What do you reflect of the first two chapter of a book I'm writing?
I have a hard time getting started, but this is what I have. I'll introduce the characters within the next chapter I think. I like to write surrounded by prose. What do you think?
Chapter 1
Soft rainy overcast. That day where on earth the car ahead's brake lights blur six inches past the bumper through the window surrounded by the haze. Little droplets and their red borders creeping down those glass eyes like tears until they're wipe away. The red. It's good. It's the only color in a somber palette of gray. It's that winter rainfall, where the air smells like evergreen. Where when the drips drop on the dirt, the dry mist that rises is close to the dead raising their hands for give support to. The city sedated, the music quiet, something happens. The Usuals with their eyes on their three-stripe adidas tennis shoes look up. The Usuals, who own never played tennis, look around. At puddles on the ground and the walls that shield the crawling cars. Lack of shadows that make everything blend into a utopia of melancholy. The Usuals perk up for some reason. The world is changing stride, so should they, they think, they know, they act. Generics playing in the Usuals stereo. They turn it down. They suggest, they figure, they listen. They listen to the road. To the cars driving by them. How their cars bend like elastic backbone and forth every time a van goes speeding by. Today, they think. Today is the day that they break away, they deem. They know. They wish. The gray is too much. Eyes, half open, the Usuals sip their Folgers and assume. They look around, maybe for the first time in a week. Maybe a year. Maybe a lifetime. Foot alternating, pedal to pedal, stop go, stop dance, they look, they hope. They hope for a car accident. Maybe something graphic. Today, it's the daytime. Pretty soon the sun comes out and the brake lights damper, the droplets evaporate, the red is thrown back into the palette of supposed brightness. The Usuals, their half horizontal lips fold into the pissed past its sell-by date crescendo that they enjoy so much. The worms who lacked oxygen find their way to the sidewalk. They fry. The Usuals didn't consideration. The worms, whose lives ended so that the Usuals could see. They did, for a minute. They saw, they noticed, they hoped. And then they forgot. And consequently there will come soft rains.
Chapter 2
On the corner of Yale and Second is a school next to four hundred students. Ninth through twelfth grade, none of them can stand it for one second. It's one of those schools that, in the sixties when the Usuals built it for two hundred thousand dollars, must own looked futuristic. Now it looks dated and dusty, like a science exhibit from nineteen fifty six. The students share a similar sentiment. The teaching techniques be trendy when the school was brought up. Backhand rap-pings, public embarrassment, and other corporal punishment that individual a school with a reputation for discipline can possibly justify. Uniforms, punishment, a mass of mask disguising the very individuality that threatens to poison the foundation. Here is where a hero is born, that rises above the toxic air of tyranny and stands with chest puffed and gawks at the authority that attempts to enslave him. No such hero is bred contained by this place. No such hero is needed for the lives of all four hundred students to run smoothly and slyly, slipping between the gaps of their pencils and their ears, studiously awaiting the next weekend so they can carry consume whatever they can find and escape for a few hours. Monday morning is back to business, though. No questions asked. No such question are needed for the lives of the 16-1 ratio faculty members to smoothly run through their job. Why complicate things. Twenty ruler taps train the slobs for society. Twenty ruler tap to save the world.
Tuesday, the drizzle dampens the decks where the heaps wait for the bell to puncture their ears and hopes. Nihilism is instilled subconsciously in every wanderer nearby. They just have to reach the cessation. Just have to finish to Friday. No heroes, few people, but some remain, some resilient residents remain intact. They don't stand below the cover of the pathway between the two corridors. They stand in the cool rain and let their clothes seize wet. They look up into the sky and curse God and let the rain nose-dive on their faces and let it sting their eyes and let it net them uncomfortable. They smile a smile that is hard to outline. A smile that tells the masses that they are alive and they don't wait for Friday to live. No hero, no questions, just people. People are a necessity.
Answers:
oooo this sounds fundamentally interesting, seems like a end of the world type of book.
Fantastic. Keep writing.
Slow it down. The language may sound cool, but after give or take a few ten sentences of that stream-of-thought thing, it's just difficult to follow and very annoying. Keep it fixed. Use it for emphasis, or no one will want to read more than two paragraphs.
Speaking of paragraph, break every once in a while. It makes the whole point SO much easier to follow. And this doesn't matter a lot, but you have some massively short chapters going on here.
It looks interesting, but I honestly have no idea what is going on. Form your plot. Make it clear. You hold good description skills, just make sure you tone it down and agree to the reader know what's going on.
Good luck. :) Source(s): Experience.
I must articulate, that was extremely confusing. If you maybe didn't describe so many things adjectives at once, the plot might be a bit less convoluted
I must right to be heard it does sound interesting, but I believe you have far too much description going on. This leads to confusion and later the interest is lost. Please take no offense, I do see great potential. Hope I have helped you.
That was really good and interesting! I couldn't stop reading because of how interesting it was! But you inevitability to remove quite a bit of detail, there's so much I can't figure out what you were chitchat about! Nonetheless, you're a great writer! Good job!
Related Questions:
Is the 'childrens writers and artists yearbook' for writers who are children or for writers who write for chil?
dren?... http://www.whsmith.co.uk/CatalogAndSearch/ProductDetails-Childrens+Writers+and+Artists+Yearbook+2010+-9781408112410.htmli want to buy a writers and artists yearbook but dont know whether to buy the normal 'writers and artists yearbook' or the 'childrens writers and artists yearbook' could you explain to me what the difference between them is? The Children's Writers and...
Why are in attendance two covers for the book Warriors Rising Storm by Erin Hunter?
I have seen the cover with Fireheart and Cloudpaw within the center on the internet but never in real life. Mine have Fireheart and Sandstorm and thats the one I always see. Why is this? I'm pretty sure that the publishers thought that Cloudpaw was too cute and...
