Post: #26

This thing keeps popping up every time I look at this subforum, so even though OP needs a grammar book a thousand times more than he needs high-level writing advice, I guess I can throw in some general tips that might be useful to other people.

I do slush pile reading as a side hobby to help out a publisher I know, so I wade through a lot of crap stories. (For what it's worth, OP, what you've written above is lower in quality than any story I've ever rejected.) I reject something like 95%, possibly more, of what I read. And everybody gets flunked out for the same damn reason: They want to be a writer, but they have no idea why anyone would want to be their reader. I can read their thought processes in the synopsis and first chapters they send me, and they're always, always the same:

"I want to be an author."
"An author has to write books."
"I have to write a book."
"I like fantasy/mystery/science fiction/slice of life books."
"I guess I'll write a fantasy/mystery/science fiction/slice of life book."

And what I get is a book written by someone who wants to make themselves happy, but not make me, the reader, happy. And it shows. It's boring, tiresome, and lifeless. Most of it doesn't have the decency to be a retread of something cool, like Conan, or interesting like Tolkein. It's all just bad retreads of 80s sword and sorcery movies. And it all goes straight into the trash, sometimes before I even finish the summary.

There's one question that needs to be foremost in your mind when you're writing, and it has nothing to do with what you want, or your career aspirations What the fuck do I have to say, that I should ask people to take time out of their busy days to read what I write?

Here's how a couple members of the forum might answer that question:
Roosh: I will teach the reader how to fuck beautiful women. Every guy on the planet wants what I can offer them, and every single one of them can take what I read and use it to make their lives better.
Quintus: I will offer the reader the wisdom of the ages. I will share with them a millennia of learning that they have no idea even exists.
Lizard Of Oz: I will make them laugh with my stories about corn-fed sluts.
Me: I can analyze a situation and see things other people don't. I can bring together ideas that everyone vaguely understands but can't express, and connect them in a way that's easy to understand. I live in two completely different cultures, and came to one of them only after reaching adulthood, so I have a broader perspective than many people, and can show them things that they can't see on their own.
Leonard: I will tell the reader about Australia, the most horrifying place on planet Earth. People will read stories of the time I went on a walk and saw 23 deadly, poisonous snakes on the trail, and say to themselves, "No matter how bad my life is, at least I'm not THERE."


What is your answer to this question? If you don't have a damn good one, you will never, EVER succeed as a writer.

Post: #27

The sun beat down relentlessly. Their blood would be running hot and it was a bad time to be on the trail. Something I should have thought about several miles back. But now it was too late. There were surely as many behind me as ahead.

Dehydrated and exhausted, I would nevertheless have to keep my wits about me if I were to survive this deadly snake track.

The above is an excerpt from my coming novel "Deadly Snake Track". It's based on a true story.

Post: #28

(06-25-2017 09:25 PM)SamuelBRoberts Wrote:  (For what it's worth, OP, what you've written above is lower in quality than any story I've ever rejected.)

SBR, this is a misjudgment on your part.

The truth is that Mayhem has a gift as a writer; this gift is the reason that he is getting the high level writing advice in this thread that he deserves.

A literary gift is a very specific thing, and one either has it or one doesn't. It's like a taste or flavor that pervades the writer's text. The text can be completely unreadable and worthless in itself, but that note can be all over it. Or the text can be perfectly competent and serviceable, but the note is wholly absent from it; and if it's absent there is no amount of training that can bring it about.

The latest text that Mayhem wrote is like a slop -- it is, as I noted, formless and disorganized, almost unreadable. But if you do read it (as I did) that taste of the raw literary gift is everywhere. You taste it and you say, yeah this kid has got it... let's see how far he can go with it.

Literary gift in the very young, in fact, tends to lead to this kind of sloppy writing: it stumbles all over itself in following its many thoughts and feelings. A young writer who is naturally very orderly and organized is unlikely to ever be of much interest. The gift must be trained and schooled to ever amount to anything. But most importantly, it has to be there in the first place and that condition is satisfied here. It does not guarantee anything, but it means that there is something worth attending to.

Post: #29

This is how it was going to start originally.

Quote:School Friends and Crushes

When I was in the 11th grade I used to look at a girl in the school bus where we sat opposite to each other and there was a long seat in between. She was a year older than me that should give you an idea why I was attracted to her. I caught her staring back every day, she had long black hair tied in a pony tail but not always, bit curly and a bit straight. Her eyes gave me the impression that she used to study late at nights yet one could not easily point that out. Her lips were just the way I happen to like there was a dot-like mole below her lower lip on one side. I used to stare mostly below her neck without getting caught, but I have come to the conclusion that one can tell when someone is staring at them and especially girls. She had a thin waist and legs covered halfway by long socks but some room was left before they could reach the knees. Wearing short skirts was not allowed at our school.

