What does the first sentence or three of your story look like? Imagine this is a trailer for your story -- what would it show? Everyone should read everyone else's and feel free to offer criticism, advice, and encouragement. I know I will.
Please complete this by class on Monday, Feb 23.
Remember when I say "begin in the middle," what I essentially mean is "begin with a grabber."
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Finally, I'm first post! Here's the opening to my story "Fix It In the Mix: Life in a Recording Studio":
The recording studio. The place where dreams are made. The place where creativity is explored. The place where artists reach both their greatest heights and their lowest depths. The place where bands can be justified and where bands can be destroyed.
Lots of mythical grandeur can be applied to the facility where musicians record and mix their songs. But, on this particular Saturday at 3 Bays Studio in Gallatin, New York, it’s a place of silent frustration.
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Now, if this were to be a movie trailer, it should have a real Michael Mann "Heat" feel, with grim shots and some dark sounding orchestral piece in the background. Yes, totally over-the-top, I know.
from my perspective, the second graf makes a better lead. Why? I ain't saying. I want someone else to.
I agree, the first graph seems cliche. Disney world is also a place where dreams are made. The second graph is much more specific to your story.
I started writing this story with the intention of confusing the shit out of you, the readers. Yes, I am aware that the worst thing I could do, as I writer, is confuse you, the readers. But I would get a kick out of it. So it goes. I had this great vision of creating a Vanilla Sky/Donnie Darko type of opening, complete with scenes of a Russian guy named Nikko running, with the most perfect posture that I, as one who practices yoga, envy. Scenes that contain police reports warranting the arrest of the Russian on multiple accounts, such as shooting pedestrians with a rocket launcher, stealing cars and running red lights. Then I would transition to a new paragraph where I would wake up the next morning and look in the mirror to see the reflection of a girl who too closely resembles Lisa Turtle (that is a Saved by the Bell reference, btw) named Kimberly Kimberston. I’d spend my day as Rosie the Riviter’s arch-enemy. I’d hang curtains that I recently purchased with cyber money and pick out matching couches that also compliment the color of my walls. The next day I’d wake up in jail dreaming about my previous American-dream life, when I was out free on the streets blowing up bridges and helicopters and watch as people limplessly fall into an infinite abyss that ends at the frame of my television. I would then end the week by having sex with a prostitute. Shit, that would have been a great opening. Oh, well.. Actually, I don’t want to deny you of such excitement. Here is what I would have opened with if I would have opened with this.
INSERT SCENES THAT I HAVE NOT WRITTEN YET. (In the style of journal entries, possibly?)
The reason I did not open with this is not because I want to conform to the writer’s code of chivalry in which you, the readers, are placed on a higher pedestal than I, the writer, but because this whole idea of video games being something other than reality is bullshit.
Kimmy's opening is very post-modern, very self-reflective. I think as result it's intellectually interesting, but emotionally detached, putting readers at a distance from the story, the action. Maybe if it opened with Kimmy adopting the point of view of Nikko, as she seems to originally have planned, readers would be sucked in, sort of as video game players are.
I also like the second graf for an opening. Kimmy's right: the first one is cliche. Plus, the second one makes me want to read on; what is the frustration about? The first one doesn't grab me.
Looking back at my opening (and in a better state of mind too, fyi), I'm starting to see that graf no. 2 is easily the stronger candidate to open the story.
Kimmy's opening is BIG. Very big, very strong, and immediately latches on to the reader with pop culture references and subtle hints towards the topic of her story. It's explosive, but for some readers, it might be too much. Perhaps compressing the opening would work, where the same kick is applied but with enough breathing room for the casual audience (oblique description, I know).
Ok so here is how i anticipate to open up my story called "Here":
"Lights out!"-A scream comes from the background.
She steps into her cold dark 11x4 space, says her prayers, and then sleeps.
She prays regularly because she's thankful. Because she's HERE. Because she's finally at rest.
She's finally at rest with everything in her past, and conprehends what her grandmother has been saying to her for the majority of her life, "God ain't gone put nothing on you that you can't bear."
The oldest girl of three younger brothers, Veronica, also known as “Roni,” came from a poor background, learning at an early age what it's like to struggle, and never met nor had a real father figure. Her mother had her at the tender age of fourteen and her father walked out her life never to return.
The male figure's she had where uncles, who were not the best role models, and a step dad.
