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Author Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___  (Read 198216 times)

Aylokat

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1845 on: June 30, 2018, 02:49:33 am »

A review with emphasis on the plot would be welcome, but focusing on any aspect of the text would be greatly appreciated.

Spoiler: Review (click to show/hide)


I'll try and write a bit next week without inspiration, post it up here and see how much the quality drops.

I am curious to see what it will be.
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Dark One

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1846 on: June 30, 2018, 03:32:15 am »

The text was pretty rough and rushed even for a concept outline. It's always good to get a review of the first, rough and ready version.

My writing is still full of those quirks that come from writing simple concepts. I'll have to work it out.

Rowanas

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1847 on: July 22, 2018, 05:29:06 am »

So, I was going to write without inspiration but I ended up having a dream.  To my credit, the dream wasn't very long and so most of what follows is proper writing, rather than inspiration-led.

I didn't have a name for the character, but after a few thoughts, I settled on Ide (pronounced EED), which happens to be the name of a little village nearby. I liked it, so I used it.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)
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I agree with Urist. Steampunk is like Darth Vader winning Holland's Next Top Model. It would be awesome but not something I'd like in this game.
Unfortunately dying involves the amputation of the entire body from the dwarf.

Aylokat

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1848 on: July 25, 2018, 03:27:11 am »

So, I was going to write without inspiration but I ended up having a dream.  To my credit, the dream wasn't very long and so most of what follows is proper writing, rather than inspiration-led.

The paragraphs being next to each other makes it difficult to differentiate them, and there are some minor grammatical errors (like one “i’m” not being capitalized) but they are not consistently made—did you proofread or edit this?

The only major problem is that it is too condensed. Things being detailed as they are referred to, such as the bandanna and helmet, make reading awkward and distract from both the action and the object. The progressive tense is constantly used to stack several actions and events onto a sentence which muddles the purpose and erodes any sense of time.

It makes little sense for Ide to recount the history of vehicles to herself. Those parts work better as objective narration (the conversational interjections make it less believable) and as their own paragraphs. The same goes for any other world-building. The ideas are interesting and would be done justice by detailing them separately.
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Rowanas

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1849 on: July 25, 2018, 04:54:06 am »

I rarely go back through what I write because I catch most spelling and grammatical errors while writing, though reading back through it now I can already spot some clumsy sentences and small errors.

I don't have an issue with dense text, so I think I have a tendency to ignore paragraph spacing, which I know you complained about with the previous posts as well.  Density in general seems to be an issue, both in format and in description - I know I overuse the progressive, though I don't know how to fix that.  Separate descriptive paragraphs bother me, which is why I try to weave descriptions into the fabric of another active sentence, though I acknowledge that that might be detracting from the action.

It's interesting that you consider Ide's musings unbelievable, because they're taken from the manner in which I detail things in my head.  I will consider your feedback for another draft.

Cheers.

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I agree with Urist. Steampunk is like Darth Vader winning Holland's Next Top Model. It would be awesome but not something I'd like in this game.
Unfortunately dying involves the amputation of the entire body from the dwarf.

Aylokat

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1850 on: July 25, 2018, 09:45:34 am »

I rarely go back through what I write

Writing as all art is made great by refining and polishing. Quite a few interesting findings lie that way, in my experience. I recommend it.

Quote
I know I overuse the progressive, though I don't know how to fix that.

It sounds like the problem is too much information and not enough sentences to spread it over. I will state the obvious and say that more sentences to attach the descriptions to is a solution.

Quote
It's interesting that you consider Ide's musings unbelievable

The conspicuous notes that what Ide is thinking might not be true is what makes the information unbelievable. If all but a few parts of the narration are in absolutes of truth, then logically those parts must be false to a degree.

But yes, it is odd that Ide is distracted from the pirates chasing her by a review of engineering. And is that not also a separate paragraph of description?
Say, if Ide had an opportunity to use a Burner Bike then her thinking about its construction and its dangers would be pertinent. You would at least have a direction to go if you were to go forward conceiving situations to incorporate things like that.


