Thread: The Closed Building

I'm going to be honest here. Not brutal. Just honest.

I'm no writing professional, in fact I have an English GCSE and a poetry blog, and little else. But this is what I enjoy in short stories - detail, colour, imagery, sustained atmosphere, and character.

Detail, colour and imagery are out; each moment is explained via a systematic and fleeting summary. It reads like an e-mail. I would have loved to hear more of your discovery of the counterfeit money - but all I get are two sentences of no detail and bland language. This should surely be the focal point of the story?

As for atmosphere; well you sum up a broken up parenthood quite well, but again the technique is systematic and thin. Write about what's really there but other's cannot see; the profound heaviness of the air in tense situations, what makes your heart heavy. Not about tidying your room - not that ordinary situations aren't enjoyable, but your characters do not have the depth to sustain these. I come from a broken family - I've written about it several times, and I generally write about the invisible things tthat hang in the air, and relationships and desires unfulfilled or fractured.

I think you were trying to sum up too much here in too little space - overall, this piece lacks depth. You could have easily written just about the moment you find the money and achieved so much more - and you ight even find you might have to write a few hundred extra words ust to accommidate the depth. You do not have to treat time linearly. Let the reader know certain things only when they are relevant, and never then lose track of the present situation, and the present mind-set. You'd be suprised how much detail you can portray in a character just by carefully choosing his responses and reflexes to a situation that's well introduced and well detailed.

So yeah, sorry, I don't like it . Can't say much more than that, I'm afraid. Obviously, if this was so and I didn't feel up to any criticism, I wouldn't post a reply ("If you can't say anything nice..."). But I hope even a small portion of the above criticism is useful to you.

Originally Posted by Identity

I'm going to be honest here. Not brutal. Just honest.

I'm no writing professional, in fact I have an English GCSE and a poetry blog, and little else. But this is what I enjoy in short stories - detail, colour, imagery, sustained atmosphere, and character.

Detail, colour and imagery are out; each moment is explained via a systematic and fleeting summary. It reads like an e-mail. I would have loved to hear more of your discovery of the counterfeit money - but all I get are two sentences of no detail and bland language. This should surely be the focal point of the story?

As for atmosphere; well you sum up a broken up parenthood quite well, but again the technique is systematic and thin. Write about what's really there but other's cannot see; the profound heaviness of the air in tense situations, what makes your heart heavy. Not about tidying your room - not that ordinary situations aren't enjoyable, but your characters do not have the depth to sustain these. I come from a broken family - I've written about it several times, and I generally write about the invisible things tthat hang in the air, and relationships and desires unfulfilled or fractured.

I think you were trying to sum up too much here in too little space - overall, this piece lacks depth. You could have easily written just about the moment you find the money and achieved so much more - and you ight even find you might have to write a few hundred extra words ust to accommidate the depth. You do not have to treat time linearly. Let the reader know certain things only when they are relevant, and never then lose track of the present situation, and the present mind-set. You'd be suprised how much detail you can portray in a character just by carefully choosing his responses and reflexes to a situation that's well introduced and well detailed.

So yeah, sorry, I don't like it . Can't say much more than that, I'm afraid. Obviously, if this was so and I didn't feel up to any criticism, I wouldn't post a reply ("If you can't say anything nice..."). But I hope even a small portion of the above criticism is useful to you.
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I get where you are coming from and I thank you for your advice, but I guess for me, it's just different strokes for different folks. I've read countless short stories as the ones you have described, and when it's all detail and not enough plot, I just can't get into it, sure, it maybe more artistic, and sometimes that is better, but for me, I'd rather read something with more plot than details. Thank you for your advice just the same.

Originally Posted by PhantomBPR

I get where you are coming from and I thank you for your advice, but I guess for me, it's just different strokes for different folks. I've read countless short stories as the ones you have described, and when it's all detail and not enough plot, I just can't get into it, sure, it maybe more artistic, and sometimes that is better, but for me, I'd rather read something with more plot than details. Thank you for your advice just the same.
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You are probably reading the wrong stories . I might later write up a mock paragraph to demonstrate how I would rewrite the discovery scenario. I'm no author but it would be interesting (for me at least) to illustrate our different approaches.

Plot and detail should be symbiotic, btw. More later.

Originally Posted by Identity

You are probably reading the wrong stories . I might later write up a mock paragraph to demonstrate how I would rewrite the discovery scenario. I'm no author but it would be interesting (for me at least) to illustrate our different approaches.

Plot and detail should be symbiotic, btw. More later.
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By all means, please do. I'm very interested in seeing how you would do it.

Ok, this is only one scene, but as I've said I think you're trying to sum up too much in too small a space. I was going to write more, but I don't have the time.