But then I didn't like it so I added everything I could remember about the inside of the bus.

Sir, I don't know if I have an answer for your question. I'd want it to be the same reason I take out the time to read books written by other people. I can relate to them.

Post: #30

Do it every day, as soon as you wake up, with no exceptions whatsoever.

Publish something every day.

Post: #31

It's Sunday, 01.12am right now. I haven't written anything new in two days, I was reading.

Here I have tried writing a specific story about a specific girl.

One day in the bus

It was around 10 am. I was sitting near the front door, behind the driver's seat, some strangers sat next to me on my right side when the bus stopped and then started moving again at full speed.

There were two seats in one row which is closer to the door and the other row had three seats. I was in the other row's left end.
I was looking straight ahead, sitting straight and my bag was in my lap with my hands placed on it.
I could see the vehicles moving in front of the bus, there were some cars, bikes other buses. We were approaching the point where the bus usually takes a left turn.
A girl got on the bus, I knew her.
She is in my class. She's petite. Long hair, and her face is unlike any other face I've seen. You won't realize you're staring at her, until it is too late.

I have talked to her once before, where I made fun of her top when she was sitting in front of me.
When she got on the bus, I kept looking forward. She offered her hand. It felt good that she didn't just ignore me which is what I was expecting. She sat down next to me but in the other row near the door. She was clinching something in her other hand making a fist. I asked her what it was, she told me it was coins for the bus fare. Her hands are small. And then that was it. I was wearing a gray t shirt, I was thinking about my t shirt.

When I got off the bus, she was waiting for me. I didn't expect that. We started walking towards the college gate with all the other students. I put on my college i-card. She was already wearing hers.
Now I didn't want stay quite. I asked her if she was prepared. Then we talked about the exam which we were going to take.

We walked together, straight for 3 minutes, took a right turn, walked for 1 minute, took a left turn, walked for 20 seconds, took a right turn, walked for 40 seconds. Then we climbed the stairs of the block where we had to sit for the exam.
I thought here she would go find her friends. But she sat down with me on the stairs. Then she stared at her phone. Asked for wifi, I turned on the hotspot. Then I looked at her then back to my notes. And when it was 10.30, I went to the room where I had to take the exam, she went to a different room.

When the exam was over, I saw her near the gate with her friends. She said she's scared to get off a bus as they don't stop long enough, she once fell while getting off the bus. I take the auto first to the bus stop while going back as I can't find a bus near the campus. Our friend asked me to take her with me and drop her near the bus stop where I would catch my bus. I nodded, she started following me. Near the stairs I shook hands with one of my friends with pride. Then we walked the same route backwards, she started talking. Then near the college gate one of her friends joined us and she started talking to her.

We didn't talk in the auto but she sat next to me. I had to pay for her fare, I started walking as they followed me. She asked me to slow down, I think I slowed down but they were walking too slow. She tried to hold my arm, but as soon as she touched my elbow I jerked off my hand, involuntary movement. I wished she would try again but she moved away. When we parted ways I said bye but she just seemed completely disconnected. I felt as if my work was done here and wasn't needed anymore. So I walked away.



Well here's some notes from the book I'm reading, hopefully I'll come up with something better next week.

Midnight's children notes

Now, however, time (having no further use for me) is running out.

One Kashmiri morning in the early spring of 1915,

here was Ingrid, briefly his Ingrid, her face scorning him for this

Forward he bent, and the earth, prayer-mat-covered, curved up towards him.

as usual; many of the small boats, the shikaras, had been caught napping,

In these parts he's considered very odd because he rows standing up... among other reasons.

but on me- on me, it was something else again. But I mustn't reveal all my secrets at once.

He had two golden teeths and no more. In the town, he had few friends.

It was magical talk, words pouring from him like fools' money,

He had come for stories-and with one question had silenced the storyteller.

And so what? I told him, eat, full your hole, a man comes to Kashmir to enjoy life, or to end it, or both.

Post: #32

Mayhem, this narrative is a little thin. I don't think your heart was really in it, and so there is not enough there to really hold the attention. The previous thing you wrote was like a formless slop but it had some thickness, it was overflowing with your memories of childhood. You have to keep that sense of thickness and depth but get it under better structural control.

