Wavedancer commentary, part eleven
May. 12th, 2009 12:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Intro/Index of all parts | Read without the commentary
And finally, the last installment. Thank goodness. Only one entry left, which will detail what was supposed to happen if I had written it all.
I underestimated how many sections this would take, unfortunately. That's why I've been totally spamming you; I'm walking out the door in just a couple hours and I wanted to get it all out before I left.
The sink contained the dirty dishes from this morning, and the rack held the dishes I'd washed before going to the cove yesterday. I began to hang the clean coffee cups on the rack as Mike came in and closed and bolted the door. He turned towards me as if to say something, but then seemed to reconsider. Instead he switched off the foyer light and walked into his kitchen.
I like this dance between them. I like that they can't say what they want to say. She's convinced he doesn't care for her at all, and she's determined to go forward with her blinders firmly attached. He's really uncertain about how to approach her about any of this.
I finished hanging the cups but then just didn't feel like putting the rest of the dishes away. I flopped down on my couch after turning the lights off on my side of the house, and my mind was abuzz. My eyes wandered in the darkness, and I couldn't seem to calm the restless flow of my thoughts. I draped one arm over my eyes, trying to relax, but ugly memories kept surfacing.
I got up in the near-dark and walked to the coffeepot. I poured the last out into a cup I took at random from the rack and put it into the microwave to warm it. There was just enough light spilling through the foyer from Mike's kitchen for me to see. I watched the glowing numbers count down and I remembered that he didn't have any more charters left, which explained why he was still up. I stopped the microwave before it hit zero and pulled the cup out. It was heavier than I expected, and as I looked closer I realized with a sharp pang that it was my father's old cup, one of the few possessions of his I kept. The many times he forgot it outside and I discovered it later filled with rainwater and coffee grounds swirled inside my head.
I like that detail. It's based on my own father, who often left coffee cups all over the yard while working outside.
However, the last sentence has the worst structure ever, and it sounds like she has rainwater and coffee grounds in her head. Swirling.
Slowly I became aware of a shadow on the floor, and I noticed that Mike was watching me from his kitchen. The low florescent light on the counter illuminated him from the side, and his hair seemed to glow, leaving his expression fathomless in shadow.
He took a tentative step forward and I focused my concentration on drinking the coffee as I turned to look straight ahead out my kitchen window at 'Dancer, sitting silently in the moonlight. He walked across the foyer in bare feet and leaned on the counter next to me. He'd taken his shirt off again, I could see, though I avoided looking at him directly. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Awww, Mike's taking the first step. He really is sweet. He's concerned about her, wondering why she's so crabby.
The question seemed to fly into corners of my life best hidden, and I became upset. What did he expect me to say? What should I tell him? That I was feeling regretful for the way my life turned out? That I was sometimes sad that he was just a friend now and nothing more? "I can't get to sleep," I said, fixating my attention back to the 'Dancer, my one surety.
He leaned closer then, and reached out to touch my arm, but I saw the hesitation and cursed myself for entertaining such ridiculous emotions leftover from a naive first love. I clenched the cup tighter in my hands and it abruptly shattered.
Ah, the old shattering-of-the-plate/glass/cup/whatever scenario. *rolls eyes* There are better ways to convey tension.
She is so focused on being so unlovable that she can't even consider someone caring about her. She's so convinced that she's unworthy of anything that it's pretty unrealistic, unless you consider the Poor Heroine tradition, in which this is clearly grounded.
I couldn't even react. The pieces hit the counter and I was so stunned that all I did was stand there with shards dropping through my fingers.
Mike swore and turned on the light above the counter, rolling off paper towels with his other hand. He pulled up the trash can and unceremoniously wiped everything away. He noticed coffee dripping from my hands and looked back at me. He swore again. "You're bleeding, for crissake." He pushed me towards the sink and ran water over my hands. A shock ran through me as his skin touched mine. The water felt incredibly cold after the hot coffee. Suddenly I was angry.
I don't think he would swear quite like that. I like the detail of the water feeling super cold. Though she should be totally scalded, honestly. Didn't she just take it out of the microwave?
"I'm fine," I snapped, and I pulled my hands away, savagely tossing the rest of the coffee cup into the trash. I grabbed a paper towel and started to dry my hands. It came away streaked with blood.
Mike was silent for a moment and then he set his jaw. "You're not fine. I know something's bothering you, and I know it's not insomnia."
I turned to face him. "If I say I'm fine, I'm fine," I said angrily. "And I can't believe you would presume to know so much about me." The words seemed to pull themselves out of me, and with a terrific shock I recognized the tone as my father's.
