Sample from potential novel - please comment on

heinrichaussler

Guys, something I'm working on; won't give to much background, but he's unemployed and out of cash having (semi-)purposely thrown himself into unemployment. He's now considering a (possibly) shady endeavour with a guy who he got drunk with gave him a phone number one night.

At this point the appeal of unemployment, and the "freedom" that goes with it has finally worn off.

(Also, please note, I've added a few descriptive sentences, just to give this passage credence, such as Mr. Rogers, the ****er who interviewed me, got me pissed, and told me I didn't get the job, had written the night before" would have simply been "Mr. Rogers" and his actions described elsewhere.)

(One final consideration, the style I'm going for is not too dark -- although some of the concepts are: murder, hookers, etc -- but the protagonist's view is generally lighthearted .. he's a messer; this is simply one of his darker realisations)

Without a job, I felt as though I was starting to evaporate. There was very little else about me. And given that my previous job, to me, represented absolute misery incarnate, the sense that my life was circling the drain was ringing in my ears like a 5 A.M. alarm call.
I had no hobbies and I had no vocation. I hated school, every bit of it. Chemistry class wasn't so bad, but even in my teens I knew that there was almost nobody who'd pay me to burn **** with a bunsen burner for the rest of my life. I had played sports as a teen, and might have gone to the special Olympics had I been retarded, but I wasn't. I just played like I was.
My only escape came in a pint glass, but that too was beginning to feel like a trap; my life had been unbearable when I worked at Goldman's, and the first few weeks of laying about, wasting my time, and my money as a drunk had been fun – days shot by like minutes, and my problems lay under a glaze of adolescent giddiness. But more and more I began to feel empty, like a shadow or a ghost; when I woke up in the morning, it felt like everything that had happened the day before was just something I'd watched on TV (and the programming execs really needed to be fired, or shot). The temporariness of my hideout was beginning to show itself.
Of course that didn't mean I would stop. Just like I hadn't when I got fired for drinking on the job. But I was starting to realize that the bubble of protection that alcohol abuse had given me from the horrors and snarling heartlessness of corporate life wasn't protecting me from anything now. It was just a place I was going every day because once upon a time it was nice. Like Atlantic City.
It wouldn't last long anyway. I had a handful of dollars left from my windfall. The elation from that gift from above had long since redesigned itself into regret. I had made plans, but ended up drinking and ****ing away most of it. All I'd really gotten was a few weeks rent out of it, paid in advance (not so much a rare display of common sense, but more to get Janine off my back – she was starting to suggest “we could come to some arrangement”, which was even giving my creeps the creeps), but time was nearly up on that now too.
I needed a job. I mean I really ****ing needed one. Not just because I was a week from ****ing Janine for an extension on my rent, but also because my life was fast becoming a Cure song.
So I found the pants I'd worn to the interview/got drunk with my interviewer in/vomited on, and dug inside the pockets. I had to **** around for a while to find it – I pulled out a few dimes, one half of a torn dollar, a bloody tissue – and then I found it, I wadded up slip of paper. And on it was the number Mr. Rogers, the ****er who interviewed me, got me pissed, and told me I didn't get the job, had written the night before, while drunk off his fat, well-paid ass.

grunge_kid

i have to say i found this very good ! i really enjoyed it !
you have serious talent and i think this would defiantly make it

Deliverance

I enjoyed reading this. It kept me reading all the way through. There is an inate talent for writing in this. It flowed really well. As a reader I started reading it with a cynical point of view but I read it happily till the end.

It is a nice piece of writing with an understanding of human nature. Good work.

LiamMc

i think it's fine. There's no problem with it.

reality

I liked it but I'm glad you say that this dark/whingey tone doesn't carry through the whole story as it'd probably rattle me a bit after an hour of reading!

redapple

I think its great. Very punchy.
Where is it set though? I mean Its slightly mixed signals with 'Pints" and dollars etc. I know its probably set in the states but I was reading it like he was an Irish lad.

Enjoyed it though.

heinrichaussler

redapple wrote: »

I think its great. Very punchy.
Where is it set though? I mean Its slightly mixed signals with 'Pints" and dollars etc. I know its probably set in the states but I was reading it like he was an Irish lad.

Enjoyed it though.

Set in the US - in a midwest city. They have pints there too, although they're small.

