My Novel - should I continue?

Raiser

Prologue

At the first kick Seamus sat bolt upright in his bed – he knew exactly the sound an athlete’s foot ridden foot shod in KGB issue boots made when kicking a front door in suburban Dublin, and he didn’t like it one bit. So! he thought angrily - Rodriguez the Rat had sang like a Canary after Vasquez had whispered to the Colombians, who then had very obviously leaned on Ramirez and now the Reds are here to shred me like a Frog that has been puréed in a man-sized blender on high for 25 to 30 minutes.

Seamus decided to move quickly. As he passed the front door searching for his cleanest pair of underpants he observed that it flexed and strained precariously with each kick, the hinges creaking and groaning like sports day on the arthritis ward. As he again passed a few minutes later with a box of food for his Budgie he was disappointed to see that the situation had not since improved - the door pulsated, the Russians cursed vehemently and the Budgie squawked indignantly in protest at Seamus’s choice of Tesco value bird seed which the poor bird knew gave him gas and Budgie piles.

Seamus knew that there wasn’t much time left before capture, interrogation, torture and a slow, undignified and excruciatingly painful death. With a steady hand he set his breakfast tray - a croissant, dry white toast and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The newspapers were concentrating solely on the negatives, the markets were in turmoil and the 7-day weather forecast was wetter than an Otters testicles; suddenly the bleakness owned the night and Seamus paused for a moment to reflect on just how shít this particular situation was, especially in direct comparison to other more pleasant ones. Situations such as when you meet a gorgeous girl and she has beautiful Pixie eyes and the light touch of a Fairy but then you get her home to bed and suddenly she's a goblin.

Seamus swallowed the last of his breakfast and without delaying for an instant threw open the rear window of the back bedroom and disappeared silently into the inky night with only one thing on his mind - cruel revenge on each of his enemies in turn, returning to rescue his flatulent Budgie and putting €50 on Striped Pyjamas to win the 3.30 at Punchestown sponsored by Harvey Normans.

I

Carlos glanced idly in the Homebase mirror which he had bought the previous March in a "Mad March" 20% off retail promotion. Curious, he wondered whether his odd foreign looks and the permanent scowl etched onto his face had been passed down as an ironic chromosomatic gift from his ancestors as some form of retribution for prior unknown sins.

He hefted a Panasonic retro walkman with auto-reverse in his right hand and cursed softly under his breath when he discovered it was several grams too light to use as a weapon - "Fecks sake" he said as he added two Ever Ready AA sized batteries to the little battery compartment housed within the plastic casing that enveloped the electronic innards of his badly dated personal and portable musical device.

Suitably armed, Carlos picked at his hairy third nipple in an agitated fashion before he glanced at his calculator watch and for the thousandth time silently thanked Maxol and Brendan Grace for a great promotional campaign that made the 80's worth remembering. He then left for town and as he carelessly let the door swing behind him, he failed to notice the complete closure of said fitting was interrupted by a craftily placed toe - a toe clad in the type of footwear a vengeful Chinese Ninja might wear when hanging upside down outside a depraved Hitman's front door in Dublin City.

Carlos grimaced and broke wind before heading into the retail chaos that inevitably occurs on a typical Saturday morning. Fate collides with karma and suddenly he spots Vasquez through a plate glass window laconically eating a McBreakfast with a John Player Blue smouldering in one corner of his mouth like a chimney, only smaller and not constructed out of masonry. Moving quicker than an epileptic Mongoose with diarrhoea, Carlos strode into the capitalistic and morally dubious franchise to immediately kill Vasquez. A cool and clinical killer, Carlos only stopped to order and consume a Big Mac and fries so as not to arouse the suspicion of the Customers or the Staff, including the area Manager who was a Tralee Native now living in Naas.

