About me: I'm new to the forums, and a complete amateur writer, so I'm not 100% sure how this goes. I'm a 21 year old college student, and I've just rediscovered my writer's itch. I took a semester off, and my major goal is to get a draft of a WIP done, with the additional goal of getting a query-ready draft if I can get to it.
What I'm looking for: I'm looking for somebody to offer me some general feedback on something I've had mulling in my head for several years. I'm want someone that would stick with me throughout this process. Ideally, I'm crave a mentor, but I'd be happy for a critter or writing buddy or whatever the proper term is. Anybody that's willing to look at what I've got and give me feedback. I don't need to be coddled, I prefer blunt, honest feedback. As diplomatic as I can be, I much prefer to throw concern for offending delicate sensibilities out the window. Don't worry about hurting my feelings, I understand that negatives are easier to point out something broken than something that works, and I know I'm not Hemingway, Shakespeare, or Poe.
I'm a poor college student, so I can't pay for any services, but I'd be more than happy to offer my best amateur opinion on your work in return.
About the book: This is really the first extended thing I've written outside of essays for school. I finally have gotten a serious start to it over the past few weeks, I've gotten just under 13k words so far as a contiguous start. I've got about another 20k-30k of random ideas, outlines, sections, etc. I don't expect feedback on these, if you're willing to look at them I'd appreciate it, but I know that many prefer a more polished product to look at. I'm guessing it will be in that 80k-110k range by the time it's done.
With the help of the IRC channel, I've determined that what I'm writing is Contemporary/Modern Fiction (I think). Below is a brief overview:
What the book is about: A recent college graduate begins the time honored crucible to find himself. He sets out on a cross country trip that is to be his backpacking Europe. Soon after beginning his journey, he meets a strange man named Jay. Together, they set out towards New York City, to start the trip anew. Along the way, they explore some deep philosophical ideas in absurdist fashion, exposing the seedy underbelly of America along the way in dramatic fashion.
Some of my earlier drafts look almost like Hunter S. Thompson Fan Fiction, but it has gotten better as I've developed my voice and gotten some originality to it.
Warning:
Profanity, sex, drugs, rock n' roll, and all that are very prevalent in the story. People sensitive to satire/criticism of religion and/or the US should stop here.
I read in one of the stickies that a writing sample can be helpful. I've just finished my first major plot arc, so I'll just stick everything I've got so far on here. Bit long, but you can read as much as you want:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B_5g0N2LleUbZVJKX2MwX0hRbTQ/edit?usp=sharing
Please reply, PM, find me in IRC, or somehow get in contact with me if you're interested!
Edit: Per some advice, below is a plain text writing sample. I understand the stranger danger of links:
Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!” - Hunter S. Thompson
The sun rose on the middle of the day, 22 hours after it had begun. Saturday blurred with Friday, every hour a model of anecdotal chaos theory, ending with a rental car and general compass direction. Just the way our inner teenager always wanted it. College had ended, what now?
The crucible of course. Most of my classmates bulled into life, taking jobs to get ahead of it. A smaller few went to Europe, hopping around the Eurorail to experience life, youth, and diversity before responsibility could rob them of it. Me? I found nothing more foreign than my own backyard. The great US of A, the land of opportunity, the great melting pot. Why would you go anywhere else? In the dictionary, right next to naivety, is my self-portrait.
I drove through the previous night, stopping only for gas. It's amazing what drugs are available right over the counter, let alone behind it. It was just outside a small town, somewhere in the Midwest, when I finally felt far enough away from the quicksand of home to stop comfortably. I lost track of state lines in the black of night; west on 70 until your soul breaks, then you're halfway to Colorado.
The pitiful engine of this plains-grade four-wheeler whined, desperately trying to overcome the rutted mud road. I turned the corner, expecting the river to come into view. Instead, the path ended abruptly in a mud-pit. Backing until there was enough road for a three-point, I headed towards a clearing I peered off the path earlier. I pulled off in that strange fucking place, taking a route to nowhere in the hopes of grabbing a moment of piece by some bit of water, and a cigarette. I really needed that fucking cigarette.
I pulled into the clearing, disappointed by the lack of water in sound or sight. Just some wetlands and, in the spirit of the day, one last throw of the butterfly's wings in that final hour. Collapsed under a tree lay a man forgotten by the world in a suitable environment. Bits of foil, plastic bags, and bottles lay strewn from his position. Clearly, this man had been there a while.