By the way, the quality did not drop. I think it is safe to say that you do fine without much inspiration from a dream.
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Rowanas

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1851 on: July 25, 2018, 01:42:05 pm »

I read things through over the course of months, like when I came to post up my previous works, I reread them.  I just don't reread them immediately.

Hah, yes, the solution to overcrowding -is- more sentences. Prepare for my next piece to be a little bloated, as I overstep :D

You make a good point there.  Ide's probably not as given to floating off mid-thought, and yes, as I intend to show if I write up some more, a great deal of what she "knows" is incorrect.  It should also be a separate paragraph.
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I agree with Urist. Steampunk is like Darth Vader winning Holland's Next Top Model. It would be awesome but not something I'd like in this game.
Unfortunately dying involves the amputation of the entire body from the dwarf.

Rowanas

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1852 on: July 30, 2018, 07:50:55 am »

Damnit, footnotes from word don't carry over to forum posts, so the bit explaining about generator fans and the sad tales of rail-guards, of burner bikes and icestriders are all missing.  i'll come when i've got more time and put them back in. Here's another version, although formatting was also lost and I'm short on time (lunchbreak is over) so I put in paragraph breaks where I saw them - sorry if I missed one.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)
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I agree with Urist. Steampunk is like Darth Vader winning Holland's Next Top Model. It would be awesome but not something I'd like in this game.
Unfortunately dying involves the amputation of the entire body from the dwarf.

Aylokat

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1853 on: August 03, 2018, 06:30:11 am »

Spoiler: Rowanas (click to show/hide)
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roseheart

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1854 on: April 20, 2019, 03:26:53 pm »

There are lots of numbers, the greatest one is 6.
A Short Story

How many stars are in the sky, Grandpa? 6. Really? There must be more. Count them yourself! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, ... there, another star! No, you counted that one already. There--- 6, just like I said, don't frown at me child. The truth is often simple.

But Grandpa! Yes child? I have more than 6 fingers! Show me. See! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and on this hand ... Ah, ah ah. That's a different hand. But. You have 5 here. And 5 here. And 2 hands. But, if I count them together. You can't! Left fingers are different than right fingers, that would make no sense! Now Grandpa is tired.

But Grandpa! I have more than 6 hairs! Really? Count them. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, ... and another! No, you already counted it. Child I grow weary of your nonsense. But Grandpa! What? Nothing.

I have all these hairs. And there are more on my head. Those are pulled hairs, and those are hairs on my head.

Th4DwArfY1

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1855 on: April 20, 2019, 04:26:53 pm »

Nice to see this thread used again!
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Halaratha

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1856 on: May 09, 2019, 07:24:07 am »

There are lots of numbers, the greatest one is 6.
A Short Story

How many stars are in the sky, Grandpa? 6. Really? There must be more. Count them yourself! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, ... there, another star! No, you counted that one already. There--- 6, just like I said, don't frown at me child. The truth is often simple.

But Grandpa! Yes child? I have more than 6 fingers! Show me. See! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and on this hand ... Ah, ah ah. That's a different hand. But. You have 5 here. And 5 here. And 2 hands. But, if I count them together. You can't! Left fingers are different than right fingers, that would make no sense! Now Grandpa is tired.

But Grandpa! I have more than 6 hairs! Really? Count them. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, ... and another! No, you already counted it. Child I grow weary of your nonsense. But Grandpa! What? Nothing.

I have all these hairs. And there are more on my head. Those are pulled hairs, and those are hairs on my head.

Thanks for sharing! I enjoyed this even if it's not what I'd typically read. Maybe the message of the story is unclear to me, or maybe I'm easily bored but the repetition beyond the first two sections of counting didn't add much more to me. Beyond that the big one - speech marks for each character to differentiate who's speaking would really help me on a first glance. Cheers!
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Th4DwArfY1

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1857 on: May 09, 2019, 09:26:04 am »

Spoiler (click to show/hide)
« Last Edit: May 05, 2020, 05:25:49 pm by Th4DwArfY1 »
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Halaratha

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1858 on: May 09, 2019, 02:59:41 pm »

I'd love to see a version of this where Illien isn't merciful - I think that would be an interesting twist.
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Mistake not my current state of joshing gentle peevishness for the awesome and terrible majesty of the towering seas of ire that are themselves the mere milquetoast shallows fringing my vast oceans of wrath

Halaratha

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Re: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___
« Reply #1859 on: May 15, 2019, 04:52:46 am »

Hey hey , sorry to double - post. I wrote the beginning of a story based on Plot Armour (the way main characters can't die to a nameless goon for example). The premise is that if you say this litany, your life is thereafter owned by the Gods who write for as long as your story lasts.
===III===

 Amril the Damned.