Stepping cooly up to the table, Carlos carefully flipped his Duran Duran cassette to side B before bringing all of the force of his right arm into a lethal swinging arc, like Tiger Woods on Crystal Meth but without the golf club. Carlos laughed as a medley of Duran Duran's 80's hits played over the the agonised squeals of Vasquez who then went on to gurgle and blow desperate, reaching blood bubbles before fatally suffocating in his own deep red life fluid.

geuro

well.. No.

bakkiesbotha

Yes, definitely. It's good.

turgon

Im not going to say yes or no, such responses aren't actually that constructive. So just a few points:

If one has to re-read a sentence then that sentence is bad. I had to re-read a couple of your sentences, particularly the first paragraph. Writing should have a "flow" and not be a battle to read.

Tied in with this is the fact your sentences are probably too long. Writers like Virgina Woolf are unbelievable at long sentences, however, if in doubt shorten it down.

Finally, I think your regionalizing too much. Things like "Tesco" "Tesco value" "Maxol" "Brenden Grace" "Punchestown" and "Harvey Normans" will mean little or nothing to people outside Ireland and/or Britain.

Icebladeaskante

If you really want to continue it continue it.
I will say that I found it difficult to read because of the amount of description in it. You don't have to prove to the reader that you know the world your writing in, i mean does athele's foot ridden feet even make a different sound than a normal foot when in a KGB boot?
Also slightly unnatural is the fact that he stops to have breakfast, read the newspaper and feed the budgie while what is presumably big muscular Russian's are trying to break in the door.
Finally in the first chap is 'Carlos flipped his Duran Duran cassette to side B before bringing all of the force of his right arm into a lethal swinging arc like Tiger Woods on Crystal Meth and without the golf club.' are they still in MacDonalds? its never said. and why has Josh got to die?

Raiser

geuro wrote: »

well.. No.

My novel - Should I continue? In your case Geuro the question was entirely rhetorical!!!!

- Only joking - learn to love my work.

bakkiesbotha wrote: »

Yes, definitely. It's good.

You've always been such a wise and worthy contributor on these Forae Mr. B - I note that here, once again, your judgement is worthy, concise and gifted.

turgon wrote: »

Im not going to say yes or no, such responses aren't actually that constructive. So just a few points:

If one has to re-read a sentence then that sentence is bad. I had to re-read a couple of your sentences, particularly the first paragraph. Writing should have a "flow" and not be a battle to read.

Tied in with this is the fact your sentences are probably too long. Writers like Virgina Woolf are unbelievable at long sentences, however, if in doubt shorten it down.

Finally, I think your regionalizing too much. Things like "Tesco" "Tesco value" "Maxol" "Brenden Grace" "Punchestown" and "Harvey Normans" will mean little or nothing to people outside Ireland and/or Britain.

Thanks Turgon I'll make the necessary re-writes ASAP and hopefully lubricate the prose through judicious editing. Re. the regionalisation, I do take your point - perhaps a Glossary might serve well in this regard?

Icebladeaskante wrote: »

If you really want to continue it continue it.
I will say that I found it difficult to read because of the amount of description in it. You don't have to prove to the reader that you know the world your writing in, i mean does athele's foot ridden feet even make a different sound than a normal foot when in a KGB boot?
Also slightly unnatural is the fact that he stops to have breakfast, read the newspaper and feed the budgie while what is presumably big muscular Russian's are trying to break in the door.
Finally in the first chap is 'Carlos flipped his Duran Duran cassette to side B before bringing all of the force of his right arm into a lethal swinging arc like Tiger Woods on Crystal Meth and without the golf club.' are they still in MacDonalds? its never said. and why has Josh got to die?

Icebladeaskante I was sincerely touched when I noticed your post count of 1 that you have seemingly joined Boards.ie to assist me in writing "this raw and engaging debut novel, a seminal work, an absolute tour de force" (New York Times - [forecast])

In the more remote regions of Northern Siberia the air is especially cold and dry, this environmental factor serves to exacerbate certain skin conditions, and in particular athletes foot. This fact is known to our hero and coupled with his additional prior knowledge that the door-kicking fiends had been imprisoned for some time in the neo Gulags and are thus weakened pysically - he makes an informed decison and starts the day by wearing some reasonably clean underwear, tending to his pet and having a balanced and nourishing breakfast before making good his escape.