He jolts upright, blinking like some caricatured bird; you could see the world slowly coming into focus behind his mirrored shades. Bemusement turned to confusion, being greeted on his face with an odd familiarity. Then, panic. Rifling through his pockets, he pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes shaking it violently even after the emptiness had long since been apparent. His gaze darted around the clearing, settling onto my hands with laser focus. The filters nearly burst into flames as I opened the pack.
I pulled two from the pack, lighting one before handing him the other. Silence reigned over the scene, broken only by the clicking and striking of a zippo. The ember glowed for an eternity as the man drew life from the cigarette. I had been alone for so long, isolated by the driving beat of an over-stimulated teenager, social conditioning had long since abandoned me.
“Don't worry, I don't bite... not often anyways.” He said.
My eyes darted towards his salvage silhouette, my eyes caught a gleam in the brush. Paralyzing fear overcame me, not a hundred yards from his spot lay a large silver briefcase. I couldn't break my stare.
“Relax, it's just my various remedies for living.” The image of a sniper rifle, an assortment of various blades, several side arms and fully automatic weapons flooded my mind. The fear must have been too great to hide. “My living, not yours... No, wait, that sounds worse doesn't it.” He ranted, “Fuck it, it's full of drugs!” His unwavering, nonchalant attitude calmed my fear, albeit temporarily.
“Ah, okay.” Words finally came to me.
“Say, you're not the kind hypnotized by right wing Christian fascists trying to save me from myself right?”
“How can you be so sure?”
“No police, pamphlets, nor preaching coming from your person.”
“Sorry, left the pamphlets at home and I'm no good without the podium.”
He laughed. “Come join me,” he said, waving me over. “Do you partake?”
“Depends...” I said, still standing my ground apprehensively
“I think I got a bit of grass somewhere in here...” He said, crawling towards the case. “You're not ready for anything else.”
“Anything else?” I inquired with fright.
“Oh, don't worry,” He insisted. “Nothing that makes me a danger to anyone else, and the atmosphere is not right to begin the fun yet. I've got a stalker to size up first.”
“Stalker? I didn't know you were here until I got out of the car.”
“Probably wouldn't have if you did.” He lamented.
His demeanor put me oddly at ease, more permanently this time. That, or it could have been the weed. Either way, conversation flowed comfortably, and the mystery surrounding this man quickly lifted.
What I'm looking for: I'm looking for somebody to offer me some general feedback on something I've had mulling in my head for several years. I'm want someone that would stick with me throughout this process. Ideally, I'm crave a mentor, but I'd be happy for a critter or writing buddy or whatever the proper term is. Anybody that's willing to look at what I've got and give me feedback. I don't need to be coddled, I prefer blunt, honest feedback. As diplomatic as I can be, I much prefer to throw concern for offending delicate sensibilities out the window. Don't worry about hurting my feelings, I understand that negatives are easier to point out something broken than something that works, and I know I'm not Hemingway, Shakespeare, or Poe.
I'm a poor college student, so I can't pay for any services, but I'd be more than happy to offer my best amateur opinion on your work in return.
About the book: This is really the first extended thing I've written outside of essays for school. I finally have gotten a serious start to it over the past few weeks, I've gotten just under 13k words so far as a contiguous start. I've got about another 20k-30k of random ideas, outlines, sections, etc. I don't expect feedback on these, if you're willing to look at them I'd appreciate it, but I know that many prefer a more polished product to look at. I'm guessing it will be in that 80k-110k range by the time it's done.
With the help of the IRC channel, I've determined that what I'm writing is Contemporary/Modern Fiction (I think). Below is a brief overview:
What the book is about: A recent college graduate begins the time honored crucible to find himself. He sets out on a cross country trip that is to be his backpacking Europe. Soon after beginning his journey, he meets a strange man named Jay. Together, they set out towards New York City, to start the trip anew. Along the way, they explore some deep philosophical ideas in absurdist fashion, exposing the seedy underbelly of America along the way in dramatic fashion.
Some of my earlier drafts look almost like Hunter S. Thompson Fan Fiction, but it has gotten better as I've developed my voice and gotten some originality to it.
Warning:
Profanity, sex, drugs, rock n' roll, and all that are very prevalent in the story. People sensitive to satire/criticism of religion and/or the US should stop here.