There are still some good things here. This is quite good:

Near the stairs I shook hands with one of my friends with pride.

Very good strong use of "pride".

Some of the descriptions of the girl are good:

She is in my class. She's petite. Long hair, and her face is unlike any other face I've seen. You won't realize you're staring at her, until it is too late.

She was clinching something in her other hand making a fist. I asked her what it was, she told me it was coins for the bus fare. Her hands are small.

You are not afraid to use the simplest English monosyllables and they can fall with some real heft; that is a sign of the writing gift I was talking about. "Long hair, and her face is unlike any other face I've seen.", and "Her hands are small." are both very good sentences and a writer who can write these strong simple sentences organically is someone who can convey emotion in narrative when he is inspired.

On the other hand there are other things that are bad and point to flaws in your writing that you should work on.

I was wearing a gray t shirt, I was thinking about my t shirt.

This is too self-indulgent and disrespectful to the reader. The "gray t shirt" does not mean anything to anyone. If you're going to mention it and say you were thinking about it, you need to say why or what the point of that is. Otherwise one is left with an effect of strangeness that is vicious and takes away from the narrative flow. Some literary types think this kind of strangeness and dissociation in writing is cool and something to be sought; it isn't, it's entirely worthless.

This is another example:

We walked together, straight for 3 minutes, took a right turn, walked for 1 minute, took a left turn, walked for 20 seconds, took a right turn, walked for 40 seconds.

This is bad. The exact turns and durations are not meaningful, and there is no reason to write them out in this kind of consecutive detail. It creates a low-level slapstick effect, and again some literary types might think that it's a cool effect to create; it isn't, and it's a bad instinct on your part to indulge this. You should nip it in the bud.

There are also some typos and awkward grammar here and there, but I'm not worried about these -- you'll learn all that over time.

Good job posting this on Sunday as promised. You should continue this discipline; I am looking forward to the next installment.

************

Regarding reading. A great book for you to read if you haven't already is Thomas Hardy's "Jude the Obscure":

https://www.amazon.com/Jude-Obscure-Thom...he+obscure

Good strong themes, great narrative bones, a plain and serious writer -- these are all things that you could learn something from; they will improve your mind and your writer's eye, and at the same time are removed enough in time and culture that they will not distort what is natively and organically yours.

Post: #33

Yes, it was written half-heartedly, I just couldn't bring myself to get to the second draft for some reason. It was important for me to tell this story, but it is just as important that I forget it.

So the t shirt bit, I was trying to relax myself, distract myself from thinking about her, I do not see her as a future prospect, although I still talk to her if she initiates.

I could've done something different with the walk bit, I'm not sure.

I should've avoided this typo, It* felt as if my work was done here and I* wasn't needed anymore.

I will read the book.

Post: #34

Two things to say on this, both of which are paramount to writing a good novel that readers will talk about with friends, family and colleagues which lead to massive sales and good word-of-mouth. They involve clarity and immersion.

Clarity

That is, clarity of story. Too many writers move characters in and out of scenes without first clearly establishing who they are, what they look like, and what their goals are. Readers need these things for touchstones, to help visualize the character. All too often though, with newbies, you read a scene where character A steps in and says this. Then character B does this. Then character C goes off in yet a third direction.

Readers don't grasp scenes with a bewildering array of such stimulation. So that's what I mean by clarity of story. Not for the book itself, but for clarity as I am shooting for. I do this in the first paragraph of my books. You either hook your reader there or not at all and clarity comes FIRST. If you read them you'll see proper pacing for more character info and more story/plot movement. John Grisham is a genius at this. Koontz as well. Clive Barker also is very good.

Immersion

Whenever I write science fiction I like to immerse myself completely. If I write a galactic conquest book or one on space colonization or alien 'first contact', I play Mass Effect. Then I read the top three novels in the sub-genre and read all good AND bad reviews for those top books to gauge what readers expect so I don't make the same mistakes. Same for any other genre. Fantasy, erotica, whatever.

Post: #35

Mayhem, have you read the fiction written by Roosh on his blog?

I really like his writing style. He explains his views through his fiction and does so in a very entertaining fashion. Maybe you can try incorporating his way of writing. Not sure if there is a label for it.

@others - what category would it fall into?

Post: #36

^^ Well I hadn't but since you asked so nicely, I went ahead and read the most interesting one (click-bait alert) - The hot vagina

I think I'm going to stay away from fiction in the beginning. Maybe once I learn to narrate my own stories well, then I'll try it.

@Soothesayer
You made me rewrite the whole first paragraph in the story I wrote today.