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So if this were a movie trailer, it would have this young woman who even though is imprisoned, is actually free withthin her mind cause for the first time in her life she gets "it" this thing called life. Then it would go on as a flashback in time. Let me know what everyone thinks?!?*^
I think Jovan's opening has real potential, but things need to be more clearly specified -- that it's a correction officer's voice, that the small room is a prison cell, that the cell is in a real place and time. I also think the subject herself needs to be more clearly delineated -- for example, how old is she?
The background graf has one too many cliches (tender age, for example). It'd work better too if the content occurred as part of her stream of consciousness -- that is, within her point of view. Alternatively, an omniscient narrator can hand the info out, but perhaps not until where we are and why we're there and who we're with is more clearly established.
Jovan, I like the ambiguity of the intro, but like Prof. Good said, I had no idea that you were talking about a jail cell. If you change only one word, it could do it. You could substitute "space" for "cell" in your second graph: She steps into her cold dark 11x4 space, says her prayers, and then sleeps.
This is the start to "Pink Ribbons," so far.
“Go the fuck away!” She screamed with her head hanging over the toilet bowl in reply to a knock on the door. “Can’t they hear I’m fucking sick,” she said loud enough for the large family crammed into the small house to hear.
Jennifer Schwarzenegger was sitting in the living room while the rest of the Drum family spread out around the house on Christmas Eve. It was like every other year except that Aunt Marcia’s cancer had come back. She had gotten a chemo treatment earlier in the week and she was sick. Very sick.
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I guess if it was a movie trailer it would start by showing the whole family and the Christmas decorations and the normal atmosphere and then it would pan to the doorway of the bathroom which has a long hallway and it would show the figure of Aunt Marcia hunched over the toilet. It would show how everyone was trying to keep the night as normal as possible while Marcia was sick to her stomach and couldn't enjoy the holiday.
I'D DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS:
“Go the fuck away!” she screamed, her head hanging over the toilet bowl. “Can’t you hear I’m fucking sick.”
The reply to the knock on the bathroom door was loud enough for the large family crammed into the small house to hear. Jennifer Schwarzenegger was sitting in the living room. The rest of the Drum family spread out around the house this Christmas Eve.
It was like every Christmas except that Aunt Marcia’s cancer had come back. She had gotten a chemo treatment earlier in the week and now she was sick. Very sick.
Yea, Tyler. 2nd graf is the way to go. Kimmy, your intro is definitely different and totally cool. I have to be honest, I'm confused, and maybe that means I'm some schmuck of a reader, but I think there could be a little more clarity? Honestly, I'm not sure because like I said, maybe I'm one of those dumb readers. Jovan, I like what you would like to do with your story. There should be a little more to let us know its a jail. Maybe once you get the story going, you won't necessarily have to say "the uncles, who weren't the best role models"-- you could have maybe some other details to help us understand that. Liz, you always have a great opening. I like Professor Good's edits. Definitely creates some mystery.
Ok. So, here's my intro.
My thighs are moldy jell-o, and when I walk tremors pass from under my feet. My thighs jiggle in a delayed reaction, and I hate when that happens. I have to take my hands and lift one leg each to move forward. The leg weight is so heavy that my saggy arms become limp and my leg drops and then those tremors pass from under my feet. Then I repeat the cycle all over again to move just a few inches. I’m almost home.
My story is about body image. What I have, there's a little more I have written after that paragraph, would be my prologue. I'd like to write from my perspective and interview people about their body image. Essentially, I'm writing how contorted our views on image are. I end the prologue with me confessing I'm a monster. I'd like to portray the people I interview the way they see themselves, all that negativity, and from all the exposure find the deeper truth to the sadness of our perceived images.
Well I've revised my idea for my story and also have sent it in to Mr.Good one already for some much needed revisions. Here my first 2 paragraphs:
Here, inside Washington’s Headquarters in Newburgh, New York, the heat built quickly and stayed low due to the squat doors. People were packed tightly in to the house due to Presidents’ Day Weekend, and inside what used to be Washington’s dining room “Thaddeus” sat and entertained a large group of captivated children. A tap dancing wooden figure, with large boat-like feet, swung his legs nimbly onto a plank to make a tune. I couldn’t help but smile just a bit, the music just managing to tune out the hokey vibe that ran through my stomach.
The small wooden toy, “Jim”, went from a Washington One-Step into a Tuscaloosa Two-Step. Thaddeus, holding Jim between his legs on a long wooden board, let him tap out a happy theme by gyrating it with Jim’s attached stick. As I stood there and watched, men walked by sweating profusely in woolen underwear, socks and navy blue army jackets, brass buttons shined and socks raised high into patriotic nether regions in celebration of the holiday. This was The Headquarters time to shine.