Yes Josh does die in McDonalds, I cannot say why, as to do so would reveal a sudden and vigorous plot twist so severe it carries a health warning from the Chief Medical Officer of the United States due to a very real risk of dislocating your 3rd and 4th vertebrae.

pickarooney

It's almost as if you were inspired...

Icebladeaskante

You seemed to miss my point. 1) Athlete's foot is not something that makes a person weaker. its itchy as hell, but does not weaken someone. if their time imprisoned for some time in the neo Gulags has weakened them the reader does not know this from the fact that they are Russian and have athlete's foot.
2) Your mc in the prologue originally shows panic at the sound of his door being kicked in and then with that feeling of panic not having visibly left him to the reader continue's to eat breakfast. My point was you were giving the reader all the wrong information and none of the right one.

Also if the mc in the first chapter buys breakfast so not to arouse suspicion why would he then precede to kill someone in the same resturant. I'm not trying to dishearten you i'm just trying to show you a readers point of view, which might have led to geuro's post.

Dragan

In all honesty, it's trying to be too clever and too descriptive. You are making smart assumptions as an author because in your head it all makes sense...i am not sure your actual writing carries it over though. A re write would be in order. Also, less long roaming sentences would be better....after two references most readers will actually stop given a ****, either because the references are ****e or not even close to as clever as you want them to be.

It's like you read a Robert Rankin book and wanted to use it's style in Dublin.

PurpleBee

Why bother with a, should I continue thread? If you don't know yourself then you might aswell continue till you realise it's just not going to work. And if you never realise...then join the queue.

Matt Holck

do you have bigger plans?

Patricide

Turgon and Dragon both hit the nail on the head I think. When I was in secondry school the best thing a teacher ever tought me was that 3 short descriptive sentances work much better than one big long one.

I also think that there is such a thing as too much description, a lot of those lines read as if it were described by a person with ocd. There seems to be too much emphasis on detail and not enough on moving the story forward IMO.

Im no expert like, im actually an english student drop out but thats my 2 cents as reader.

Raiser

Hi All - Thanks for all of your comments, to be honest I cannot really disagree on any front - some great points well made. I hope to have a full re-write in place shortly.

For the moment Chapter II has been added below as I cannot edit the first post any more due to the recent restrictions on Boards.

Your input is sincerely appreciated.

Prologue

At the first kick Seamus sat bolt upright in his bed – he knew exactly the sound an athlete’s foot ridden foot shod in KGB issue boots made when kicking a front door in suburban Dublin, and he didn’t like it one bit. So! he thought angrily - Rodriguez the Rat had sang like a Canary after Vasquez had whispered to the Colombians, who then had very obviously leaned on Ramirez and now the Reds are here to shred me like a Frog that has been puréed in a man-sized blender on high for 25 to 30 minutes.

Seamus decided to move quickly. As he passed the front door searching for his cleanest pair of underpants he observed that it flexed and strained precariously with each kick, the hinges creaking and groaning like sports day on the arthritis ward. As he again passed a few minutes later with a box of food for his Budgie he was disappointed to see that the situation had not since improved - the door pulsated, the Russians cursed vehemently and the Budgie squawked indignantly in protest at Seamus’s choice of Tesco value bird seed which the poor bird knew gave him gas and Budgie piles.

Seamus knew that there wasn’t much time left before capture, interrogation, torture and a slow, undignified and excruciatingly painful death. With a steady hand he set his breakfast tray - a croissant, dry white toast and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The newspapers were concentrating solely on the negatives, the markets were in turmoil and the 7-day weather forecast was wetter than an Otters testicles; suddenly the bleakness owned the night and Seamus paused for a moment to reflect on just how shít this particular situation was, especially in direct comparison to other more pleasant ones. Situations such as when you meet a gorgeous girl and she has beautiful Pixie eyes and the light touch of a Fairy but then you get her home to bed and suddenly she's a goblin.

Seamus swallowed the last of his breakfast and without delaying for an instant threw open the rear window of the back bedroom and stepped silently into the breaking dawn with only one thing on his mind - cruel revenge on each of his enemies in turn, returning to rescue his flatulent Budgie and putting €50 on Striped Pyjamas to win the 3.30 at Punchestown sponsored by Harvey Normans.

