A Life In Pieces, I Suppose. -- Comment

heinrichaussler

I was 17 when I was last happy. I was young, innocent and stupid, but still happy – and hey, maybe those are the reasons why. My biggest problem on the planet was Bob, my older brother. Bob was awesome, and he got on great with people, and I think he liked me a lot. Most of all, he was popular, and I f*cking hated him for it. Nevertheless, I was a smiling happy young little bastard, whose biggest problem was his f*ckhead older brother (who was really quite nice).

My dad struggled to smile, quite often; he held his hatred of our freedom close at hand, but never quite wielded it. “I wish I could leave my body,” he said to me once, as we drove to collect some organic vegetables from a wholesaler who lived out in the countryside. He’d decided that a macrobiotic diet would be a good way of accompanying the chemo. Chemo-f*cking-therapy and purity? Yeah right, you may as well get Keith Richards to piss on your dinner before eating it for all the good chemo and a macrobiotic diet would give you. Still I went along, because my dad rocked, and I’d nothing else to do.

I was dying for a piss at the funeral. So I ran to the nearest secluded spot; a hedge, about two minutes sprint in an ill-fitting suit down the gravel path from the grave. I just started shaking off as they lowered the coffin. I couldn’t f*cking believe they weren’t going to wait for me. But then I suppose there wasn’t a hell of a lot of things in my life that had. Nothing waits for you. If it does, it’s diseased or crazy. Anyway, I made it, sweating and puffing on a mild October day, in time to throw the first fistful of muck on him. Score!

She’d left, but I didn’t give a f*ck. I did a bit, but I decided a beer would make me 100% not give a f*ck. I gave a f*ck a few weeks later – she’d left many times, and returned, but not that time. I was distraught, so I had a few more beers. They helped. I stayed in touch with her but I knew I’d stretched her beyond her limit. Our relationship was a worn and straggly elastic band, with little divots along the side, and the consistency of stale cheese. Eventually I never saw her again.

Bob’s wedding was great. He was so happy, so proud. As best man, I made a speech. It got some laughs, and nobody walked out. So that’s good. My Mam cried, she cried and hugged Bob and Jennifer. Jennifer looked beautiful. I remember how hard it was for Bob. “Poor Bobby”, I remember thinking, at the funeral, and through the sickness, and everything. And then he finished his degree, got a new job and a new car, and he seemed better. I stopped hating him when Dad died because he needed my care. He took it so badly.
not like me.

My child was born two days after my 28th birthday. She weighed seven pounds, three ounces and her name is Claire. I met her twice. I went to visit her a week after her birth, and I saw her again, by accident, in Stephen’s Green Shopping centre. Her Mother spotted me second – obviously. I told Claire I was her Daddy and she smiled at me, I told her I loved her and she laughed. Her Mother didn’t. She looked frightened. That’s only fair; I never loved her Mother. I love Claire.

I’m not gonna break up with Louise anymore. I love her; I definitely do. She’s got such a kind heart and she’s great fun. We fought a lot; we’ve said a lot of words. I know, oh man do I know, that you cannot go back to the sweetheart days once you make someone cry, not like I’ve made her cry. But you can make it work. You can love someone in spite of all that. We’re not cameras or vases, and when you drop us we don’t just stop working. Sure, we’ve got the dents and the bruises, but we still get to be loved, we still get to be happy, don’t we?

turgon

I do like, but if this is going to be the complete thing then I would try and get a bit more connection going between the paragraphs. I knows its "in pieces" but thats not an excuse to jump here there and everywhere!

heinrichaussler

turgon wrote: »

I do like, but if this is going to be the complete thing then I would try and get a bit more connection going between the paragraphs. I knows its "in pieces" but thats not an excuse to jump here there and everywhere!

Thanks for the input turgon. I suppose the gaps -- the seperate paragraphs -- were supposed to jar the reader somewhat. The link was to be hidden somewhere between each paragraph. The message was in the disjointedness.