I plan on starting my story with a little blurb about my experience eating Ramen noodles when I was younger and then quickly flash forward to the college years when I started eating it all the time. Instead of focusing on myself in the piece, I want to focus on others. My suitemate stands out in particular because she has eaten organic her entire life, but resorts to Ramen on many occasions. I think it will be very funny and interesting describing her first time eating Ramen and then lead into her rationale. I plan on interviewing her today or tomorrow in order to add more to the beginning. Here goes for now:
It was a rare and special occasion when my sister and I were allowed to eat Ramen noodles for dinner. It was usually when our father was out of town for business and we could indulge in something quick and simple.
“There’s too much salt,” our mother would always tell us. Elaine and I didn’t know the difference. We just twirled the long noodles onto our forks as we would any other pasta. Then we used a spoon to drink the broth. Mmm mmm.
Flash forward to college...
Nicole has a nice, easy-to-read style, doesn't she? The lead does what it should do -- drop us into the middle of scene, introduces characters, and establishes an attitude. The only potential danger I see is that the story becomes more like a feature than like a literary journalism piece. But if scenes are the basic unit of the story -- rather than mere anecdotes -- that should be well avoided.
I haven't looked at these in a few days but I have to say that I definitely have some talented classmates that make me afraid to post my own crap. Kimmy-your intro immediately grabbed me. Jovan-As Kimmy said, I like the ambiguity of your intro--it piqued my interest in your story. I want to know what's going on! James-I always like reading your work because I think you have an interesting style of writing. I should probably go more in depth with these comments and include things about everyone's posting but now I'm dying to write and if I don't start RIGHT NOW I'll lose the mood :)
Alright, well...my story was supposed to be about a specific family or individual suffering before the recession and what it's done to them now. However, I'm afraid to do my research. That probably doesn't make sense, and I hope this intro doesn't make me come off as heartless because I am quite the opposite. I don't know where this is going to go from here, any suggestions would be appreciated...here goes:
“Here you go, guys,” I say as I smile overzealously and place the two cans of diet Pepsi and glasses of ice down on the table in front of the two middle aged men. The plumper of the two, the one with the black hair and mustache, feels the need to start a conversation with his waitress. “We just got back from delivering some food to a food pantry,” he says. As if on auto-pilot, I coo “That’s so great of you two. Things are getting so bad, it’s really sad.” They continue to talk, but all I can do is listen and smile while I feel guilty. I know I’m supposed to be researching for a story on the same topic, but I’m too afraid it will make me feel bad that I have been pushing it to the end of the responsibility list.
“I’m actually a journalism student,” I blurt out, as if to defend myself. “It’s funny, because I’m writing a story right now about food pantries and assistance programs and how bad things have gotten.” They nod their heads forward and smile approvingly. For some reason I feel better, despite the fact that I just blatantly lied. The only thing I’ve done to write the story so far is call the Dutchess Outreach center and not even bother to leave a voicemail for the coordinator. The picture on the center’s website of a small child with dark circles around his eyes holding a tray of food has made me feel horribly guilty for all of times I have complained about my own life, and selfish, because I want to forget he exists.
Here's the website, also, if anyone wants to check it out:
http://www.dutchessoutreach.org/
Tiffany, what's with the confidence issues? This has real promise, but I'd try to get to the point faster. Thus my edit (which might be a tad severe, but I hope you all get the point):
“Here you go, guys,” I say as I smile overzealously and place two cans of Diet Pepsi and two glasses of ice down on the table in front of the two middle-aged men. The plumper one feels the need to start a conversation with his waitress.
“We just got back from delivering some food to a food pantry,” he says.
“I’m actually a journalism student,” I blurt out. “It’s funny, because I’m writing a story right now about food pantries and assistance programs and how bad things have gotten.”
They nod and smile approvingly. For some reason I feel better despite the fact that I just blatantly lied.
The only thing I’ve done so far to write the story is call Dutchess Outreach. I didn't even leave a voice mail for the coordinator. And when I went to the center's website, the picture of a small boy with dark circles under his eyes holding a tray of food made me feel horribly guilty and selfish for wanting to forget he exists.