I

Carlos glanced idly in the Homebase mirror which he had bought the previous March in a "Mad March" 20% off retail promotion. Curious, he wondered whether his odd foreign looks and the permanent scowl etched onto his face had been passed down as an ironic chromosomatic gift from his ancestors as some form of retribution for prior unknown sins.

He hefted a Panasonic retro walkman with auto-reverse in his right hand and cursed softly under his breath when he discovered it was several grams too light to use as a weapon - "Fecks sake" he said as he added two Ever Ready AA sized batteries to the little battery compartment housed within the plastic casing that enveloped the electronic innards of his badly dated personal and portable musical device.

Suitably armed, Carlos picked at his hairy third nipple in an agitated fashion before he glanced at his calculator watch and for the thousandth time silently thanked Maxol and Brendan Grace for a great promotional campaign that made the 80's worth remembering. He then left for town and as he carelessly let the door swing behind him, he failed to notice the complete closure of said fitting was interrupted by a craftily placed toe - a toe clad in the type of footwear a vengeful Chinese Ninja might wear when hanging upside down outside a depraved Hitman's front door in Dublin City.

Carlos grimaced and broke wind before heading into the retail chaos that inevitably occurs on a typical Saturday morning. Fate collides with karma and suddenly he spots Vasquez through a plate glass window laconically eating a McBreakfast with a John Player Blue smouldering in one corner of his mouth like a chimney, only smaller and not constructed out of masonry. Moving quicker than an epileptic Mongoose with diarrhoea, Carlos strode into the capitalistic and morally dubious franchise to immediately kill Vasquez. A cool and clinical killer, Carlos only stopped to order and consume a Big Mac and fries so as not to arouse the suspicion of the Customers or the Staff, including the area Manager who was a Tralee Native now living in Naas.

Stepping cooly up to the table, Carlos carefully flipped his Duran Duran cassette to side B before bringing all of the force of his right arm into a lethal swinging arc, like Tiger Woods on Crystal Meth but without the golf club. Carlos laughed as a medley of Duran Duran's 80's hits played over the the agonised squeals of Vasquez who then went on to gurgle and blow desperate, reaching blood bubbles before fatally suffocating in his own deep red life fluid.

II

It was New Years Eve in a sumptuous Mansion in the Mountains above Buenos Aires and the sounds of festive fireworks filled the night, sounding for all the World as though several Gunmen had lost their reason. Cynthia Rodriguez slipped her short, figure hugging silk dress over her curves in one deft movement before paying the mirror a final cursory glance. It was clear both by the expression on her face and her body language that she already felt assured of her own sensuous beauty and absolute desirability. Searching for a misplaced diamond solitaire earring she made the final minute adjustments to her appearance. It could be stated as absolute fact that Cynthia was one of the Worlds most coveted and pursued Women. It could also be said that through virtue of her appearance and her universal hypnotic effect on the most basic urges of Mankind, Cynthia had absolutely no idea that an erect penis had an alternate state.

Cynthia's hair was as black as the small hollows beneath a Ravens wings. Her skin the colour of a Latte with an indulgent splash of cream, while her full, bow-shaped lips were a strikingly deep ruby red colour. Her eyes were orange - but just for that split fraction of a second as they were lit by the muzzle-flash from the automatic handgun in Seamus's right hand. A cold-blooded murder lost in the noisy chaos of an Argentinian New Year. As she slumped to the floor Seamus noted that perhaps the only accessory Cynthia hadn't been able to quite carry off was a haemorrhaging bullet hole in her forehead. This dark thought pleased him and he allowed himself an indulgent laugh as he picked up her mobile phone.