Um. That sounds like Scarlett O'Hara, honestly. Ridiculous. If it were reworded, it would be better. And I do like very much the bit about sounding like her father.
"I've just lived in the same house with you for three years, that's all." I could tell that I had hurt him. Even as he tried to glower at me his eyes revealed a twist of pain.
"Just go away," I said unhappily. "I can take care of myself."
"That's right, you don't need anyone," he added nastily, stalking to his side of the house.
The "nastily" tag really messes this up, I think. It overbalances things. It would be much less dramatic but more realistic if he said it normally, and then left. The stalking off thing bothers me, too.
I refused to over and apologize. I sat down on the couch again and tried to calm down, but it was useless. Sleep was near impossible. Over and over again the end of that summer replayed in my mind, over and over I felt the death of my childhood dreams. The light was still on in Mike's kitchen when I finally fell asleep.
Sarah: None More Emo.
The next morning dawned cold and pale, and I readied 'Dancer for my morning charter. There was no sign of Mike, which surprised me since we usually ate breakfast together, even when he didn't have a charter of his own. Then I remembered last night's conversation and winced.
So that's it. My thoughts overall?
Well, there might be promise to the premise, but I'm just never going to write it. I'm not engaged enough by the main plot. I do like the characters, but Sarah is waaaay too Emo and Mary Sue Gloom and has the Poor Heroine so firmly wrapped around her that I'm not certain I could wrench it free. Mike is a decent character, though. I like how smart he is, and poetic, and he's like those characters in the movies where the heroine comes back from the Big City and finds that the hero she left behind is much better than the big city guy she was dating (think Hope Floats).
My writing has improved in some ways, I think. The sentence structure issue has cleared up a little, thank goodness. And I've eliminated some colloquial expressions, and other issues. And I am starting to understand that dialogue tags can add too much emphasis.
I think I spend more time really trying to figure out the plot. I also spend more time trying to think realistically about the characters and how they would react. I know that I try to set up their circumstances far more logically, and I wince at coincidence now, though you do sometimes have no choice. I also spend more time working through the secondary characters to make certain that they react properly to the plot as well, and have some motivation and feelings.
I'm really glad that I did this project. I do feel better about my writing, and I think that I have improved.
Conclusion
Read this section without the commentary
And finally, the last installment. Thank goodness. Only one entry left, which will detail what was supposed to happen if I had written it all.
I underestimated how many sections this would take, unfortunately. That's why I've been totally spamming you; I'm walking out the door in just a couple hours and I wanted to get it all out before I left.
The sink contained the dirty dishes from this morning, and the rack held the dishes I'd washed before going to the cove yesterday. I began to hang the clean coffee cups on the rack as Mike came in and closed and bolted the door. He turned towards me as if to say something, but then seemed to reconsider. Instead he switched off the foyer light and walked into his kitchen.
I like this dance between them. I like that they can't say what they want to say. She's convinced he doesn't care for her at all, and she's determined to go forward with her blinders firmly attached. He's really uncertain about how to approach her about any of this.
I finished hanging the cups but then just didn't feel like putting the rest of the dishes away. I flopped down on my couch after turning the lights off on my side of the house, and my mind was abuzz. My eyes wandered in the darkness, and I couldn't seem to calm the restless flow of my thoughts. I draped one arm over my eyes, trying to relax, but ugly memories kept surfacing.
I got up in the near-dark and walked to the coffeepot. I poured the last out into a cup I took at random from the rack and put it into the microwave to warm it. There was just enough light spilling through the foyer from Mike's kitchen for me to see. I watched the glowing numbers count down and I remembered that he didn't have any more charters left, which explained why he was still up. I stopped the microwave before it hit zero and pulled the cup out. It was heavier than I expected, and as I looked closer I realized with a sharp pang that it was my father's old cup, one of the few possessions of his I kept. The many times he forgot it outside and I discovered it later filled with rainwater and coffee grounds swirled inside my head.
I like that detail. It's based on my own father, who often left coffee cups all over the yard while working outside.
However, the last sentence has the worst structure ever, and it sounds like she has rainwater and coffee grounds in her head. Swirling.
Slowly I became aware of a shadow on the floor, and I noticed that Mike was watching me from his kitchen. The low florescent light on the counter illuminated him from the side, and his hair seemed to glow, leaving his expression fathomless in shadow.
He took a tentative step forward and I focused my concentration on drinking the coffee as I turned to look straight ahead out my kitchen window at 'Dancer, sitting silently in the moonlight. He walked across the foyer in bare feet and leaned on the counter next to me. He'd taken his shirt off again, I could see, though I avoided looking at him directly. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Awww, Mike's taking the first step. He really is sweet. He's concerned about her, wondering why she's so crabby.