I am not sure how I really want to start my narrative. For my beginning I just tried to develop the scene. These are more first couple of graphs:
It was a dismal-looking building. Built back in the 1920s, it seemed more like a former prison than a former school. When I walked inside, I immediately smelled the stench of vomit. The odor was horrifying and caused me to gag.
Down in the basement, though, the scene was a lot more colorful; for it was there that the Lunch Box soup kitchen ran its daily services. Several rows of tables set up across the small cluttered room made up the bulk of the space, each with chairs running down both sides. In the back, a table was stacked high with packages of bread and a coat rack displayed suit jackets available for the taking. Like vultures, the clients of the Lunch Box (that’s what the staff referred to them as) hurried over anxiously trying to get their hands on as much as possible.
Spread out across the back of the room were several pictures depicting landmarks around Poughkeepsie area. These vibrant paintings, full of blue and yellow coloring, illuminated the room and gave the Lunch Box life. Accompanying these flamboyant images was a mural of Pocahontas, who seemed to be watching over all that entered. Also constructed with the use of bright, lively colors, these aesthetics seemed to brighten the mood of everyone who placed eyes on them. More and more the Lunch Box seemed more then just a place of refuge for those who were without food or shelter, but rather a welcoming place full of laughter and lively spirits. It was irony at its best.
A COUPLE OF THINGS FOR ALL OF YOU TO REMEMBER:
1) Often the most effective writing is writing that doesn't strain for effect. Say what you have to say as naturally and straightforwardly as possible.
2) Sometimes you reveal your feeling toward a subject in spite of yourself. Doug's opening comes off as contradictory in tone and message because he wants to seem sympathetic toward the "clients," but his genuine feelings are really quite the opposite -- as his imagery reveals.
3) Just include the details that are needed to move the story forward -- everything else is just clutter (the scene really bogs down, for example, with those pictures at the end).
It was a dismal-looking building. Built back in the 1920s, it seemed more like a former prison than a former school. When I walked inside, I immediately smelled the stench of vomit. The horrifying odor made me gag.
Down in the basement, where the Lunch Box soup kitchen ran its daily meals, several rows of tables were set up, each with chairs running down both sides. In the back, a table was stacked high with packages of bread. A coat rack held old suit jackets available for the taking.
Like vultures [NOT A VERY ATTRACTIVE OR SYMPATHETIC TERM OF CHARACTERIZATION],
The "clients," as the Lunch Box called the hungry and homeless men and women, hurried over, anxious to get their hands on as much as [AS MUCH WHAT?] possible. A mural of Pocahontas on the back wall seemed to be watching the scene with bemusement.
In Rodger's lead, the graf that professor Good pointed out, I would take it out. It took me a little while to understand why you did it. The writing and description was interesting, but it did kind of interrupt the story. There might be a way to slip in some of those details another way that don't just happen so abruptly. The story would be smoother without that graf.
I sat and looked at this blank comment box about 193819382 times this week and couldn't put the right words together so this is all I've got.
"Signing Off"
A few teary eyed exchanges in the station parking lot. Then it was like nothing had happened. The 6 o'clock newscast still aired. So did the 11 o'clock.
There were the newspaper articles and on-air announcements. The Capital Region was in uproar. "Shocked and dismayed" seemed to be the universal vocabulary of an outraged community.
And through it all was a station pretending like nothing had happened; like it hadn't let its best-rated anchor go. It turned the other cheek and nudged the last of the truly decent journalists down the drain.
This is a really crappy opening that is probably going to be changed. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to try to tell my story from as personal a viewpoint as possible, I'm just not sure exactly what that will be until I do my interviews over spring break. So, I think that my eventual lead will contain the raw emotion or unfiltered thoughts, reactions of a displaced news anchor, her colleagues and myself.
I'M NOT SURE WHAT'S HAPPENING HERE EXACTLY, NOT BECAUSE THE WRITING IS AWKWARD OR OBSCURE, BUT BECAUSE
IT INTENDS TO TEASE. . . MY ONE CRITICISM IS OF THE LAST SENTENCE, WHICH RESORTS TO CLICHE AND GROWS INTO A MIXED METAPHOR
REMEMBER THE READER SEES MENTAL IMAGES OF YOUR WORDS -- WHAT PICTURE IS CREATED BY THE LAST SENTENCE? OR BY YOUR LAST SENTENCES?
A few teary-eyed exchanges in the station parking lot. Then it was like nothing had happened. The 6 o'clock newscast still aired. So did the 11 o'clock.
