hi, here's the first chapter of my story, Im thinking of writing more, can you give me any pointers or reviews? much appreciated. SAM The Diary of A Straight A Stuff Up. 16th October, Sunday, 4.23pm As I walk back into my room my senses are bombarded with a crude mix of aromas, sandalwood incense, old fish and chip paper and my favourite of all, marijuana. This heady mix plasters me as I walk nearer my desk and pick up a little black remote and click the little button inscribed 'play'. Fractions of a second later the husky, sweet voice of Bob Dylan fills the room reverberating back into my ears. I sit down in my chair and swing to and fro with the melodies of All Along The Watch Tower overlooking my room, my kingdom. The messy queen size bed with half a bottle of whiskey simply shewn amongst the sheets and pillows. The bedside table, engulfed in a pile of literature, candles and an ashtray with half a packet of Marlborough Red's ground into it. Then, unfortunately may I add, drift towards the floor, oh the floor, the sodden, smelling, ash and alcohol engorged storage space, which is currently being utilized as a crude bin and a homework sorting apparatus. When I think long and hard about this I think " Shit, how can I live in a place like this for much longer? Like school i am a perfect angel A,A,A,A,A,A+,A,A..... Then I get home to this fucking crack house, with elements of stoned psychedelia," I force this negativity out of my mind, by rolling a big fat, bulging, taught joint of 'Kandy Kush' or whatever that bloke at the station sold me. As I light this monstrosity, I take deep, almost meaningful drags, exhaling and repeating the process until the desired effect is obtained. The sweet Kandy like taste of this glorious bud comes through at about the same time as the tidal wave of smooth, flowing relaxation that makes you feel as though you are washed up on a beautiful beach in the fucking Caribbean. Drinking exotic cocktails and indulging in beautiful girls. Stumbling towards my bed I divert my course to the Ipod and it's dock. I'm sick of Bob Dylan's " Feel sorry for yourself and others heroin bull shit." What I need is to fly, and fly I will on the Jefferson Airplane. I fumble around the tiny switches on my Ipod until I find the desired artist, Jefferson Airplane. I click shuffle and the room surrounding me once more fills with the upbeat music of Jefferson Airplane. Now I continue the gargantuan journey to my bed, when you're stoned shitless, you know it's only a few feet away, but in your stoned, waking from a lifelong coma, like state the bed IS miles away. By the time I've made this journey of epic proportions, my luscious infatuate joint has gone out. So I spread out on the bed and fumble for my lighter, and once I've found it, BOOOM! Hyperspace! Falling down the rabbit hole with Alice! Another few tokes bring about utter ecstasy, and I am there, the space where everything is perfect. This feeling is trumped by one thing only, another hulking toke followed by a liberal swig of whiskey. The warmth of the whiskey greets the exotic herb's smoke, with open arms and the begin to fornicate, over and over, an orgy of pleasure that gives the most amazing head high and that oh so soothing feel of the whiskey. Jefferson Airplane's sweet music is flowing over me, I feel myself ooooooooooooooooozing into the bed, the room swirls into a carnival of colour, light, electronic sounds and touch. I am entering this fabulous eternal thing, moving with it and finally in it. I continue this comatose state for hours, the high light of which, would be when the wind picked up, making the blinds rattle casting violently shaking, beautifully hectic light show that when I closed my eyes I could see the perfect representation of it. As the pot started to subside, not disappear, no disappear would be a total fucking lie. The weed still had me in its great grasp. Turning me into a slurring, (although perhaps that was the other half bottle of whiskey) laughing, stumbling, burry visioned, mess of a human. For a 15 year old, attending a private school, I was pretty fucking proud of that. I dragged myself off the bed to do one thing READ REBECCA. Read Rebecca, pretty fucking simple, even for a dyslexic, retarded, grade A dumb-arse, shit for brains could read this watered down lame excuse for a book. So as I pick up this magazine thickness 'book' and slumped into my oversize beanbag. I started to read, I got 10 or so pages from my last recorded point when the letters started singing, then foxtrotting their way off the side of the page. I sat there laughing for fifteen, twenty minutes. When eventually it got to loud to read the letters, I got out of the beanbag, which I had fused with like the bed before and threw the sad excuse for literature aside. I wandered around aimlessly for a while waiting while the high wore off, getting bored and when the high did wear off i went back to bed and slept. It was an awful sleep. The sleep only alcoholics, rapists, murders, war criminals and junkies have, not fifteen year old. Dreams filled with taunts and trials, fights and failures, hatred and horror, cravings and cuts, widows and wounds. They drag on for what feels like weeks and you get up feeling like you have died, bypassed hell and have gone to a place where you toil for waiting for eternity to arrive, for him, Eternity to pass judgement on your final gruesome punishment. But this dream did not get so far as Eternity's punishment, because it was my luck that the