“Scribe, Vixen, Key, Hammer, Reader let it be now as it once was,” he whispered. The pull at his chains stopped and he stopped with it as hands turned him roughly the right way. Just remember the words. Don’t shaft the order. Say it right. Ignore the rest. Just like Kinter told you. “Take me into the black. Rend my fate from the unknown chaos-” the blindfold came off then. “-bring me to Order and choose me for your work.”

He squinted through the blue-tint of the castle courtyard. It was Igor van Delte before him, shrouded in the morning. Goddamn Igor van Delte of all people there standing opposite in the gravel that dug into your naked heels and made wet sloshes as you sunk in. Igor van Delte had shoes. Igor van Delte had medals.

What comes next? For fuck’s sake. There was a deep set pit down somewhere in him now. And he tried his best. Two more lines came to him through the memories of those afternoons in red cloaks and bronze gauntlets. “For though I am not worthy, and I’ve given no time or effort of my own, I make now my plea and offer my pledge to be a man of the pages for as long as you so shall desire.”

He looked out onto the high walls and the pale white morning sky that felt so wrong. Something fell and grated and the weight fell off him. He felt lighter. The chains were off. He rubbed his wrists.

“It’s been a fine few weeks, Amril. A fine few. Farewell.”

He recognized the voice. It was the one he’d played cards with, who he’d taken for six gilded bears and two silvers that he still had somewhere in his pockets. ‘You’re a right cheat, Amril. Where you’re going you don’t need money’. To which he’d said ‘go on then, wage me for the cell key. Go on. I dare you’, and the guard had only laughed, and given him another contraband beer. Yttriy was it? Guard Captain Yttriy? The limping frame shifted off to one side and didn’t look back. It was him.

“I am your hero, or your villain. I am yours to keep or to kill. To the Scribe I pledge to never presume my actions mine own. I thank Him for his Trials. To the Vixen I pledge to never sink but to try with all my might as She has done to save our lands. By the Key-”

 And then what? What about the key? When did I last hear this litany? In the high steppes? When? Eight years? Ten? More? People dreaded the litany there. They knew what it meant to say it, and to really mean it. The litany to the Gods of Black and White. It was High Armourer Kinter who’d given him the words out there in the sparse woods where the grass grew thin and the granite rocks jutted out like giant barbs on the hills between the pines. Three left. The Key pledge, the Hammer pledge and the Reader.

“Never start it unless you plan to finish. They are the Gods of Black. Never say it in vain. Better men than you have, and you’ve heard how that ends,” Kinter had said.

“Thank you for your faith in us, High Armourer, and for all your help,” Amril had replied then. “Gods willing it’ll be a short war. I’ll do as you commanded, and the Armourers will always be welcome in our King’s council.” But it hadn’t been a short war. The siege had gone wrong, hadn’t it? It was before he’d known.

He could remember the way the High Armourer flung his hood back, surrounded by the boulders and the hills and pines and then slapped him, a colonel with all his finery, on the back so hard that he jingled. “Well now. That’s enough pledging and honour and swearing. Let’s go eat. The food’s shit down in Polto, and shitter the further you go.”

“That’s the least of my worries now,” said Amril.

“And that’s the most heretical thing you’ve said all day.”

But now the row of soldiers parted and he was back here, now, with half a litany in the castle courtyard. And van Delte stepped through the salutes towards him with his sword at his side and a flask.  He stepped up to the prisoner and blocked out the sun, then held something out. It was the flask. He took it from Igor van Delte and felt it burn deep heat all the way down. Brandy. Good brandy. Al-Zadrian brandy.