There were the newspaper articles and on-air announcements. The Capital Region was in uproar. "Shocked and dismayed" seemed to be the universal vocabulary of an outraged community.
And through it all was a station pretending like nothing had happened, like it hadn't let its best-rated anchor go. THIS A BIT OF A MIXED METAPHOR: It turned the other cheek and nudged the last of the truly decent journalists down the drain.
We open some cheap champagne. Gold colored shrapnel from the bottle’s foil covering over the cork lay on the floor. I get handed a clear plastic disposable cup. The alcoholic glitter foams up to the rim. Staring at the erupting bubbles on the surface, I begin to sip down the holy water. Crude in taste, but elegant in design.
It’s Oscar night. Some would say this is their “superbowl” — a night of the American dream. People who have it all and then win a beautiful thing to commend them on how much better they are than all the other winners. The conquerors stretch out of Hollywood, though, as Washington becomes our national drama.
Barrack Obama is the indisputable leader of hope. At 6’ 2’’, born from a black Kenyan man and white, mid-western woman, he is the total package for a hope tornado. The naysayers thought America wasn’t ready for a black president, but they were wrong. He trumped the god fearing Alaskan piglet wearing lipstick and her 105 year-old, prisoner of war, borderline senile running mate. The odds were against Obama from the first shine of the spotlight. It was the rumble for the White House and Americans gulped it down in supersize servings.
WHILE THE INDIVIDUAL GRAFS ARE INTERESTINGLY CHISELED (THOUGH PLEASE NOTE SOME OF THE WORD EDITING I DID), IT'S UNCLEAR TO ME HOW THE GRAFS ARE RELATED. THESE SEEM MORE LIKE JOTTINGS THAN THE INTRODUCTION OR LEAD TO A STORY. NOW IT'S POSSIBLE TO TAKE EACH OF THESE GRAFS AND MAKE THEM EACH THE BASIS FOR A LONGER ENTRY -- SORT OF LOS ANGELES NOTEBOOK-STYLE.
We open some cheap champagne. Gold colored shrapnel from the bottle’s foil covers the floor. I get handed a clear plastic disposable cup. The alcoholic glitter foams up to the rim. Staring at the erupting bubbles on the surface, I begin to sip down the holy water. Crude in taste, but elegant in design.
It’s Oscar night. Some would say this is their “superbowl” — a night of the American dream. People who have it all and then win a beautiful thing to commend them on how much better they are than all the other winners. The conquerors stretch out of Hollywood, though, as Washington becomes our national drama.
Barrack Obama is the indisputable leader of hope. At 6 foot 2, born from a black Kenyan man and white, Midwestern woman, he is the total package for a hope tornado. The naysayers thought America wasn’t ready for a black president, but they were wrong. He trumped the god-fearing Alaskan piglet wearing lipstick and her 105-year-old, prisoner of war, borderline senile running mate. The odds were against Obama from the first shine of the spotlight. It was the rumble for the White House and Americans gulped it down in super-size servings.
Thwack. Smack. Slap.
How can one describe the sound of a hand hitting butt? Should it rest in the surprise of the woman’s face, the abrupt “oh!” as she realizes a hand is on her cheek? Should it be in the twinkle of blue eyes, hidden in long lashes and resting above a devilish smile that betrays the guilty party? Or perhaps in this case, it’s that grin and the bubbling giggle of a 12-year-old boy, knowing the waitress thought, like so many shocked waitresses before, that wheelchair-bound with drool on his chin and a seemingly vacant set of sky eyes, he wouldn’t bother her when she stood perilously close at his end of the table.
A boy with the bravado of a dirty old man. And ignored enough times to know just how to get others to notice him. Smack on, little brother, smack on.
I've been sorting through a number of versions of my story that I've been writing. I guess I'm posting this so late, because I can never decide on things, and I tend to think better late at night, especially when it comes to writing.
So far, I am somewhat interested in the theme of communication, perhaps language, between cultures--- as I explore my experiences abroad and returning home. Let me know what you think, criticize away, because nothing is too solid right now.
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I have never returned somewhere after being away for so long. It was as if I’d forgotten the way my doorknob feels - or the countertops, the sink of my mattress, and the cold tiled floor in the basement against my bare feet. I was frightened by how easily replaceable these things had become.
The plane lands. Eight hours and I’m on the other side of the world again. The toddler in front of me is rubbing his nose onto his mother’s face, giggling. I had just ordered my last legal beer. My eyes are dry as usual and I can’t seem to place my mind onto one of the many thoughts inside. I only move, off the aircraft.