Thanks for all the feedback guys. Gonna add some more now.

heinrichaussler

And here it is: it's part of the same story, but not directly succeeding the last part. I have the full story in my head, but am writing it in pieces. i haven't written much in years, and my main goal is to get comfortable with my style, and just get back into it, and try to improve my writing. I guess that's what we're all doing, but I feel I know I'm not quite ready to fire off a novel that I'd be proud of - getting there though.

I was sitting in the airport bar at Chicago O'Hare, drinking steadily. The price for a beer was crazy – 6 bucks and change; I could get a meal for that. But I didn't want a meal, so I kept ordering them, and kept paying for them. Besides, the place was plush, unlike the typical dinge-holes I'd been patronizing of late. When I ordered my first drink, they gave me a bowl of nachos and salsa – free food! – this kept me fed, and so I could pretend I'd just spent fifty dollars on dinner and drinks, and not just an ass load of beer (the ability to lie to oneself is an important tool in the fight against self-hatred and loathing); they also supplied a little paper coaster with every beverage, so that my laptop, or Blackberry, or the sleeves of my Armani suit wouldn't get wet in the beer-slop that dribbled off the edges of my fifth drink. I didn't have a laptop, or a Blackberry, and my suit was certainly not Armani, but I appreciated the gesture. The best thing about the bar, however – and they didn't have this kind of thing downtown – was the TV. It had CNN, and ESPN, and although the sound was way down and I couldn't hear a thing, they had the courtesy to scroll all the words the announcer was saying that I couldn't hear across the bottom of the screen. So instead of staring dolefully into my rapidly-emptying glass, wondering how many more I'd need before I'd stop lamenting my shambolic existence, I could instead get the college football results (who knew, maybe I'd even see a mention of my old buddy Julius).
I went for a piss, and when I came back, the barman had switched to CNN. I was a little disappointed by this – I was kinda hoping I'd get to see some of the Colts game before my flight. I realized then I was spoiled, and could never go back to three dollar beer in those downtown ****-holes.
Then suddenly the lady on CNN starting talking about a spate of Murder's that had taken place back in Indianapolis, and my interest piqued. She said that seven bodies had now been found. All in their early thirties. I ****ing froze, and thought of that night with Lucy.
“Could you turn that up, please?” I asked the barman.
“Huh?”
“I live in Indy; could you turn the sound up? I wanna hear about these murders.”
“Oh yeah, sure,” he said reaching from the remote control. “That's a weird situation you guys have going on down there.”
Was it? I hadn't heard a ****ing thing about this. Why hadn't I heard about this?
The news-lady went on to explain that at least six of the men had been found in the exact same state: a gunshot wound to the back of the head, and naked from the waist down. They were still waiting on news of the seventh guy.
Holy ****. I'd been spooked when Lucy had told me I was going to be killed – who wouldn't be, when a streetwise hooker tells you your murder is imminent in the early hours of the morning in a big city? But it had worn off after a few days, like everything does.
Now there was evidence, people – people just like me – were actually dead, so what the ****? Was I really going to have been murdered? Was there a link between that night, and these seven deaths? And if there was, what implications did that pose about Lucy, a girl I'd ****ed and fantasized about?
Part of me felt that there was no way she'd be involved in anything like this, but then the logical part of me took over, and it said, “you don't really know her at all, and what you do know is that she's a street-corner hooker, and yeah that doesn't mean she's a bad person, and maybe you're right, that she's a wonderful, beautiful girl, who simply fell through the cracks of society, and found the only way she could of having a soft landing, but on the other hand … she's street-corner hooker. One who had first hand knowledge that you were about to be murdered.” I was disturbingly sober now. I could feel my pulse thumping off my chest; I was frightened, and freaked out, and I was immeasurably angry at Lucy, but worst of all, I was disturbingly sober now.
“Some ****ing psycho you guys got there,” the barman said, shaking his head, before pouring another Whiskey Sour for the Armani-clad go-getter three stools down from me.
“You think?” I wanted to tell him, “Well guess what, I ****ed that psycho, and paid her sixty bucks for the pleasure.” But I didn't, because he might have stopped serving me alcohol. So instead I bought another thirty dollars worth of beer, and missed my flight.

pickarooney

You can improve your writing later, just finish the story, I'm intrigued now.

heinrichaussler

pickarooney wrote: »

You can improve your writing later, just finish the story, I'm intrigued now.

You've hit the nail on the head there Pickarooney. I want to drive the plot along at this point, and work on mistakes (like the pint-glass example) and badly written parts afterwards. Cheers.