He grunts. A tight knot of frustration burns in his throat. Wordless and inexplicable. He takes another sip of ale.
so good at character voice. says the girl who knows fuck all about the characters. but still. sounds like the movie. has the same kinda tone. IMPRESSED.
It’s a pity, he thinks, to have come all this way, and to only be granted enough wisdom to see your own hypocrisy, rather than to find the strength to undo it.
oh, right. not only are you good with the language, but actually using it to SAY something. i've read a lot of flowery shit, and it's nice, yanno. sometimes. sorta. but what's the point?
And abruptly, he thinks of Sally and the way she used to move with a sort of startling lightness, hips swaying, eyes glimmering. Alight with the glory of her own youth—and aware of it enough to revel in it.
SERIOUSLY. WRITE A BOOK. YOU'RE TOO GOOD NOT TO.
One. Two. One. Two. He’s fallen into a rhythm, now, almost like a trance. The loud fwap-fwap of fists snapping against the punching bag, the sound of the bag itself battering back and forth, and the cottony tap-tap¬s of his bare feet patting out a boxer’s dance against the mat—all of it a familiar tempo.
broken record, i know, but DETAILS. SO GOOD AT THEM. it's like i'm there. but i'm not. and i hate boxing, but i love this. so.
And Hollis wonders, briefly, if the universe aligns itself intentionally to create such glimpses of multifaceted irony, or if these sorts of things just happen by accident.
srsly, you were just fucking w/ me about the not-being-sure-about-the-writing-stuff, yeah? because if you aren't aware that you can write -- like, really, REALLY can write -- then... wtf was wrong with all your english teachers?
And the shadows are gone, leaving three men, bound and dazed in a row on the floor, beside something dead and another thing broken (gurgling his helpless cries into the basement silence)—all of it surrounded by shiny, matted images of slim bodies and tiny limbs on grotesque display for the police and the break of dawn to find.
THIS IS NIGHTMARE-WORTHY. AND KINDA REALLY BOTHERSOME. WHICH IS JUST ANOTHER TESTAMENT TO HOW WELL YOU WRITE. IT WAS ALMOST AS BAD AS WATCHING THE SHIT HAPPEN.
She’s seeing something I’ve missed. Or maybe she’s selectively blind.
right, right. another thing i love about good writers: those sooper short, punch-you-in-the-FACE sentences. like these. ow & wow.
It’s 1987 and there is a history of the world that was supposed to have incinerated in the blast of Adrian’s blind beliefs, turned to ash under the godly touch (the willing blindness) of Jon Osterman.
i used the flowery word already, but you have a brilliant way with words. six of one, half-dozen of the other, maybe. but true.
this whole thing -- stylistically, i mean -- sorta reminds me a lot of one of my favorite books. dream boy by jim grimsley. i hated it at first. he's all about SOOPER simple sentence structure, which i thought was kinda dry. but i wound up reading the entire thing in one night & then, like, cried for three days after. (and i don't generally experience human emotions, so.) if you think I'M horrible to other people's characters, you should know this guy's SOMUCHWORSE. and it's way sadder & a million times more maddening, actually, because this sorta shit happens and just shoot me in the face already. fuck.
which is all just a horribly long way of saying, jesus fuck, EITHER FIC MORE OR WRITE THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL. (i mean, if you're american.) BECAUSE YOU REALLY COULD IF YOU WANTED TO.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-30 01:25 am (UTC)so good at character voice. says the girl who knows fuck all about the characters. but still. sounds like the movie. has the same kinda tone. IMPRESSED.
It’s a pity, he thinks, to have come all this way, and to only be granted enough wisdom to see your own hypocrisy, rather than to find the strength to undo it.
oh, right. not only are you good with the language, but actually using it to SAY something. i've read a lot of flowery shit, and it's nice, yanno. sometimes. sorta. but what's the point?
And abruptly, he thinks of Sally and the way she used to move with a sort of startling lightness, hips swaying, eyes glimmering. Alight with the glory of her own youth—and aware of it enough to revel in it.
SERIOUSLY. WRITE A BOOK. YOU'RE TOO GOOD NOT TO.
One. Two. One. Two. He’s fallen into a rhythm, now, almost like a trance. The loud fwap-fwap of fists snapping against the punching bag, the sound of the bag itself battering back and forth, and the cottony tap-tap¬s of his bare feet patting out a boxer’s dance against the mat—all of it a familiar tempo.
broken record, i know, but DETAILS. SO GOOD AT THEM. it's like i'm there. but i'm not. and i hate boxing, but i love this. so.
And Hollis wonders, briefly, if the universe aligns itself intentionally to create such glimpses of multifaceted irony, or if these sorts of things just happen by accident.
srsly, you were just fucking w/ me about the not-being-sure-about-the-writing-stuff, yeah? because if you aren't aware that you can write -- like, really, REALLY can write -- then... wtf was wrong with all your english teachers?
And the shadows are gone, leaving three men, bound and dazed in a row on the floor, beside something dead and another thing broken (gurgling his helpless cries into the basement silence)—all of it surrounded by shiny, matted images of slim bodies and tiny limbs on grotesque display for the police and the break of dawn to find.
THIS IS NIGHTMARE-WORTHY. AND KINDA REALLY BOTHERSOME. WHICH IS JUST ANOTHER TESTAMENT TO HOW WELL YOU WRITE. IT WAS ALMOST AS BAD AS WATCHING THE SHIT HAPPEN.
She’s seeing something I’ve missed. Or maybe she’s selectively blind.
right, right. another thing i love about good writers: those sooper short, punch-you-in-the-FACE sentences. like these. ow & wow.
It’s 1987 and there is a history of the world that was supposed to have incinerated in the blast of Adrian’s blind beliefs, turned to ash under the godly touch (the willing blindness) of Jon Osterman.
i used the flowery word already, but you have a brilliant way with words. six of one, half-dozen of the other, maybe. but true.
this whole thing -- stylistically, i mean -- sorta reminds me a lot of one of my favorite books. dream boy by jim grimsley. i hated it at first. he's all about SOOPER simple sentence structure, which i thought was kinda dry. but i wound up reading the entire thing in one night & then, like, cried for three days after. (and i don't generally experience human emotions, so.) if you think I'M horrible to other people's characters, you should know this guy's SOMUCHWORSE. and it's way sadder & a million times more maddening, actually, because this sorta shit happens and just shoot me in the face already. fuck.
which is all just a horribly long way of saying, jesus fuck, EITHER FIC MORE OR WRITE THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL. (i mean, if you're american.) BECAUSE YOU REALLY COULD IF YOU WANTED TO.
no, really.
eta: to remove meen aside. because i'm paranoid.