The customs and immigration area looks more like a massive high school gymnasium than what I had expected. “Welcome to the United States of America,” reads the gigantic wall.
“And how long was your stay?’ said the blank-face officer.
“About four months.”
He handed my passport back over to me. Stamped and admitted.
I had woken up the previous morning on an air mattress next to a two shelves of books. My shirt was stuck by sweat to my body. I peered out the window. Gray. I rolled over. The cabernet was still open on the floor next to the Indian rug. At least we’d remembered to put the ice cream away. Apprehension rose in me as I watched him wake from sleep next to me. I really am bad at goodbyes, even though I always have the right words.
Being here, being away, had truly made me realize the imperfection of words. I hadn’t understood anyone on the streets for the past four months. I had been suddenly placed into seclusion, unless of course, I spoke and forced them to speak my language. My language had become so much more than a set of sounds and tongue movements. I now saw the barriers that exist even within a language, the lack of words, the cultural friction.
And then he woke, for real this time. His brown eyes cast up at the ceiling. We exchanged glances and he left for the shower. I saw up, staring again out the window, at the Østerbro lakes.
I was time to bring myself back. You know, when your head wanders off, or you tell yourself not to think about reality for a day or two. There were things to be done, a few more useless things to be packed.
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I'm still a bit confused about my structure... whether I want to do a series of vignettes, a simple progression or a narrative that sort of flows between disarranged scenes of time.
Every Wednesday, we give our offering and in exchange we get pre-packaged escape kits made of ink and paper. We take them home and spend hours poring over their pages. We watch our heroes fall in love, save the world and try to be normal. Sometimes we watch them die trying all three.
THE QUESTION HERE ISN'T ABOUT THE WRITING PER SE, BUT ABOUT THE STRATEGY OF BEING INTENTIONALLY VAGUE. I'M NOT EXACTLY FOR IT IN THIS CASE, AS I'M MORE PUZZLED THAN INTRIGUED, BUT I'D LIKE TO HEAR OTHERS' REACTIONS, AS MINE ARE HARDLY INFALLIBLE.
Every Wednesday, we give our offering and in exchange we get pre-packaged escape kits made of ink and paper. We take them home and spend hours poUring (sp) over their pages. We watch our heroes fall in love, save the world and try to be normal. Sometimes we watch them die trying all three.
TAREZ HAS A DISTINCT STYLE IN WHICH COMPOUND AND COMPOUND-COMPLEX SENTENCES TEND TO ABOUND, THE CLAUSES ADDING DETAILS, QUALIFICATIONS, HUMOR, EPIPHANIES. BUT IN SUCH A STYLE THE MAIN FOCUS OF A SENTENCE CAN GET BLURRED IF NOT CAREFULLY MANAGED. I'VE TRIED TO SHOW HOW TO MANAGE IT WITH A COUPLE SMALL EDITS.
Thwack. Smack. Slap.
How can one describe the sound of a hand hitting butt? Should it rest in the surprise of the woman’s face, the abrupt “oh!” as she realizes a hand is on her cheek? Should it be in the twinkle of blue eyes that betrays the guilty party (CAN A TWINKLE BE HIDDEN OR RESTING -- ISN'T THAT SELF-CONTRADICTORY)? Or perhaps in this case, it’s the grin and bubbling giggle of a 12-year-old boy, knowing the waitress thought, like so many shocked waitresses before, that beingwheelchair-bound and having drool on his chin, he wouldn’t bother her when she stood perilously close at his end of the table.
A boy with the bravado of a dirty old man. And ignored enough times to know just how to get others to notice him. Smack on, little brother, smack on.
THE ORIGINAL OPENING GRAFS OF THIS ONE SEEM TO RAMBLE. . . THEY'RE WARM-UP, NOT THE ACTUAL PERFORMANCE. . .NOW WE HAVE A COHERENT SCENE, THOUGH PERHAPS IT STILL COULD USE SOME SHARPENING:
The customs and immigration area LOOKED (WATCH YOUR TENSES, EVERYONE) like a massive high school gymnasium. “Welcome to the United States of America,” read (WALLS DON'T USUALLY READ -- ODD PHRASE) the gigantic wall.
“And how long was your stay?’ said the blank-faceD officer.
“About four months.”
He handed my passport back to me. Stamped and admitted.