The question seemed to fly into corners of my life best hidden, and I became upset. What did he expect me to say? What should I tell him? That I was feeling regretful for the way my life turned out? That I was sometimes sad that he was just a friend now and nothing more? "I can't get to sleep," I said, fixating my attention back to the 'Dancer, my one surety.
He leaned closer then, and reached out to touch my arm, but I saw the hesitation and cursed myself for entertaining such ridiculous emotions leftover from a naive first love. I clenched the cup tighter in my hands and it abruptly shattered.
Ah, the old shattering-of-the-plate/glass/cup/whatever scenario. *rolls eyes* There are better ways to convey tension.
She is so focused on being so unlovable that she can't even consider someone caring about her. She's so convinced that she's unworthy of anything that it's pretty unrealistic, unless you consider the Poor Heroine tradition, in which this is clearly grounded.
I couldn't even react. The pieces hit the counter and I was so stunned that all I did was stand there with shards dropping through my fingers.
Mike swore and turned on the light above the counter, rolling off paper towels with his other hand. He pulled up the trash can and unceremoniously wiped everything away. He noticed coffee dripping from my hands and looked back at me. He swore again. "You're bleeding, for crissake." He pushed me towards the sink and ran water over my hands. A shock ran through me as his skin touched mine. The water felt incredibly cold after the hot coffee. Suddenly I was angry.
I don't think he would swear quite like that. I like the detail of the water feeling super cold. Though she should be totally scalded, honestly. Didn't she just take it out of the microwave?
"I'm fine," I snapped, and I pulled my hands away, savagely tossing the rest of the coffee cup into the trash. I grabbed a paper towel and started to dry my hands. It came away streaked with blood.
Mike was silent for a moment and then he set his jaw. "You're not fine. I know something's bothering you, and I know it's not insomnia."
I turned to face him. "If I say I'm fine, I'm fine," I said angrily. "And I can't believe you would presume to know so much about me." The words seemed to pull themselves out of me, and with a terrific shock I recognized the tone as my father's.
Um. That sounds like Scarlett O'Hara, honestly. Ridiculous. If it were reworded, it would be better. And I do like very much the bit about sounding like her father.
"I've just lived in the same house with you for three years, that's all." I could tell that I had hurt him. Even as he tried to glower at me his eyes revealed a twist of pain.
"Just go away," I said unhappily. "I can take care of myself."
"That's right, you don't need anyone," he added nastily, stalking to his side of the house.
The "nastily" tag really messes this up, I think. It overbalances things. It would be much less dramatic but more realistic if he said it normally, and then left. The stalking off thing bothers me, too.
I refused to over and apologize. I sat down on the couch again and tried to calm down, but it was useless. Sleep was near impossible. Over and over again the end of that summer replayed in my mind, over and over I felt the death of my childhood dreams. The light was still on in Mike's kitchen when I finally fell asleep.
Sarah: None More Emo.
The next morning dawned cold and pale, and I readied 'Dancer for my morning charter. There was no sign of Mike, which surprised me since we usually ate breakfast together, even when he didn't have a charter of his own. Then I remembered last night's conversation and winced.
So that's it. My thoughts overall?
Well, there might be promise to the premise, but I'm just never going to write it. I'm not engaged enough by the main plot. I do like the characters, but Sarah is waaaay too Emo and Mary Sue Gloom and has the Poor Heroine so firmly wrapped around her that I'm not certain I could wrench it free. Mike is a decent character, though. I like how smart he is, and poetic, and he's like those characters in the movies where the heroine comes back from the Big City and finds that the hero she left behind is much better than the big city guy she was dating (think Hope Floats).
My writing has improved in some ways, I think. The sentence structure issue has cleared up a little, thank goodness. And I've eliminated some colloquial expressions, and other issues. And I am starting to understand that dialogue tags can add too much emphasis.
I think I spend more time really trying to figure out the plot. I also spend more time trying to think realistically about the characters and how they would react. I know that I try to set up their circumstances far more logically, and I wince at coincidence now, though you do sometimes have no choice. I also spend more time working through the secondary characters to make certain that they react properly to the plot as well, and have some motivation and feelings.
I'm really glad that I did this project. I do feel better about my writing, and I think that I have improved.
Conclusion
Read this section without the commentary
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-13 01:52 am (UTC)*cracking up*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-14 01:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-17 09:29 pm (UTC)It's been really interesting and fun reading this and your comments! I can't wait for your next original fic project ^_^
(no subject)
Date: 2009-06-13 06:15 pm (UTC)