My first attempt at any serious writing

I was considering keeping this on paper, and only showing to those whom I meet face to face these words. For things may often lose their sacred quality when made manifest to the mass conscious of the public mind. This is my first serious attempt at writing and I'm not not sure of any purpose in it than to let grow the seed of an idea, and to facilitate that growth by etching it onto paper using the familiar symbols of language. For as Yeats says, "What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?"

"I've suffered from back pain for these past two years. My friend Tugo and myself, one night, were sharing bed, but neither of us could fall asleep. We talked, we laughed, stood on our shoulders, generally making fools ourselves in none other presence than of the Spirits which rouse at twilight. I spoke to him of the pain which had been ailing me when he turned and said, "I could walk on your back for you."

This made me curious, if not slightly confused. I had never considered that having a 200lb man standing on my back could ease these pains. After he had persuaded me of its beneficence he proceeded to demonstrate. It had, only for a short while, had a pleasing effect. By dawn the pain surfaced again, albeit with less pronounced vigour. But, what I hope to emphasise here is that moment of hope, that ephemeral moment of possibility, when he had first brought the idea to mind.

For it was in that passing moment I had heard my bones crack, I had felt my muscles kneaded softly as dough. From what, in my imagination, I had heard and felt sprang that Hope which gave the moment its sweet air. It is these moments, innocent moments, however little they may come to fruition, that bear on their wings aloft our ever lasting dreams. It is these moments which keep Paradise alive in our hearts, and magic afloat among the trees.

This Hope is the sweetest kind, however fleeting, as opposed to those founded. For Hope that is found out and made manifest often has a tendency to become polluted, torn asunder. Whereas our emphemeral Hopes subsist in themselves, and provide the impetus for internal growth based on their constant recurrence, each occurance perpetuating the strength of our dreams."

Perhaps what I am attempting to say is that Hope and those Dreams born of Hope are often more nurturing to us than reality. That we must Dream, and that we must even consider those Dreams with more sincerity than we would with reality.

... I've been reading a lot of Yeats

Please criticise...

 

What form is this piece going to take? Is it an article, short story, chapter of a novel or just like emptying your mind?

 

Good Start. I will link my friend Champ to this.

 

Well I won’t criticize. . I will critique it though. nothing to criticize, you left me wanting more tbh. I enjoyed the read and thought you captured this moment in time well. I pictured it!

I look forward to your response to Dax as well. .

 

This is good, I like it.
Many parts of stories I write are written as "stand alone" pieces.. "scenes".. I don't always know what they are a bigger part of when I write them.. That becomes clear later. Keep it up! I like the flow and your "voice".

 

It was derived from an idea that had been forming itself in my sub-conscious thought.

It is nothing much . . . but what had sparked it's vivacity was some thought that I had today of the Persian wars with Greece . . . the core of which thought may be ascertained by my recent post in the 'Heroes' thread . . . and that I do suffer from frequently occuring back pain . . .

I could progress it into a story, and I think that I may make an attempt at that.

 

I often have difficulty articulating my thoughts into speech. I am not an eloquent speaker. Due to this fact I have become self conscious of how I utilise my vocabulary.

Now I have come to believe that an eloquence shines on my paper where it is dim in my speech.

However I may make a jackass out of myself... be damned to you!

Although my thoughts are seemingly errant, I do believe that if I could slow their motion I could capture them in a web of consistency.

 

But what is a dream? What is reality?

Can anything be wholly proven as Truth?

Once some has been perceived is it no longer Faith?

Do not the senses deceive us?

On that same note, is it not then that all must be taken in Faith, science and religion alike?

These questions are currently torturing me.

 

But what is Faith if there is doubt?

How can there be no doubt if we understand the deceptive nature of our senses?

 

Have you thought about using a form similar to 84 Charring cross road, or the letters between Madam Von Meck and Tchaikovsky.
It could give you far more freedom than trying to connect the pieces with a loose story-line.

 

"Where's Lani?" The question spray painted on the bridge jolted me back 20 years....

That's as far as I have gotten in decades of hundreds of first drafts. Keep trying.

 

Writers write. No agent/publisher will do anything with an unfinished piece except toss it in the trash. Finish what it is you writing and only then ask for a critique.

 

I believe that I may only keep this as a journal piece.

Rather than attempt a storyline that would read as one of the most convoluted of plots from an early gothic novel...

I'm not going to make an attempt for any thing serious. I am happy because, for once, I believe that I have put my thoughts down coherently, which is difficult for me as often my thoughts have an abstract quality.

As for the philosophical conundrums of yesterday, I have taken care of and done away with them.

 

gay

 

What do you define as the mood of today's society, From a literary standpoint, common English has become a combination of text type abbreviations, incorrect spelling with poor structure of sentences and paragraphs. Writing in this style may be fine for the script of a soap opera, but people reading a book prefer to be taken on a journey and this can only be achieved by articulate and sometimes poetic use of the language.

Are you able to date these paragraphs which use the English language to paint a vivid picture and does the style of writing immediately bring an author to mind.?

Something scuffled in the yard, and she started, though she knew it was only the rats with which the place was overrun. The night was very dark. In the great bay of railway lines, bulked with trucks, there was no trace of light, only away back she could see a few yellow lamps at the pit-top, and the red smear of the burning pit-bank on the night. She hurried along the edge of the track, then, crossing the converging lines, came to the stile by the white gates, whence she emerged on the road. Then the fear which had led her shrank. People were walking up to New Brinsley; she saw the lights in the houses; twenty yards further on were the broad windows of the ‘Prince of Wales’, very warm and bright, and the loud voices of men could be heard distinctly. What a fool she had been to imagine that anything had happened to him! He was merely drinking over there at the ‘Prince of Wales’. She faltered. She had never yet been to fetch him, and she never would go. So she continued her walk towards the long straggling line of houses, standing blank on the highway. She entered a passage between the dwellings.

At last it was finished. They covered him with a sheet and left him lying, with his face bound. And she fastened the door of the little parlour, lest the children should see what was lying there. Then, with peace sunk heavy on her heart, she went about making tidy the kitchen. She knew she submitted to life, which was her immediate master. But from death, her ultimate master, she winced with fear and shame.

 

I wouldn't want to politicise my writing, or sully it with the fashion of our day. It seems that we're coming nearer to cultural sterility than ever we were in the past.

 

Isn't it dangerous to publish your prose on the internet... For fear of your work being ripped off? At least that's how I always understood it.. that's why very few people have seen my work is because I'm so paranoid about my stories being stolen..