annoying buzzzz buzzz buzzz "wake up you fuck up," sound of my phone, woke me. In my half asleep state I managed somehow to answer the phone. "Who are you and what. the. fuck. do you want?" I grumbled into the ear piece, barely distinguishable to my own ear. "Hey man come down to the park around the corner! I have a surprise for yo-..." The Familiar voice of my friend Max slurred followed by the monotonous BEEEP of a line cutting off. I got out of bed, feeling like death warmed up and got dressed in the dark. As I snuck out onto the street, I felt as if I was a creature of the night, one of them. Walking down the court towards the park, I notice a cat, small, tabby cat sitting at the base of a street-light pole, just staring at the light. I sped up as this slightly un-nerved me. I start to hear something, laughter both male and female, what could this surprise be? A random girl off the street? No. That's not Max's style, as I round the corner into the park my question is answered, the female voice is Natalie. Natalie is Max's ex, but they stayed friends, she is average height and build, she dyes her hair red, and one of her most admired adornments are her large beasts. Max is there smoking a cigarette, Max is probably my best friend, we have been like that since year 7. "Hey, junkie fuck heads, what are you two doing here at this time?" I call out across the darkness towards the playground. "Well, Nat and I had some rum," holding up a bottle of Bacardi into the light, "Aaaannd, we purchased some, treats," he adds and Natalie holds up a small sachet of white powder. We sat down in the park, in a circle talking about shit, smoking, passing around the rum and speed. After a few snorts of speed, it hit me, like being squeezed through the eye of a needle then coming out the other side lighter than ever, free. We drank and smoked and snorted for hours, until one by one we passed out.
First thing's first, this needs to be edited. The grammar and syntax are a bit off. Go back and read it a few times, usually after the third time through, you'll have caught all your mistakes. It's very blocky and that can sometimes almost scare the reader away, if I'm making any sense here. You need to break it down, don't be afraid of the indent key! One thing every writer, especially the young ones, should be aware of is emotion. Don't get me wrong, emotional writing can be very good, so long as the emotions are channeled and condensed. This piece just OOZES teenage angst. At points, it feels like I'm listening to one of the teenage girls from my high school who just goes on and on complaining. One of the ways you can avoid this is by showing and not telling. The reader, more often than not, is smart- don't underestimate the reader! Admittedly, you do go into a lot of detail, but the prose gets sloppy at points, which once again leads back into how too much emotion can be a bad thing. All of that said, I do think this piece has a a lot going for it. Your voice is very unique, and with some work, this could read like a modern-day Catcher In The Rye. It's not, by any means, a bad piece, but it does need a great deal of cleaning up. Keep working at it. I look forward to seeing more from you!
This is great writing! Don't change a thing. The thing is everything the other guy didn't like about the piece made me love it! If it wasn't for the Internet I wouldn't be reading this way out wacky shit! Thank God for the Internet! (Actually, I don't believe in God so forget about him.) If you turn this piece into a bunch of correct grammar and slow down and all that then I think it will be a lot less interesting.
Sam, Having read this again I stand by what I said earlier: You don't need anybody to tell you how to write. That's absolutely the worst thing that could happen. You have a style all your own. Go with it! Just be you and write whatever you want to write. I have no idea of your age. In a message you asked me for some advice. If you have not already done so I suggest you read the works of others, particularly those writers and poets who are the most creative, the most unique, etc. If you have not already done so familiarize yourself with the other arts: painting, sculpture, etc. And most of all have fun! Wolf Larsen
I was going to review this for you, but not until you use paragraphs. My eyes are stressing out looking at this...Sorry not to be picky but my vision is getting worse these days. Thanks bro.
I can't, of course, speak for everyone, but I would assume the goal of any novelist is to eventually get published. The truth is, while there are some rare exceptions to the rule (On The Road or The Color Purple), publishers are not going to bother with a book that has no grammar, especially in today's market. Of course, if your goal is not to get published, then keep going in any manner you chose! Any non-professional writing should be done solely for the author's benefit. Then again, if you didn't want to make it more publishable, I've no idea why you would subject it to critique. I don't think this piece will be less interesting if you clean it up. I don't think the lack of grammar and syntax does anything for the piece. There's no need for it, as there was in the aforementioned exceptions, and as RambleOn said, if you want most people to read it, you're going to have to break it up. I still, however, stand by what I said previously. Your voice is very strong and the piece has immense potential. Keep working at it. I'd be glad to see any re-writes you want to post.