Post: #37

Lizard makes great points (invaluable advice. I hope you appreciate his time and expertise.), to which I'll just add one comment:

Good writing is 80% editing. There may be people that can write something and have it be "finished" in the first go around, but I've never met any. Teach yourself to edit. Write, free-write, brain dump, whatever you want to call it. Then edit the HELL out of it. Take that Everyday in my School bus, find ONE of the narratives in it and then edit it down to 700 words (nothing special about 700 words, just an arbitrary number that will force you to make EVERY WORD matter).

Learn to make your grammar work, your diction and logic tight through editing.

Post: #38

Exact midnight, Sunday at last.

A village girl

During the summer of 2015, I visited my maternal grandfather's house after eight long years.

His house has an open view in the middle where the floor is made out of cow dung, which is facing it's opponent- sun, quite well- giving a tough fight, but of course it needs medical care every now and then. The medical care by the way is just more cow dung. A few huts surround it, one of the huts is a kitchen, another serves the purpose of a godown, where grain is stored. But to balance things out with the modern world, there's two adjoining rooms made out of bricks and they're hugging a number of trees. A small door will show you out of this whole premises which will lead to desert sand, which is fun at night and hell at day.

Let's go back inside again as there resides many interesting characters but only one of them was able to get my unshakable attention for the complete two days I stayed there. She is my late maternal uncle's daughter. The innocence in her face is only matched by her innocent nature. She probably has the longest hair for a girl her age, obvious curls can be seen trying to get in her eyes -her brown eyes way. When she opened her mouth to tell me something, I mostly just stared at her lips. When she realized I wasn't speaking her tongue, she made deliberate attempts to speak my tongue. And she smiled at me, quite often, I couldn't help but return the favor. The difference between the two was one had hidden motives while the other was pure.

She is surprisingly tall. Her hands, perhaps the only part of her body that I wasn't able to only admire but also worry about. I could tell she was made to do household chores, but that was just the palms, her arms had certainly seen a lot of sun, she was probably the one who had to bring the cows home when they wandered in search of water, grass and shade.

There could be more than one reasons why she was always nice to me. When we played cards, she took my side, when we played pittoo (a game involving seven square stones, throwing a ball and running around), she took my side, when we played chess (again, with stones), she.. you get the idea.

I don't remember what we talked about when we got the chance, but- oh but her laugh- her laugh was always full of joy. Made the 18 hours long train ride worth it.

She showed me a laptop proudly, although it wasn't hers and it had nothing in it worth my time but I still appreciated it. She also showed me her grandfather's vintage sewing machine. In the evening, we watched a movie in that laptop in the room where the sewing machine was placed. Or maybe she was the one watching the movie as I was mostly watching her. I tried to touch her, standing very close to her as close as acceptable with her younger brother-sister and elder sister around. I picked up the ruler placed on the table and poked her with it, she didn't care much about that. It was about time I started fantasizing about kissing her, I figured we would get the most privacy in the barn outside where cows slept. Alas, a fantasy remained exactly that.

In the morning, everyone ate their breakfast in the open view area, sitting everywhere but on a chair. I sat on a wooden charpai (very different from the average bed, but serves the same purpose). I asked for my food, and she served it to me herself, what it was is not important but the fact that she had made breakfast for me is.
I ate with my fingers, slurped the curd as was the norm there, all to my heart's content.

And that was that. The first and the last time I saw her.

Post: #39

I'm not saying you can't improve, but right now your fighting is painful to read. I wouldn't want to read a paragraph of your writing. I would rather burn my mouth eating extremely hot pizza.

Consider writing in Hindi, because you have no natural feel for English.

Post: #40

Mayhem, this is a pretty good evocative sketch. One gets a certain feeling for the girl, for the house, and for the entire brief and languorous country visit, spent in a daze of erotic longing.

As usual, you write well about the one subject that truly interests you, girls:

She probably has the longest hair for a girl her age, obvious curls can be seen trying to get in her eyes -her brown eyes way.

"Obvious" is an odd word choice but one knows what you mean and it somehow works. The grammar and punctuation towards the end of the sentence are awkward, but the way you repeat the word "eyes" qualifying it with "brown" the second time for emphasis is good, there is real strength of emotion in it which feels natural rather than contrived or reached for. It is probably the result of fortuity -- you remembered her eyes being brown in the course of writing and just inserted the repetition -- but it's a good instinct on your part to leave the repetition there. This is an example of how a certain kind of rawness or sloppiness can serve you well as long as it's kept in check for the most part.