The fact that you can slowly, gradually, through bad times and happy times ,see someone unravel is appealing to me as a subject. I know I haven't perfected that, but it's something that intigues me; the subtlety, yet stragely the forcefulness, of change.

As you suggested it's not the entirety, but it's close to; I was looking for a neat and tidy loop, but it wasn't quite forthcoming today, and I just wanted to test the water. Again thanks for your advice

Edit: missed a "gap" in the translation from ms word to here - maybe made some confusion.

stevejazzx

turgon wrote: »

I do like, but if this is going to be the complete thing then I would try and get a bit more connection going between the paragraphs. I knows its "in pieces" but thats not an excuse to jump here there and everywhere!

Disagree. Gaps are good particulalry in this piece with this style. Readers like to to fill them in, it's clever way to get people involoved in the emotions of the characters.

Nice work although if you could give the main character a little background then I might be able to empathise with him more. He seems so cold, too cold.

Livvie

Nevertheless, I was a smiling happy young little bastard

Doesn't need "young" as you already said you were young.

And if you'e always smiling, it's obvious that you're happy - so maybe "I was a happy little bastard, and always smiling."

I like your style though.

Fabulosa

"I knew I’d stretched her beyond her limit. Our relationship was a worn and straggly elastic band, with little divots along the side, and the consistency of stale cheese."

Absolutely love that bit!

You sound like a right bollix though. Particularly in the paragraph about the meeting in Stephens Green. IF that was a piece of fiction you could have great fun with that MC, make him a righteous psycho. (Its not though, is it?)

But generally your piece was too disjointed. And a bit oblique up top.

You should work each paragraph into a short story or chapter. Have you read 'Another Bull**** Night in Suck City'?

Your piece reminds me of that.

heinrichaussler

Guys, thanks so much for your input. It's pretty much perfect criticism. It really is. It's not trying to drown me, it's: "you're afloat, and here's how to make it home".

Livvie, you are right. Not only does it over empasise the point, but it's badly punctuated.

Stevejazzx, yeah, I can se the coldness. It's a short story -- a very short story, but a character I'm working with (there's a lot of me in him,but I'm not even remotely cold), and I'm hoping the coldness will ballance out as a character. Like Rob in High Fidelity, for instance, or Shane from Apathy.

Fabulosa, thanks. That was exactly what I was going for. Again, it's the development of a character who comes good (although my nasty side keeps fighting. Ha ha - afterall, a character isn't good unless he's flawed - ergp, interesting).

But, there's a real sense of constructive criticism on this piece, and I appreciate that so much. Thanks guys. I hope this forum is always this helpful.

Poppy78

Really liked this piece.

I think I used to go out with this bloke, which shows how real you managed to make him in a few short paragraphs.

I thought it concise, getting so many big ideas across in such little space, which gave it a poetic feel. The flow was also quite poetic. The only bit that broke it up for me was this line,

"I know, oh man do I know, that you cannot go back to the sweetheart days once you make someone cry, not like I’ve made her cry."

I don't know if the phrasing is a bit akward or there are too many commas, but I had to re-read to get the meaning.

Otherwise there is a lovely clarity to your writing.

godspal

Yeah right, you may as well get Keith Richards to piss on your dinner before eating it for all the good chemo and a macrobiotic diet would give you. Still I went along, because my dad rocked, and I’d nothing else to do.

This seems to contradict what you just said about the dad resenting the narrator's freedom.

Okay, I gather its the character's dad's funeral, is he in denial? or is he just ignorant of the attitude he should show? or is he just an *sshole?

The fourth paragraph once again contradicts the narrators previous statements because you dedicate the longest description to the staleness of his marriage, therefore he either resents the marriage's disillusionment or he is trying to cover up his hurt pride. Its confusing.

The marriage ceremony again contradicts something the narrator said earlier, "I was 17 when I was last happy." you said the death was handled better by the narrator than Bob but the narrator hasn't been happy in years.