I'M HAVING TROUBLE WITH THE TENSES OF THE SCENE. . . IT SKIPS THROUGH vARIOUS FORMS OF THE PAST TENSE WITH RHYME OR REASON; I'D REGULARIZE IT THROUGHOUT. . . THE MEDITATION ON LANGUAGE GOES ON TOO LONG FOR ME; IT GETS GNOMIC AFTER A SENTENCE OR TWO. . .REMEMBER THE READER NEEDS TO BE ORIENTED TO WHO'S THE NARRATOR, WHO ARE THE CHARACTERS, WHAT'S THE SITUATION, THE LOCATION. . . HEAR THAT EVERYBODY?
I had woken up the previous morning on an air mattress next to a two shelves of books. My shirt was stuck by sweat to my body. I HAD peered out the window. Gray. I HAD rolled over. The Cabernet was still open on the floor next to the Indian rug. At least we’d remembered to put the ice cream away.
APPREHENSIVELY I'd watched him wake next to me. I really am bad at goodbyes, even though I always have the right words. Being here, being away, had made me realize the imperfection of words. I hadn’t understood anyone on the streets for the past four months. I had been suddenly placed into seclusion -- unless of course, I spoke and forced them to speak my language. My language had become so much more than a set of sounds and tongue movements. I now saw the barriers that exist even within a language, the lack of words, the cultural friction.
And then he woke, for real this time. His brown eyes cast up at the ceiling. We exchanged glances and he left for the shower. I saw up, staring again out the window, at the Østerbro lakes.
I was time to bring myself back. You know, when your head wanders off, or you tell yourself not to think about reality for a day or two. There were things to be done, a few more useless things to be packed.
I was reading your entries during the weekend and was getting more and more depressed. All of your beginnings are great. You got the grasp of what you want to write about and push it forward. I seam to have a huge problem with that....
I wanted my story to be fluffy and funny but every time I try to write my first few lines it comming out as a heavy and ackward story.
And I don't even try to deny, that it make me very stressed to put anything up here, because I have never submitted even smallest piece of my writing to such a extensive criticism...
but here is what I stuck on (I better send it asap, before I log out again... such a chicken I am.....):
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The corridor was full of people. I tried to squeeze past them and be politely invisible at the same time.
"Is it the end of the queue?" I asked quietly. Few people turn they heads on the sound of my strongly accented english. No one answered, so I found myself repeating the question.
"Queue?" one of them said with irony "this is a end of LINE"
"Cut her some slag... she's foreigner?" someone tried to be nice. I couldn't believe I already got labeled. That was my first day in American Paradise.
The corridor was full of people. I tried to squeeze past them and be politely invisible at the same time.
"Is this the end of the queue?" I asked. A few people turned their heads at the sound of my strongly accented English.
No one answered, so I repeated the question: "Queue?" (sp)
One of them said in a voice thick with irony, "This is a end of LINE"
"Cut her some slack. (sp) She's a foreigner," someone else said.
I couldn't believe I had already got labeled on my first day in the American Paradise.
This comment is for Pierce and Prof. Good. I actually like the vagueness of his opening. When I first read it (forgetting what his topic was) I thought he was talking about a newspaper which put a completely different spin on it that I really enjoyed. I was excited when I remembered it was about comic books.
The first street kid I ever got to know was Sid Scumfuck.
I had just taken three hits of 30-times concentrated salvia, the legal hallucinogen that made most fall back into a vaguely giggling heap, but shot me through mental planes to a peak where I always felt compelled to announce exactly what was going on in my cracked-out dome. With the harsh forest-green smoke still in my lungs, I stepped out onto my porch with Matt, my friend of convenience for the summer, a 25-year old virgin who may or may not have been gay for me. When we plopped on the sun-braised, paint-chipped stoop, I felt an all-encompassing sense of community envelop me like Gak and I announced:
If this opening was a film trailer, I would try to visually manifest the feelings (as well as the...visuals) associated with a Salvia trip. The opening shot would be Matt and I exiting the house, with the friendly-painful edges of the salvia swirling and flashing around us. The cameras would be spinning stock slowly, so the final scene would be slightly sped up. There would be a lot of jump-cuts, which would decrease in frequency as the scene continued and the trip wound down. I would also be wearing a shirt that said
SALVIA!
in big block letters, because it would amuse me.
The first street kid I ever got to know was Sid Scumfuck.