This sentence points to something that is both good and bad:

Let's go back inside again as there resides many interesting characters but only one of them was able to get my unshakable attention for the complete two days I stayed there.

It is to your credit that you never bother writing about things that do not interest you, in this case all the other "interesting characters" that remain a ghostly presence in the background of this brief sketch; nothing kills writing faster than talking about things in which you take no interest. But it's not to your credit that you take so little interest in things and characters beyond the eros of the girl.

The passage has the strength of its concentration on its subject, and that makes it somewhat memorable. But to be truly memorable it needs to be opened more -- it needs to include the other characters, it needs to have narrative and interest whose scope exceeds that of your own mind and its fantasies. The girl and your image of her can still take center stage, almost formally, but the real interest in a narrative like this should be in all the seemingly incidental characters and details that would accrue to it along the way; your grandfather, the other cousins and relatives and the worlds they live in, even the breakfast that is supposedly "not important".

As it is, objects in your narrative accrue some minimal magic only if they are touched by the girl or are related to her in some way, like the laptop she "proudly" shows (another good use of that word, by the way), or the curd that she serves that you slurp from your fingers. It's as if anything that is not graced by her touch is only a ghostly presence with no real claim to a life of its own. This has the virtue of concentrating the narrative on the object of your fantasy, but make the story any longer and the virtue would become a vice; one would long for something more, for the distribution of interest to other characters and narratives that do not stand in such direct relation to your inner world and its preoccupations.

Again, this is not something you can force into your writing; it will lose whatever power it has if you turn to subjects that do not interest you. But it is something to keep in mind; you will become a more interesting and memorable writer if you are able to take an unaffected interest in things and people outside of yourself.

There are some misspellings and grammatical errors in the piece; I won't bother noting them but you should keep spending time to improve your grammar and punctuation and weed out the errors.

Overall, this was a good piece. Perhaps next time you should try for something slightly longer (not much longer) and see if you can sustain a very slightly more complex narrative.

Post: #41

Good luck on your journey, Mayhem. It isn't easy, especially if English is your second language. Some generic tips:

1) Write every day.
2) Write quickly and finish your story. Then edit.
3) Use short words, short sentences. When you get more experience, you can expand your writing style.
4) Focus solely on your writing. Use a computer that isn't connected online.
5) To write great you have to read great writing.

The most important thing to do is write often; topic not important. I used to write quick recaps of baseball games, describing the action as simply as possible. I would then compare it with the beat writer's story. My story was the test, and the beat writer's story was the answer key. It was a great way to learn the basics, for me at least.

Post: #42

Stephen King:
   

Post: #43

The Gate Incident

The gates stay closed until the guard there opens it for you. He always has a rifle hanged on his left shoulder. There's also a mini gate on one side which is about three times smaller. Behind the gate there's a bunker made of cement bags and it is in front of a small two room office. The guards sleep there.

Right in front of the bunker there's a bus stop on the other side of the road. Next to it is a small office where one can see a guard sitting down writing names of important people who crossed the gate that day, time of entry of the buses that come and go through this gate and many such important details in his register. A cycle stand can also be seen there and some cycles are standing there bearing the heat of the sun on their seats.

I do not want to walk through or even see this gate anymore.

My right ear was hurting. The previous night I struggled with the cotton ear bud for about half an hour. I wanted to go to the dispensary. I walked along the road for about ten minutes and could see the gate. Crossed two wide and joined together roads. I wish the man controlling the traffic there hadn't embarrassed me that one time when I almost rode my cycle into a car. Nothing had happened. I was safely on the other side. The paddle was stuck for some reason so I was late by a second or two. But the cars just came straight towards my cycle the very next second.

I reached the gate. The guard checked my card for identification. I was about to cross the cycle stands. When another guard stopped me and started asking me questions. He did not appreciate the fact that I was wearing shorts and slippers. I was taken aback and had no response when he asked me to go home and come back with pants and shoes on.

I felt something in my eyes. I swallowed the tears. I started walking. I ignored the gate guard and was on the other side of the gate. I did not cross the road and just walked along it. I could not stop walking even if I wanted to. I felt a strong need to go back and curse or say things that he would remember for years and or shout at that guard. I kept walking.

A lot of things were going through my head. I wanted to call my father and tell him what just happened here. If only I had my phone with me. I was clinching the card in my hand. I think I moved my hands over my hair a few times. When I shut my eyes tightly, water came out and I had to rub it off my thumb. Multiple times. In my head I must have gone through all the words that one uses when they're angry. Almost ten minutes passed and I crossed the road to turn back as I was going in the wrong direction. If I go back from here I'd have to pass the gate again. So I took the longer route home.

