all the critisism you can muster.
---
Right now, I'm sitting on the edge of a cliff. Ahead of me there is the ocean, bathed in the deep reds and oranges donated by the sinking sun. It's a very steep drop down. My name is Edward Alexander Mendes. I'm sixteen. I just received my GCSE results. 5 A*s, 3 As, and 2 Us on a computer printout represent the last two years of my life.
You could dismiss my story as teenage angst, something to go between Dawsons Creek and American Pie in the big bookshelf of credibility . You could tell me to go and turn some nu-metal up really loud and choose not to listen to the story, then you can go off to your nice little suburban semi and order some plastic takeaway food, before turning on the television and being entertained until you go to bed. Of course, this would achieve exactly nothing, but hey - when has that been any different?
I'm not going to tell this in chronological order. That's not what this story is like. Imagine a series of photographs being show randomly. That’s what this is going to be like, but each photograph moves for a while and each photograph is much deeper than it looks and each photograph represents parts of my life.
There is no beginning, there is no middle, and there is no end.
Only change.
When there are so many books in the world, eventually you have to start judging them by their cover.
Right now, I'm smoking pot. I smoke a lot of pot nowadays. It's all I have, my only solace, my only escape. Believe me, I need escape like a tramp needs a degree. Not something that society expects of me, but something that is essential if I am to lead a better life.
It's also damn hard to get.
Right now, I'm contemplating suicide.
Right now, I'm remembering everything that has lead up to this moment on top of a cliff.
Right now, I'm in assembaly at school on the first day of year 10. The head of year is saying how happy she is that we've all come back safe from the summer holidays, and warning us that the next two years are going to be the most important ones we will spend at this school. She adds something on to the end of this boring speech - she mentions that the sylabus is even bigger this year, because apparently the brains of 14 year olds are getting larger.
That last remark is her own private rebellion against the board of education. She keeps this up because it makes her feel like she's actually doing something to change it. She's not. She won't make a difference.
Assembalys are exactly what school is about. There must be 120+ people in this room, none of whom want to be. But we're there because we all feel we should be, or have been told to do so. It doesn't make any sense.
I'm probably sitting on one of the rock hard benches that have probably wrecked many a students posture, I'm probably thinking about the movie I watched last night, and I'm probably exited because I'll be seeing some of my friends for the first time in 6 weeks. Summer holidays are never as good as they sound.
If someone in this room wanted to get a gun out and shoot me right now, they could.
The bell rings. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it stayed silent for another 20 minutes. But that’s how I remember it, so that’s how I'm telling it. It's not like you have any alternative sources anyway.
A nice, depressing story to help evryone contemplate suicide. You should try writing a story about bunnies and rainbows and faeries and flowers and things that sing pretty songs in the sunlight.
But seriously, a great opening, keep going.
But seriously, a great opening, keep going.
not to be specific or anything Grix :-)
If you write lots you'll get better, not that it isn't good stuff at the moment. But the best way to get better is just to write and write and write and read a little. Keeping a diary is usually good, or sending someone overly long e-mails on a regular basis, or posting in a forum regularly. But you improve and develop as a writer, then you can unleash your talents on an unsuspecting public.
I'd keep going, but if this is your pet project then try writing other things around it, and then using the feedback to make this one even better.
But I think it's pretty damn good at the moment.
If you write lots you'll get better, not that it isn't good stuff at the moment. But the best way to get better is just to write and write and write and read a little. Keeping a diary is usually good, or sending someone overly long e-mails on a regular basis, or posting in a forum regularly. But you improve and develop as a writer, then you can unleash your talents on an unsuspecting public.
I'd keep going, but if this is your pet project then try writing other things around it, and then using the feedback to make this one even better.
But I think it's pretty damn good at the moment.
Very very good. Reminded me of Chuck, which I guess you're feeding from. Keep doing it, it's good, and it'll help you find a true form as well. :0)
Seriously, really good. Only thing I can say to change would be "I'm contemplating suicide." to "I'm considering throwing my weak pathetic body off this cliff, smiling inside to myself as my bones snap and puncture my internal organs, leaving me lying in a pool of my own insides where nobody will ever truly care or want me, like I'm going to be feeling like for the rest of my life anyway."
Or something.
Seriously, really good. Only thing I can say to change would be "I'm contemplating suicide." to "I'm considering throwing my weak pathetic body off this cliff, smiling inside to myself as my bones snap and puncture my internal organs, leaving me lying in a pool of my own insides where nobody will ever truly care or want me, like I'm going to be feeling like for the rest of my life anyway."
Or something.
OK. I've been writing this story for about three months now - very on and off stuff. Thing is, I'm not too keen on it now - I like my skeleton of a plot, and I like some of the ideas I'm putting into it, but I'm not sure if the style is actually any good. In fact, I'm rapidly loosing my ability to write. I just realised that, aside from coursework, I have never written anything readable.
So, I would really appriciate it if some of you read the start, and I would really appriciate all the critisism you can muster.