Fifteen seconds after sending Carlos Rodriguez a picture of his dead wife, Seamus was striding purposefully towards the anguished howls emanating from somewhere to the upstairs rear of the house. He expected neither opposition or flight, having learned through experience that ventilating the cranium of a loved one will almost always negate any concerted opposition thereafter. Carlos pleaded for a swift and merciful death and he would no doubt have gotten one if he hadn't made an enemy of Satan's favourite child on Earth. For years afterwards the locals argued in the Taverns about the source of the anguished, eerie howling that was often heard in the mountains, each man indignant, sure that only his story actually told the truth.

bakkiesbotha

In fairness, an erect penis is an erect penis. It doesn't have an alternate state. A penis however...

davyjose

If he could hear Carlos howl, how come Carlos couldn't hear the gunshot? Or didn't react to it? I don't get that.
I liked this bit though:

he noted that perhaps the only accessory Cynthia hadn't been able to quite carry off was a haemorrhaging bullet hole in the forehead

Raiser

bakkiesbotha wrote: »

In fairness, an erect penis is an erect penis. It doesn't have an alternate state. A penis however...

Hmmm - This needs careful consideration and potentially years of debate. I am not convinced as of yet though

davyjose wrote: »

If he could hear Carlos howl, how come Carlos couldn't hear the gunshot? Or didn't react to it? I don't get that.
I liked this bit though:

Thanks Senor Jose - I've had to tweak the plot timeframes across the entire novel to make this particular episode occur in late December. This will in turn mean that Julia's wedding happens in early Spring.

davyjose

Raiser wrote: »

Thanks Senor Jose - I've had to tweak the plot timeframes across the entire novel to make this particular episode occur in late December. This will in turn mean that Julia's wedding happens in early Spring.

That ... doesn't answer my question at all. :pac: Ah i'm sure you know what you're doing. Good luck.

Raiser

davyjose wrote: »

That ... doesn't answer my question at all. :pac: Ah i'm sure you know what you're doing. Good luck.

Sorry David, perhaps I could and should have been a little clearer on the above reply - The entire chapter has since been rewritten as occurring on New Years Eve. Carlos does actually hear the fatal gunshot but attributes the cacophony to festive revellers discharging fireworks.

Thanks again for your insight and good judgement.

fintonie

why was he eating his breakfast in the night time :eek:

Its WAY too overwritten for my tastes, and overly descriptive.

It's almost exhausting to read in places!

Nonetheless, all the best to you.

Raiser

fintonie wrote: »

why was he eating his breakfast in the night time :eek:

Inky night edited out - action brought forward several crucial hours to place breakfast in its proper cultural and habitual context.

- This unfortunately means that Seamus misses his Ferry and later kills 5 Polish ship hands in a knife fight outside a bar on the Docks.

fintonie

Raiser wrote: »

Inky night edited out - action brought forward several crucial hours to place breakfast in its proper cultural and habitual context.

- This unfortunately means that Seamus misses his Ferry and later kills 5 Polish ship hands in a knife fight outside a bar on the Docks.

jasus a bit over the top for just missin his ferry, he should see someone about that.;)

Patricide

I think your best bet is to give the first two pieces a rewrite before going on any further. Otherwise your going to be bombarded with s much critisizim its just going to put you off altogether.

fintonie

if you were able to sit down and get it right first time we would all be at it, keep er lit im looking forward to the next chapter you seem to have the stuff in your head and with a bit of reworking it, job done.

Dragan

I would agree with rewriting what you currently have before going further. Believe me man, i know it's a pain in the bollix. I don't know how many times i've gone through that initial "finding the feet" with a story. It is worth it though, the long term affect in the writing will mean it's stronger and more consistant.

One thing i will say, don't let the "style" of the writing intrude too much on the characters "style" of thinking. Each character you have, to be individual in the story...needs to have a slightly different thought process. If all their thoughts are described in the same style as the main story...it all blends together and they loose their indiviuality.

As an example, this is the Prologue for my current writing project. As you can see it's fairly short and descriptive. The thought process of this character at the moment is fairly simple and to the point. She's been here before, she's secure. In later chapters, as she gets further and further out of her dept, more and more scared, he thought process changes...so the writing changes ever so slightly to show that.