That was three or four years back, now that I look back and think about it, the guard was just doing his duty. He thought I was one of the kids who go there to play football, which is not allowed. I actually was one those kids but not that day.

Post: #44

Mayhem, this is a slight piece but it's decent. The narrative is not enough to make it really memorable on its own -- the emotions conveyed are a little too small and narrow for that -- but it could be memorable if it were part of a broader narrative arc about the character.

You are getting better at making these narratives clear and consecutive and at finding natural paragraph breaks. You are also getting better at describing a physical setting, the gate in this case, with clarity and the right level of detail. The opening paragraphs do a quite good job of that. It is also the second time in a row that you speak of an object bearing or enduring the blaze of the sun -- the house in the previous piece, and the bikes in this one -- and it is strong and memorable in both cases. One can feel the intensity and relentlessness of that Indian sun through the words and images, so this is another piece of reality that you own and are able to convey in writing.

The other thing that is good here is the narrative and tense structure. This sequence does a very good job of narrative transition:

Right in front of the bunker there's a bus stop on the other side of the road. Next to it is a small office where one can see a guard sitting down writing names of important people who crossed the gate that day, time of entry of the buses that come and go through this gate and many such important details in his register. A cycle stand can also be seen there and some cycles are standing there bearing the heat of the sun on their seats.

I do not want to walk through or even see this gate anymore.

My right ear was hurting.

That one sentence paragraph in the middle serves the function of preparing and justifying the transition from the present tense description to the past tense narrative. I think you understood this instinctively -- how a brief paragraph introducing the first person, staying in the present but fundamentally oriented towards the past -- was required as a narrative connector, and you placed it well. Nice job.

Like I said, this is not enough to be memorable on its own, but it would be a good building block within a larger narrative. When you are ready -- and it does not have to be next week, it may well be useful to do a few more of these shorter exercises -- you should attempt that slightly longer and more complex narrative to start getting a feel for the problems it will present.

There are still occasional grammatical errors and typos here. Keep making an effort to root them out.

***************

Separately, I wanted to note something from the previous piece which I neglected to note last time. This was very good:

I ate with my fingers, slurped the curd as was the norm there, all to my heart's content.

What is excellent here is the little phrase "all to my heart's content"; specifically how the addition of the word "all" revitalizes and refreshes the tired phrase "to my heart's content" and gives it new life, meaning, and energy. This instinct to revive and refresh simple old phrases by slight intuitive alterations is another mark of literary gift. It's not something that you should pointedly try for (it could become an annoying tic when done too frequently or self-consciously) but let it happen naturally if and when it does.

Post: #45

One Hot Monday

Reached the bus stop early, two of my three friends whom I see there every time, hadn't come that day. The tallest one of them did come five minutes later than me. We shook hands, then I carried on waiting for the bus.

There was a flyover in front of me, below it, buses, cars, occasional autos and bikes were being driven by people in a hurry. Traffic. Dozens of people were also waiting with me.

It was the first day of the third semester after spending two months in a lazy vacation. But I did do something productive which was going to the gym.

Bus finally arrived and I got in hurriedly and even got a seat. Some days I have to stand as a whole crowd gets in all at once and I'm too lazy to race them to a seat. Other days when I'm less lazy I do get a seat and once in a while I find a girl asking me if the seat next to me is taken.

I waited for the conductor but today unlike other days he wanted people to come to him to get their passes made. My friend went and got our two passes although he ended up buying the costlier ones. I plugged in my earphones and indulged in some people watching, mostly looking at the faces of cute girls and hating on guys better dressed than me.

I took the earphones out when the bus came to a halt. Where there used to be a huge automatic door now stood a wide open door, and I walked in. The workers in that bus terminus were the same but the air conditioners were replaced by the fans. I walked around the snack shop towards the water cooler to quench my thirst and then back to the other side of the terminus where other students were waiting for the same bus as me with a few other commuters who had to go farther distances.

Me and my friend exchanged a few comments about our cancelled, planned trip before the bus arrived. It changed it's route one stop earlier so we then had to take the auto to continue on our journey.

I had to go to block 8 so I got off at the first gate. Couldn't find block 8 even after taking directions from multiple people. Called a friend who was in class, turned out the class was in the same block as always and the new teacher had forwarded the wrong information.

Marched towards block 3 and saw the hot economics teacher on the way, was in a hurry so she didn't notice my attempt of making eye contact with her and carried on her path holding an umbrella in one and with the other hand pressing some books against herself.