---
Right now, I'm sitting on the edge of a cliff. Ahead of me there is the ocean, bathed in the deep reds and oranges donated by the sinking sun. It's a very steep drop down. My name is Edward Alexander Mendes. I'm sixteen. I just received my GCSE results. 5 A*s, 3 As, and 2 Us on a computer printout represent the last two years of my life.
You could dismiss my story as teenage angst, something to go between Dawsons Creek and American Pie in the big bookshelf of credibility . You could tell me to go and turn some nu-metal up really loud and choose not to listen to the story, then you can go off to your nice little suburban semi and order some plastic takeaway food, before turning on the television and being entertained until you go to bed. Of course, this would achieve exactly nothing, but hey - when has that been any different?
I'm not going to tell this in chronological order. That's not what this story is like. Imagine a series of photographs being show randomly. That’s what this is going to be like, but each photograph moves for a while and each photograph is much deeper than it looks and each photograph represents parts of my life.
There is no beginning, there is no middle, and there is no end.
Only change.
When there are so many books in the world, eventually you have to start judging them by their cover.
Right now, I'm smoking pot. I smoke a lot of pot nowadays. It's all I have, my only solace, my only escape. Believe me, I need escape like a tramp needs a degree. Not something that society expects of me, but something that is essential if I am to lead a better life.
It's also damn hard to get.
Right now, I'm contemplating suicide.
Right now, I'm remembering everything that has lead up to this moment on top of a cliff.
Right now, I'm in assembaly at school on the first day of year 10. The head of year is saying how happy she is that we've all come back safe from the summer holidays, and warning us that the next two years are going to be the most important ones we will spend at this school. She adds something on to the end of this boring speech - she mentions that the sylabus is even bigger this year, because apparently the brains of 14 year olds are getting larger.
That last remark is her own private rebellion against the board of education. She keeps this up because it makes her feel like she's actually doing something to change it. She's not. She won't make a difference.
Assembalys are exactly what school is about. There must be 120+ people in this room, none of whom want to be. But we're there because we all feel we should be, or have been told to do so. It doesn't make any sense.
I'm probably sitting on one of the rock hard benches that have probably wrecked many a students posture, I'm probably thinking about the movie I watched last night, and I'm probably exited because I'll be seeing some of my friends for the first time in 6 weeks. Summer holidays are never as good as they sound.
If someone in this room wanted to get a gun out and shoot me right now, they could.
The bell rings. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it stayed silent for another 20 minutes. But that’s how I remember it, so that’s how I'm telling it. It's not like you have any alternative sources anyway.
So, I would really appriciate it if some of you read the start, and I would really appriciate all the critisism you can muster.
---
Right now, I'm sitting on the edge of a cliff. Ahead of me there is the ocean, bathed in the deep reds and oranges donated by the sinking sun. It's a very steep drop down. My name is Edward Alexander Mendes. I'm sixteen. I just received my GCSE results. 5 A*s, 3 As, and 2 Us on a computer printout represent the last two years of my life.
You could dismiss my story as teenage angst, something to go between Dawsons Creek and American Pie in the big bookshelf of credibility . You could tell me to go and turn some nu-metal up really loud and choose not to listen to the story, then you can go off to your nice little suburban semi and order some plastic takeaway food, before turning on the television and being entertained until you go to bed. Of course, this would achieve exactly nothing, but hey - when has that been any different?
I'm not going to tell this in chronological order. That's not what this story is like. Imagine a series of photographs being show randomly. That’s what this is going to be like, but each photograph moves for a while and each photograph is much deeper than it looks and each photograph represents parts of my life.
There is no beginning, there is no middle, and there is no end.
Only change.
When there are so many books in the world, eventually you have to start judging them by their cover.
Right now, I'm smoking pot. I smoke a lot of pot nowadays. It's all I have, my only solace, my only escape. Believe me, I need escape like a tramp needs a degree. Not something that society expects of me, but something that is essential if I am to lead a better life.
It's also damn hard to get.
Right now, I'm contemplating suicide.
Right now, I'm remembering everything that has lead up to this moment on top of a cliff.
Right now, I'm in assembaly at school on the first day of year 10. The head of year is saying how happy she is that we've all come back safe from the summer holidays, and warning us that the next two years are going to be the most important ones we will spend at this school. She adds something on to the end of this boring speech - she mentions that the sylabus is even bigger this year, because apparently the brains of 14 year olds are getting larger.
That last remark is her own private rebellion against the board of education. She keeps this up because it makes her feel like she's actually doing something to change it. She's not. She won't make a difference.
Assembalys are exactly what school is about. There must be 120+ people in this room, none of whom want to be. But we're there because we all feel we should be, or have been told to do so. It doesn't make any sense.
I'm probably sitting on one of the rock hard benches that have probably wrecked many a students posture, I'm probably thinking about the movie I watched last night, and I'm probably exited because I'll be seeing some of my friends for the first time in 6 weeks. Summer holidays are never as good as they sound.
If someone in this room wanted to get a gun out and shoot me right now, they could.
The bell rings. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it stayed silent for another 20 minutes. But that’s how I remember it, so that’s how I'm telling it. It's not like you have any alternative sources anyway.