The Grotesque
Prologue


The dream was the same as it had always been. She opened her eyes to find herself in the hallway of a great house. It was old, neglected. Dust hung in the air and covered the floorboards beneath her feet and the odd smell of damp and decaying wood hit her in the back of the throat as she took her first breath.
She looked straight up at the huge staircase that rose up into the house. As the stairs grew higher they seemed to twist and change, ignoring the laws of sense and physics until they twisted in upon each other seeming to lead nowhere. She had tried to climb them before but always woke long before reaching where ever they might lead to.
She turned around just as the grandfather clock behind her gave the final tick towards Midnight, raising her hand towards the battered old clock. The hands stopped and a hush grew around the house, seeming to pour into every room, down every corridor. It was always Midnight here, she thought, time for a change. The hands on the clock began to speed forward, drawing in the hours as the night brightened and sunlight poured in the windows. It seemed to wash away the dust and decay and suddenly the house was beautiful again, picture perfect and noble once more.
Once again her eyes moved upwards towards the staircase, it still twisted and grew into itself, refusing to bend to her wishes even here. She gave a sigh and walked down the corridor, footsteps echoing behind and ahead of her. The house was still empty and she was still alone. She wondered if anyone else came here when she was gone. She had dreamed this place twice or three times a week for the last 3 years and it was always the same, always empty, always lonely.
She reached the back door and it opened for her, light and air flooding into the house as she step outside onto the soft cruch of gravel. The whole horizon bleak and bland, gravel and rock as far as the eye could see. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, tiny lines creeping across her forehead as she concentrated on the task at hand. Suddenly, beneath her feet grass began to bloom and spread outward in tendrils of green. It slowly expanded and soon flowers and bushes followed, springing up all around her. Suddenly, the earth began to shake and fully grown tree's exploded upwards, showering the flowers in a spray of dirt and mud.
Her work done she sat and waited, closing her eyes and straining to hear the sounds of life through the hush. She could hear nothing, not even an animal or bird and most definitely not a human. Every night she came here and changed this world and yet every night she was destined to witness it alone. She sighed, deep and lonely and walked back to the house. She entered one of the bedrooms downstairs and climbed into the bed that was there, closed her eyes and tried to wake up.

This time it was different.

She couldn't wake up and there was no one there to hear her screaming.

bakkiesbotha

Raiser wrote: »

Hmmm - This needs careful consideration and potentially years of debate. I am not convinced as of yet though

A penis can alternate between erection and flaccidity and still be a penis.

An erect penis has to be erect or it ceases to be an erect penis and becomes a flaccid penis.

Anyway, the point really is that you don't want your reader puzzling over these phrases to see if they make sense.

Raiser

bakkiesbotha wrote: »

A penis can alternate between erection and flaccidity and still be a penis.

An erect penis has to be erect or it ceases to be an erect penis and becomes a flaccid penis.

Anyway, the point really is that you don't want your reader puzzling over these phrases to see if they make sense.

Stop.

Think about this quite seriously.

In light of what the Intarweb has grown and developed into.

- Do you really want to be known as an online penis expert???

Fabulosa

"Moving quicker than an epileptic Mongoose with diarrhoea"


Hmm.

Your problem is that you are probably a funny guy (though the above isn't that funny, but maybe thats just to me). You think up all these witty wisecracks and find them irrestible. But when I go to read it, I just get distracted thinking about an epileptic mongoose and struggle to keep up an interest in your story.

When I really enjoy a novel I barely even notice I'm reading it because I'm away running a movie in my head. All the wisecracks made that impossible for me. In fact it reminded me of an awful chick-comedy writter called Kathy Lette who can't seem to express herself without giving every image a punchline. Terrible stuff.

Also, comedy, or any writing, works best when you make it recognisable. I'm not terribly street wise these days but are there coke dealers in Dublin called Carlos from Columbia? Of course its possible, but its oh so cliched... keep it real(er).

But the positives... you have great pace and energy and you clearly can write.

My advice: resist the trap of the witty one-liner.

LiamMc

I believe every writer should keep it going.

Grievous

keep going dude.

never give up.

If this is something you love doing and are passionate about keep doing it.

I believe the guy who wrote madame bovary took 5 years to finish that story. Sometimes writing only 2 pages per week.

ChickenScratch

It's too try-hard for me. I haven't even figured out the story yet.