Reached my block and took the preferred route to class, the stairs at the end of the hallway. Arrived on the ninth floor at last. Wiped some sweat off my face. Kept looking inside the classes as I passed them until I recognised my classmates, one male teacher walked out and asked me my section then added a number to his count of 35 in his list. As soon as I walked in, I made eye contact with and gave a nod to the almost cute girl who always sits on the first bench.

Fat new teacher was standing near my seat, I waited for her to get out of my way. When I sat down, my friends started complementing me, asking me if I had started going to the gym. Fat teacher asks my roll number and I repeat it twice. She goes to her register and asks again. I just nodded and then proceeded to shake hands with a few of my classmates in my vicinity, one after the other.

They boosted my ego all day as everyone was saying nice things. I didn't feel much difference though, it's only been a few months now. I was wearing a new, cheap t shirt which I thought looked good on me. Same old pants, cool shoes I bought before vacations.

Fat teacher starts talking about colors and their abstract, unconscious meaning or something. I answered two of her questions, just to get things going and for the hell of it. I did not pay any attention to a pair of cute girls who always sits together, that was unusual. I tried on my friend's black watch as I thought it looked cool. And the class was over.

Then it was time for registration and the herd moved out to walk into one lab, gets sent back, comes back to the class, and then is asked to move to the other lab. I walked in last, sat near the girl who dances, and as I lazily turned on the computer, the teacher standing on my right instructed that some students can tell the teacher sitting at the end of the row their roll numbers. I moved over two seats to sit next to that teacher, immediately told her my number, she asks me to put it down on a paper, and it was done. Other students did the same to get registered as I sat there watching and soon enough a group of them was standing over her as if an accident had taken place there. I thought to myself that this would go on for quite some time and I should get out of there. Another group was standing in my way so I gently pushed aside the guy talking to them to make my way. Saw my friends coming, outside the lab but they were going in.

Then I went back to my class to socialize with the back benchers. The funny guy said funny things and we all laughed in unison. Soon enough my friends came in but they sat on the other side of the class so I had to move to sit with them. I gave the watch guy his watch back. Then while we were talking I told them I was thinking about learning to drive a car this year and next year get one so I wouldn't have to worry about finding a room for the girls that I might get, though I don't see myself getting a car any sooner so maybe I'll get a bike but who will drive for more than an hour each way, that wouldn't work for long, I'd rather keep tolerating the buses. As I stopped talking, I took out my leg from the desk, and while doing that, got a small scratch on my cool shoe, I somehow controlled myself. Then we decided against going to the orientation and go home instead.

Outside we saw our other classmates, hugged it out with the funny guy, he told a joke, we all laughed. I got bored and got moving, leaving them all behind. I found myself feeling good about myself and walking confidently. I unapologetically walked into the gate before two girls could do the same.

Everything seemed different in the view in front of me, the tree at the end of the path had been cut down probably and the crops that used to be there on either sides were harvested.

Crossed the road and an auto stopped near me, I made eye contact with the girl inside. She was sitting with a dude and he almost made me consider wearing sunglasses like his, but they are not my thing, yet. Wiped some sweat off my face. Tried to sit as comfortably as possible but actually, it was suffocating with around half a dozen other students in there.

Got out when the stop came, paid the driver and carried on my way to yet another auto, out of which walked out a girl with bosoms worth staring at. Another girl kept sitting, I joined her. She moved away instead of coming closer to me, to give seat in between to a middle aged woman. Could care less.

Somehow got out of the auto and crossed the road, only to see my bus disappearing in distance in front of my eyes, I raised my hand in hope that they'll see and wait for me but they didn't.

Thought about taking a lift and catching the bus but then just went inside the bus terminus. Took a piss in the washroom where it somehow recognises that I'm about to, and I just can't figure out how it works. The cleaning lady there once gave me a nasty look, to her I'm basically a freeloader. Didn't get anything from the snack shop guy as I had bought lunch or otherwise would have, he turns on the fan but moves it in his direction. I get some air anyway, leaves moved of the plant next to me, that fan delivers. I ate my lunch and saw a good looking shy couple sit down nearby.

My bus arrived, I packed my things, faced the cleaning lady one more time. Walked into the bus and found two guys who were already in there asking me for directions, so I helped them out. I usually sit in the last seat, where another guy peeked in through the bus door and asked me for directions as soon as I sat down. I wasn't sure I sent him on the right path but he was gone before I could tell him to cross check with someone.