I had just taken three hits of 30-times concentrated salvia, the legal hallucinogen that made most fall back into a vaguely giggling heap, but shot me through mental planes to a peak where I always felt compelled to announce exactly what was going on in my cracked-out dome. With the harsh forest-green smoke still in my lungs, I stepped out onto my porch with Matt, my friend of convenience for the summer, a 25-year old virgin who may or may not have been gay for me. When we plopped on the sun-braised, paint-chipped stoop, I felt an all-encompassing sense of community envelop me like Gak and I announced:
If this opening was a film trailer, I would try to visually manifest the feelings (as well as the...visuals) associated with a Salvia trip. The opening shot would be Matt and I exiting the house, with the friendly-painful edges of the salvia swirling and flashing around us. The cameras would be spinning stock slowly, so the final scene would be slightly sped up. There would be a lot of jump-cuts, which would decrease in frequency as the scene continued and the trip wound down. I would also be wearing a shirt that said
SALVIA!
in big block letters, because it would amuse me.
Sorry this is so late, but I was having trouble figuring out how I wanted to start this. so, here it goes:
Shot glasses and almost-empty liquor bottles littered the small black coffee table of the common room. Seven girls in pajamas sat around it giggling with the affects of the cheap rum and vodka in front of them.
“Never have I ever…had sex” said Emma, with a small smile. Four girls drank their shots and winced. Three didn’t. One blushed.
“I can’t believe you guys don’t have sex. It feels so damn good!” Kelsey yelled as she fell over onto the carpet stained from her rum and coke the night before. She made a fake sexual moan that sent all seven girls into fits of drunken laughter.
“Hey, I like my purity thank you very much!” Emma said, proudly as she flashed her silver purity ring she had purchased through her church years before.
FIXES INCLUDE PUNCTUATION, ETC.:
Shot glasses and almost empty liquor (TYPE?) bottles littered the coffee table of the common room. Seven girls in pajamas sat around it giggling with the effects (sp) of the cheap rum and vodka in front of them.
“Never have I ever…had sex,” said Emma, with a small smile. Four girls drank their shots and winced. Three didn’t. One blushed.
“I can’t believe you guys don’t have sex. It feels so damn good!” Kelsey yelled as she fell over onto the carpet stained from her rum and Coke (sp) the night before. She made a fake sexual moan that sent all seven girls into fits of drunken laughter.
“Hey, I like my purity thank you very much!” Emma said, proudly flashing the silver purity ring she had purchased through her church years before (when? IN HIGH SCJOOL? MIDDLE SCHOOL?).
Sorry this was so late. I was trying to decide on a place to start:
"I guess I was a big fish in a little pond in Florida. Now I'm going to be a little fish in a big pond in Denver!"
It was easily the tenth time I'd heard him say it. I was bus sliding across Missouri and Kansas and the drag queen with the inch long nails sitting behind me wouldn't stop touching me. We'd gotten on the bus at six in the morning in the five hours since then he hadn't spent a single minute not talking. Each time he said something he thought was important he'd grab the people around him for emphasis.
"You should see me do my Britney," He just wouldn't shut up. "It might even turn you queer."
For the last hour I'd had my headphones clamped tight on my head and been desperately trying to pretend that I was either sleeping or reading. Neither had worked.
Finally in the distance I could see Kansas city coming up over the plain.
Also I think that Pierce has a very good opening, though only because I know what he's going to be writing about. I think once there's a revel as to what's going on in the story the opening the opening will be fairly effective.
I think Roger's story is fantastic thus far.
For my opening, originally I was going to go with sort of a religous parallel. Hence the word "offering" in the opening. My original first line was "We are called the true believers." I didn't know if that would throw people TOO much though.
I was a little worried about posting but after speaking with Professor Good and having him look over things first, I've decided to post these two sentences, which were originally in between about three paragraphs of nothingness. And with that said, here are my opening words:
In an e-mail to the National Office
of the Knights Party -- a division of the Ku Klux Klan -- I wanted my words to be powerful and my message clear. In the subject box I typed “Fuck you and your beliefs.” That was backspaced. “What makes you better than the rest?” That was backspaced. “Greetings from a Nigger.” That one was contemplated and then backspaced.
I knew what I wanted to say, and I wanted to say it in a way that would make them listen.
-----------------
That's pretty much it for now. For the next few grafs I want to talk about my experiences with internet racism, including some direct comments from posters.
I also want to get that e-mail to the Knights Party going so that'll be included too.
Help!
I think at the least my first and second graf go together rather good. I mean, at least they could be included in the same section. I know what you mean about the LA notebook style. It does seem to be heading in that direction.
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