“You’re a sad-looking prick aren’t you, Amril.”

He took a break from the flask and wiped his face. It burned. It was worst where it all scabbed over. They weren’t deep cuts. They’d heal. If only he’d had time to let them heal. “Piss off.”

“Those your last words? To me? After everything? Piss off? Have an imagination, Colonel Amril and don’t die a sad prick behind enemy lines.
You’ve had days to prepare. Give them something they can at least write songs about.”

“Die? I was hoping you’d got me out in front of your nice people with their sub-standard rifles to give me a pardon.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Now it makes sense why you got the good brandy out. Go on.” Amril tossed the empty flask aside. “Let’s do it then. Get it over with.”

“I wanted to tell you I think you’re a humorless bastard,” said van Delte.

“A real achievement to be considered that by you, animal-fucker.”

“I’ll miss you, Amril. You know you almost got me at the Derne Bridge? I saw you up there, maybe not fifty paces.”

Amril shrugged. “I need a piss. Either kill me or don’t.”

Van Delte turned. So he whispered when he was sure the man who’d recognize at least some of the words wouldn’t hear.

“By the Key I pledge to know my place and remember I will end, for it has the power to give and take away, to add and to annihilate.”

The man clad in navy splendour reached the line of soldiers who looked almost unreal here in the sunlight, their faces dark, all alike. Mirrored. Please. Please let me be right. The order was given and the riflemen reloaded. The bolts slid home on fresh rounds. Rounds stolen from his munitions. I’ll die by my own damn bullets. Amril focused on the closest man. Two pledges. You have only two. “By the Hammer I pledge to forge my path, to bring glory and joy to the Gods of Black and White as the hammer brings to the arena.”

“Aim!” The rifles came down level and it was then that van Delte’s sabre gleamed a white crescent in the blaze of the sun.

“And to the Reader I pledge my memory, and stand before them naked in all that I am.” Amril stepped forward, arms outstretched.

“Fire!”

And the line detonated. The rifles struck the rounds and bulged as they tried to fire. They ignited. And the build quality never was quite right, was it? In a split second steel buckled and eviscerated the men firing into a red cloud as the ammo turned defective and ripped itself free through the steel and slammed its way through flesh. How deep can we go? Through your skull? Your eyes? Out through the top of your head? How deep? Can we make it all the way through? Can we? Now Amril has plot armour. You can’t kill him, you don’t have names in this story. And only someone with a name who’s a main character can kill him. Just like Kinter said. When he said the words his fate was sealed in black and white. For better or for worse, he’s a plaything of the Gods who write. The Gods of Black and White.

And Amril watched as the faces of his firing squad melted in shrapnelled metal and heard the screams and the guttural chokes. There was one man standing. There. Third from the left. One is always given a blank cartridge, isn’t he? It’s a tradition, isn’t it, that one man is not the executioner. And Amril forgot about the gravel, ran and barrelled through him past the bayonet to wrestle it free. One rifle. I need just a clear shot. He yanked the rifle and buried the bayonet deep into the last man. Black chunks fell and slopped from the wound as Amril roared and pulled the bayonet through with chalk-board vibrations where it jammed into bone and held. He reloaded and fired. The man’s torso exploded into chunks that wrenched the bayonet free in a sickening crunch. He reloaded again. It was empty.

Of course it will be empty, thought Amril. That would be too easy. So he dropped the gun and ran, and wasn’t surprised when there was a horse in the stable saddled or when the gate happened to be open. You’ve done it now, Amril. You’re the Scribe’s plaything now. And the Scribe is writing, oh yes. He’s tapping the keys, though they’re not any keys you’ve ever seen. He’s taken notice of you, Amril. The moment you started speaking the litany he started writing your fate. And he won’t stop until either you’re dead or the story is done.




« Last Edit: May 15, 2019, 05:04:15 am by Halaratha »
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Mistake not my current state of joshing gentle peevishness for the awesome and terrible majesty of the towering seas of ire that are themselves the mere milquetoast shallows fringing my vast oceans of wrath
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