I had bought my good phone with me and it served only one purpose, which was to allow me to listen to my favourite songs. But I waited till I had shown my pass to the conductor. I always notice how that happens. He flipped the pass upside down, stared at it, probably looking for the date punched in, then handed it back.

I think I'm paranoid about my pass, although I've never lost it, yet. The bus finally moves and two girls get in at the next stop, one of them is cute, I ignored her initially but started preparing the approach in my mind, what I'll say to her, playing out different scenarios of the conversation that might take place. I didn't like that she was checking out the other guy with the girl. I waited patiently for our stop but she didn't get off when the stop came. I controlled my urge to kick something, anything. Saw a not so cute girl and approached her. But ejected soon after with a smile when she asked, 'why?' when I asked her name.

Anyway, somehow I got home and looked in the mirror. Couldn't see why everyone was so impressed, I didn't notice anything new. Splashed some water on my face, multiple times. Then I took a nap before going to the gym.

Gave it my all. A somewhat cute girl who lives nearby was also there with her brother, I saw her walking in while I was on the bench press. Mostly ignored her throughout the workout but I did feel like I was trying to impress her. I used to see her in the morning on my way to school and thought she looked cute in her blue and white school dress. She seemed like a good choice thus far but then I was disappointed because I got to see her face very clearly there and found nothing too impressive, she's somewhat tall and has that entitled look which I think I do fancy.

Sweating I came home, completely exhausted. Sat in front of the cooler and let it shower me with its cool air mixed with some water droplets that I felt on me from time to time. And now that I think of it, it was a pretty average day.

Post: #46

Mayhem, this is a poor effort. Even though it's not all that long, it's difficult to get through, and I think most readers would give up before getting halfway through, if not sooner. That should never be the case, even in an exercise.

There was an earlier piece that you posted that was difficult to get through because it was too dense and disorganized; this suffers from a different and worse flaw: it is too flat and metronomic; one never feels there is any point to the narrative, it's just one thing then another then the next. There is never a reason for the reader to care or be interested. The only normal (and appropriate) response will be an irritated "why are you telling me all this?".

In my post about writing I emphasized clarity and flow as the main qualities that prose writing should have. But, while your writing is now clearer, narrative flow means something other than the dull succession of one thing by another in chronological order. You must get the reader interested in what you are saying at the outset; and you must hold his interest by some variety in the structure and presentation of the narrative. Without exciting the reader's initial interest, you lose him right away; and without the occasional structural narrative variety you will bore him and lose him even you had him to begin with.

The very first paragraph of the above exercise shows all these problems and can serve as a brief case study:

Reached the bus stop early, two of my three friends whom I see there every time, hadn't come that day. The tallest one of them did come five minutes later than me. We shook hands, then I carried on waiting for the bus.

-- Why should I care that you reached the bus stop "early"? What is the significance of this?
-- Your two or three friends hadn't come that day. Again, so what? Other than being a statement of fact, is there any import? None is indicated or promised, and indeed none is realized in the course of the narrative.
-- Why is it important that the "tallest" friend came five minutes later? This is a good example of a completely pointless detail that only creates an unpleasant sense of strangeness. There is no reason for the reader to care that this friend (that we know nothing about) arrived 5 minutes later, and there is doubly and triply, as it were, no reason to care that he happens to be the "tallest" friend. Just as a felt detail, such as what you will sometimes say about a girl you're drawn to, is what makes the narrative, this kind of arbitrary and useless specification is what kills it.

The analysis of this opening paragraph will suffice, because the narrative essentially cannot survive it -- there is almost no way to recover from such a dull opening -- and the rest is no different. It's just one thing after another.

I think that what you had here was the germ of a narrative: you are coming back to school after doing something that you thought might give you a different standing and cachet with girls, namely lifting. There is the idea of this in a very young man's mind, and then the way it is experienced as reality. This is something that can be both moving and funny if handled well.

However, to achieve this you would need to concentrate the narrative a lot more. You need to get the reader's interest right away and put him inside your mind or at least in some relation to you, a kid going back to school with all his hopefulness and anxiety about how his new lifting self will be received by both males and females; and most things in the narrative have to be felt and colored by these emotions. Even if your ultimate conclusion is that this was a "pretty average day" (ie that nothing had really changed) this conclusion has to be earned as the reader lives alongside your hopes and dreams and fears for the day, or knowingly chuckles at your tender youthful illusions, or some of both. Without this, there is nothing.

Post: #47

Your English grammar isn't getting any better either.

Post: #48

Keep it up