The last paragraphs are also contradiction of you saying how aloof the character is.

Now I do like the decriptions, they are very direct and poginant. And if you are trying to depict the character as a person full of contradictions, drop the disjointed style, it makes the story non-sensical, you have to develop the reason why these contradictions ring true, not merely state them.

davyjose

godspal wrote: »

This seems to contradict what you just said about the dad resenting the narrator's freedom.

That's the complexity of human emotion IMO. The fact is, albeit perhaps less so when you're young, you can adore someone and simultaneously see their faults.

One of my favourite pieces on here OP.

afaphoenix

heinrichaussler wrote: »

I was 17 when I was last happy. I was young, innocent and stupid, but still happy – and hey, maybe those are the reasons why. My biggest problem on the planet was Bob, my older brother. Bob was awesome, and he got on great with people, and I think he liked me a lot. Most of all, he was popular, and I f*cking hated him for it. Nevertheless, I was a smiling happy young little bastard, whose biggest problem was his f*ckhead older brother (who was really quite nice).

My dad struggled to smile, quite often; he held his hatred of our freedom close at hand, but never quite wielded it. “I wish I could leave my body,” he said to me once, as we drove to collect some organic vegetables from a wholesaler who lived out in the countryside. He’d decided that a macrobiotic diet would be a good way of accompanying the chemo. Chemo-f*cking-therapy and purity? Yeah right, you may as well get Keith Richards to piss on your dinner before eating it for all the good chemo and a macrobiotic diet would give you. Still I went along, because my dad rocked, and I’d nothing else to do.

I was dying for a piss at the funeral. So I ran to the nearest secluded spot; a hedge, about two minutes sprint in an ill-fitting suit down the gravel path from the grave. I just started shaking off as they lowered the coffin. I couldn’t f*cking believe they weren’t going to wait for me. But then I suppose there wasn’t a hell of a lot of things in my life that had. Nothing waits for you. If it does, it’s diseased or crazy. Anyway, I made it, sweating and puffing on a mild October day, in time to throw the first fistful of muck on him. Score!

She’d left, but I didn’t give a f*ck. I did a bit, but I decided a beer would make me 100% not give a f*ck. I gave a f*ck a few weeks later – she’d left many times, and returned, but not that time. I was distraught, so I had a few more beers. They helped. I stayed in touch with her but I knew I’d stretched her beyond her limit. Our relationship was a worn and straggly elastic band, with little divots along the side, and the consistency of stale cheese. Eventually I never saw her again.

Bob’s wedding was great. He was so happy, so proud. As best man, I made a speech. It got some laughs, and nobody walked out. So that’s good. My Mam cried, she cried and hugged Bob and Jennifer. Jennifer looked beautiful. I remember how hard it was for Bob. “Poor Bobby”, I remember thinking, at the funeral, and through the sickness, and everything. And then he finished his degree, got a new job and a new car, and he seemed better. I stopped hating him when Dad died because he needed my care. He took it so badly.
not like me.

My child was born two days after my 28th birthday. She weighed seven pounds, three ounces and her name is Claire. I met her twice. I went to visit her a week after her birth, and I saw her again, by accident, in Stephen’s Green Shopping centre. Her Mother spotted me second – obviously. I told Claire I was her Daddy and she smiled at me, I told her I loved her and she laughed. Her Mother didn’t. She looked frightened. That’s only fair; I never loved her Mother. I love Claire.

I’m not gonna break up with Louise anymore. I love her; I definitely do. She’s got such a kind heart and she’s great fun. We fought a lot; we’ve said a lot of words. I know, oh man do I know, that you cannot go back to the sweetheart days once you make someone cry, not like I’ve made her cry. But you can make it work. You can love someone in spite of all that. We’re not cameras or vases, and when you drop us we don’t just stop working. Sure, we’ve got the dents and the bruises, but we still get to be loved, we still get to be happy, don’t we?

Hi a story so rich in pain, passion and love, Good luck with it
A