Chapter 1
Soft rainy overcast. That day where on earth the car ahead's brake lights blur six inches past the bumper through the window surrounded by the haze. Little droplets and their red borders creeping down those glass eyes like tears until they're wipe away. The red. It's good. It's the only color in a somber palette of gray. It's that winter rainfall, where the air smells like evergreen. Where when the drips drop on the dirt, the dry mist that rises is close to the dead raising their hands for give support to. The city sedated, the music quiet, something happens. The Usuals with their eyes on their three-stripe adidas tennis shoes look up. The Usuals, who own never played tennis, look around. At puddles on the ground and the walls that shield the crawling cars. Lack of shadows that make everything blend into a utopia of melancholy. The Usuals perk up for some reason. The world is changing stride, so should they, they think, they know, they act. Generics playing in the Usuals stereo. They turn it down. They suggest, they figure, they listen. They listen to the road. To the cars driving by them. How their cars bend like elastic backbone and forth every time a van goes speeding by. Today, they think. Today is the day that they break away, they deem. They know. They wish. The gray is too much. Eyes, half open, the Usuals sip their Folgers and assume. They look around, maybe for the first time in a week. Maybe a year. Maybe a lifetime. Foot alternating, pedal to pedal, stop go, stop dance, they look, they hope. They hope for a car accident. Maybe something graphic. Today, it's the daytime. Pretty soon the sun comes out and the brake lights damper, the droplets evaporate, the red is thrown back into the palette of supposed brightness. The Usuals, their half horizontal lips fold into the pissed past its sell-by date crescendo that they enjoy so much. The worms who lacked oxygen find their way to the sidewalk. They fry. The Usuals didn't consideration. The worms, whose lives ended so that the Usuals could see. They did, for a minute. They saw, they noticed, they hoped. And then they forgot. And consequently there will come soft rains.
Chapter 2
On the corner of Yale and Second is a school next to four hundred students. Ninth through twelfth grade, none of them can stand it for one second. It's one of those schools that, in the sixties when the Usuals built it for two hundred thousand dollars, must own looked futuristic. Now it looks dated and dusty, like a science exhibit from nineteen fifty six. The students share a similar sentiment. The teaching techniques be trendy when the school was brought up. Backhand rap-pings, public embarrassment, and other corporal punishment that individual a school with a reputation for discipline can possibly justify. Uniforms, punishment, a mass of mask disguising the very individuality that threatens to poison the foundation. Here is where a hero is born, that rises above the toxic air of tyranny and stands with chest puffed and gawks at the authority that attempts to enslave him. No such hero is bred contained by this place. No such hero is needed for the lives of all four hundred students to run smoothly and slyly, slipping between the gaps of their pencils and their ears, studiously awaiting the next weekend so they can carry consume whatever they can find and escape for a few hours. Monday morning is back to business, though. No questions asked. No such question are needed for the lives of the 16-1 ratio faculty members to smoothly run through their job. Why complicate things. Twenty ruler taps train the slobs for society. Twenty ruler tap to save the world.
Tuesday, the drizzle dampens the decks where the heaps wait for the bell to puncture their ears and hopes. Nihilism is instilled subconsciously in every wanderer nearby. They just have to reach the cessation. Just have to finish to Friday. No heroes, few people, but some remain, some resilient residents remain intact. They don't stand below the cover of the pathway between the two corridors. They stand in the cool rain and let their clothes seize wet. They look up into the sky and curse God and let the rain nose-dive on their faces and let it sting their eyes and let it net them uncomfortable. They smile a smile that is hard to outline. A smile that tells the masses that they are alive and they don't wait for Friday to live. No hero, no questions, just people. People are a necessity.
Answers:
oooo this sounds fundamentally interesting, seems like a end of the world type of book.
Fantastic. Keep writing.
Slow it down. The language may sound cool, but after give or take a few ten sentences of that stream-of-thought thing, it's just difficult to follow and very annoying. Keep it fixed. Use it for emphasis, or no one will want to read more than two paragraphs.
Speaking of paragraph, break every once in a while. It makes the whole point SO much easier to follow. And this doesn't matter a lot, but you have some massively short chapters going on here.
It looks interesting, but I honestly have no idea what is going on. Form your plot. Make it clear. You hold good description skills, just make sure you tone it down and agree to the reader know what's going on.
Good luck. :) Source(s): Experience.
I must articulate, that was extremely confusing. If you maybe didn't describe so many things adjectives at once, the plot might be a bit less convoluted
I must right to be heard it does sound interesting, but I believe you have far too much description going on. This leads to confusion and later the interest is lost. Please take no offense, I do see great potential. Hope I have helped you.
That was really good and interesting! I couldn't stop reading because of how interesting it was! But you inevitability to remove quite a bit of detail, there's so much I can't figure out what you were chitchat about! Nonetheless, you're a great writer! Good job!
Related Questions:
Is the 'childrens writers and artists yearbook' for writers who are children or for writers who write for chil?
dren?... http://www.whsmith.co.uk/CatalogAndSearch/ProductDetails-Childrens+Writers+and+Artists+Yearbook+2010+-9781408112410.htmli want to buy a writers and artists yearbook but dont know whether to buy the normal 'writers and artists yearbook' or the 'childrens writers and artists yearbook' could you explain to me what the difference between them is? The Children's Writers and...
Why are in attendance two covers for the book Warriors Rising Storm by Erin Hunter?
I have seen the cover with Fireheart and Cloudpaw within the center on the internet but never in real life. Mine have Fireheart and Sandstorm and thats the one I always see. Why is this? I'm pretty sure that the publishers thought that Cloudpaw was too cute and...