I reset the counter for “The one about the angel” as I’m about to start the third draft, now that I read the crit group Act III of the story. Lots of good suggestions were offered. Not just pointing out story problems, but offering alternate ideas, some of which I intend to implement once I work it out on one of my canary yellow legal pads.
I’m basically starting from scratch, which is exactly what I need to do. It’s just the thought of going through the same turf again doesn’t thrill me. But I’ve got to get this story off my plate and back out there. There’s really no reason not to, especially when I have little doubt that by the end of the story, it’s going to be that much closer to publication.
Taking a deep breath…aaaand, here we go…
Nope. I was in Indianapolis six months. No one paid me a dime.
No, not a song lyric. Just the ramblings of a probable itinerant (judging solely by appearance, I admit) sitting one comfy chair over in the café I’m sitting in. I didn’t see a Bluetooth earpiece. And if I had, I don’t think I’d necessarily be less disturbed.
Jaysus, I’d tell this person to give it up already, except that this person obviously didn’t find what he or she was looking for. Maybe this can serve as a warning for the next lazy-ass cheating bastard: Read the damn story yourself, you goldbricker! As if your prof couldn’t spot your plagarizing a mile away.
I know what I’ve said about commenting on short stories. But I’ve read a couple of things worth talking about at certain places. All of these stories are worthy of comment, but alas–so many stories, so little time.
I can relate to this.
“And maybe it’s our drive to be alone — not all the time, certainly, but enough to read and dream and reset our mental energies in order to deal with People again — that at least partly impels the drive to write. Reading and writing become the bridge crossing us from our carefully guarded alone-zone into the world, into the human condition itself. We contain multitudes, and those multitudes contain us.”
The sad irony of course is that I’m in a cafe doing this, instead of in the home office with the door closed. I can’t help it, I either need to be completely isolated or be surrounded by people who aren’t entitled to one iota of my time and attention.
I’m not so sure the solitude has to do with my particular drive to write. My drive comes from the struggle to take ideas from my head, some that’ve been there for years, and spit them out in a form others might appreciate. I’ve been doing the spitting part for years, anyway–why not construct something from it?
Today, I had my first story critiqued by the writers group I joined two weeks ago. “The one about the angel.” God, it was exactly what I needed! A lot of the criticism mirrored some of the general feedback I’d get when I’d submit it: “Good prose/writing, nice concept, but…” They gave me a lot to think about, and one or two things I hadn’t even considered.
Because of the length limits, I only brought in the first 2/3 of the story, picking a place that was somewhat of a cliffhanger. I figured that if I did my job right, they’d be interested in the end. Despite some of the problems they pointed out, most of the group–the ones present, despite Fathers Day–did want to know what happened next, which was pretty gratifying.