I read in one of the stickies that a writing sample can be helpful. I've just finished my first major plot arc, so I'll just stick everything I've got so far on here. Bit long, but you can read as much as you want:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B_5g0N2LleUbZVJKX2MwX0hRbTQ/edit?usp=sharing
Please reply, PM, find me in IRC, or somehow get in contact with me if you're interested!
Edit: Per some advice, below is a plain text writing sample. I understand the stranger danger of links:
Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!” - Hunter S. Thompson
The sun rose on the middle of the day, 22 hours after it had begun. Saturday blurred with Friday, every hour a model of anecdotal chaos theory, ending with a rental car and general compass direction. Just the way our inner teenager always wanted it. College had ended, what now?
The crucible of course. Most of my classmates bulled into life, taking jobs to get ahead of it. A smaller few went to Europe, hopping around the Eurorail to experience life, youth, and diversity before responsibility could rob them of it. Me? I found nothing more foreign than my own backyard. The great US of A, the land of opportunity, the great melting pot. Why would you go anywhere else? In the dictionary, right next to naivety, is my self-portrait.
I drove through the previous night, stopping only for gas. It's amazing what drugs are available right over the counter, let alone behind it. It was just outside a small town, somewhere in the Midwest, when I finally felt far enough away from the quicksand of home to stop comfortably. I lost track of state lines in the black of night; west on 70 until your soul breaks, then you're halfway to Colorado.
The pitiful engine of this plains-grade four-wheeler whined, desperately trying to overcome the rutted mud road. I turned the corner, expecting the river to come into view. Instead, the path ended abruptly in a mud-pit. Backing until there was enough road for a three-point, I headed towards a clearing I peered off the path earlier. I pulled off in that strange fucking place, taking a route to nowhere in the hopes of grabbing a moment of piece by some bit of water, and a cigarette. I really needed that fucking cigarette.
I pulled into the clearing, disappointed by the lack of water in sound or sight. Just some wetlands and, in the spirit of the day, one last throw of the butterfly's wings in that final hour. Collapsed under a tree lay a man forgotten by the world in a suitable environment. Bits of foil, plastic bags, and bottles lay strewn from his position. Clearly, this man had been there a while.
He jolts upright, blinking like some caricatured bird; you could see the world slowly coming into focus behind his mirrored shades. Bemusement turned to confusion, being greeted on his face with an odd familiarity. Then, panic. Rifling through his pockets, he pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes shaking it violently even after the emptiness had long since been apparent. His gaze darted around the clearing, settling onto my hands with laser focus. The filters nearly burst into flames as I opened the pack.
I pulled two from the pack, lighting one before handing him the other. Silence reigned over the scene, broken only by the clicking and striking of a zippo. The ember glowed for an eternity as the man drew life from the cigarette. I had been alone for so long, isolated by the driving beat of an over-stimulated teenager, social conditioning had long since abandoned me.
“Don't worry, I don't bite... not often anyways.” He said.
My eyes darted towards his salvage silhouette, my eyes caught a gleam in the brush. Paralyzing fear overcame me, not a hundred yards from his spot lay a large silver briefcase. I couldn't break my stare.
“Relax, it's just my various remedies for living.” The image of a sniper rifle, an assortment of various blades, several side arms and fully automatic weapons flooded my mind. The fear must have been too great to hide. “My living, not yours... No, wait, that sounds worse doesn't it.” He ranted, “Fuck it, it's full of drugs!” His unwavering, nonchalant attitude calmed my fear, albeit temporarily.
“Ah, okay.” Words finally came to me.
“Say, you're not the kind hypnotized by right wing Christian fascists trying to save me from myself right?”
“How can you be so sure?”
“No police, pamphlets, nor preaching coming from your person.”
“Sorry, left the pamphlets at home and I'm no good without the podium.”
He laughed. “Come join me,” he said, waving me over. “Do you partake?”
“Depends...” I said, still standing my ground apprehensively
“I think I got a bit of grass somewhere in here...” He said, crawling towards the case. “You're not ready for anything else.”
“Anything else?” I inquired with fright.
“Oh, don't worry,” He insisted. “Nothing that makes me a danger to anyone else, and the atmosphere is not right to begin the fun yet. I've got a stalker to size up first.”
“Stalker? I didn't know you were here until I got out of the car.”
“Probably wouldn't have if you did.” He lamented.
His demeanor put me oddly at ease, more permanently this time. That, or it could have been the weed. Either way, conversation flowed comfortably, and the mystery surrounding this man quickly lifted.
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