I wrote this in about an hour amongst MSN conversations and other distractions, and I haven't actually reread it. But enough of the excuses:


Money, and lots of it, here, in the back room of a junk shop. I stepped back, my eyes adjusting to the marvelous sight beyond them, my gaze scanning the edges of the paper notes at a dizzying speed, as if it were an electron beam in a TV set. They had to move that fast, of course, to catch up with my brain, which was already getting to work on that one important calculation. I decided after an instant that there must have been a million or so there; perhaps two hundred grand in the box in front of me, and a similar number in the others. Boxes that had evidently housed Heinz Baked Beans and were picked up from the nearest superstore. I guess you've seen it as many times as I am - that stock scene in the movies, the opened black briefcase stuffed full of cash. You might presume - picturing those movies in your mind - that the room was aglow with peppermint green, and my face overcome with glee. It just wasn't like that. Far from gleeful, it was as if my mind had presently suspended itself of emotion, of life, as if all my blood had rushed to my eyes. And far from aglow, the notes were dull and bland. But as my eyes refocused and started detailing one note in particular, an inconspicuous one in the middle somewhere, I started to realise that there was something on those notes that wasn't as dull as the rest. Something on those notes that wasn't on the $5 in my wallet. Blue zeroes. Blue ones. Et cetera. Sharp, clear, like blisters on the surface of the paper. And they really shouldn't have been there.

It was summer now, of course, but I had been taught at school the previous year that blue had the shortest wavelength of the colours. And we had to draw diagrams. Whilst radio waves just took one slow smooth stroke of the white board pen, looking like tranquil waves on a lake's shore, carrying the latest Duran Duran hit with reliable ease, blue's diagram was a dense, angular blur; and to draw it required the student to shake the pen in a frenzy, the pen emitting strobing wails as if it were an release of the energy generated by the student's angry scratch along the board; and it was this energy that was now burning my retinas, causing to me the wince. The figures - ones and zeros in that awful shade of blue, looked like blots of acid slowly making its way through the money. The counterfeit money. Absorbing this truly horrible realisation, my body took a step back or too, and then I stumbled. I felt heavy as if there was a black hole in the room slowly dragging me in. Hell, I wouldn't have minded if there was one in there, if only to take the vile specimens with it.

Now on the floor, I gathered the courage to touch the filthy objects. Slowly moving my thumb over the surface of the same note that grabbed my attention before hand, I realised how rough the paper was. It was hardly sandpaper, but if you were to rub one of those against your palate you'd probably feel as sick as I felt back then. This wasn't just counterfeit money, it was bad counterfeit money, and yet this is how my father and his business partner sustained there sudden increase in wealth? Maybe I'd have gathered the strength to stand up if I'd have understood any of it, but, as it was, my father walked in to the floor covered in spilled banknotes, and sprawled in the middle of it, myself, with the first tears emerging from my sore eyes. And as those eyes met his, the most terrible look emerged.

I've probably introduce some Britishisms and I do not know much of American currency, I apologise. Anyways, that's it. I've cut from that point because I was too tired to carry on, sorry.

Originally Posted by Identity

Ok, this is only one scene, but as I've said I think you're trying to sum up too much in too small a space. I was going to write more, but I don't have the time.

I wrote this in about an hour amongst MSN conversations and other distractions, and I haven't actually reread it. But enough of the excuses:
Money, and lots of it, here, in the back room of a junk shop. I stepped back, my eyes adjusting to the marvelous sight beyond them, my gaze scanning the edges of the paper notes at a dizzying speed, as if it were an electron beam in a TV set. They had to move that fast, of course, to catch up with my brain, which was already getting to work on that one important calculation. I decided after an instant that there must have been a million or so there; perhaps two hundred grand in the box in front of me, and a similar number in the others. Boxes that had evidently housed Heinz Baked Beans and were picked up from the nearest superstore. I guess you've seen it as many times as I am - that stock scene in the movies, the opened black briefcase stuffed full of cash. You might presume - picturing those movies in your mind - that the room was aglow with peppermint green, and my face overcome with glee. It just wasn't like that. Far from gleeful, it was as if my mind had presently suspended itself of emotion, of life, as if all my blood had rushed to my eyes. And far from aglow, the notes were dull and bland. But as my eyes refocused and started detailing one note in particular, an inconspicuous one in the middle somewhere, I started to realise that there was something on those notes that wasn't as dull as the rest. Something on those notes that wasn't on the $5 in my wallet. Blue zeroes. Blue ones. Et cetera. Sharp, clear, like blisters on the surface of the paper. And they really shouldn't have been there.

It was summer now, of course, but I had been taught at school the previous year that blue had the shortest wavelength of the colours. And we had to draw diagrams. Whilst radio waves just took one slow smooth stroke of the white board pen, looking like tranquil waves on a lake's shore, carrying the latest Duran Duran hit with reliable ease, blue's diagram was a dense, angular blur; and to draw it required the student to shake the pen in a frenzy, the pen emitting strobing wails as if it were an release of the energy generated by the student's angry scratch along the board; and it was this energy that was now burning my retinas, causing to me the wince. The figures - ones and zeros in that awful shade of blue, looked like blots of acid slowly making its way through the money. The counterfeit money. Absorbing this truly horrible realisation, my body took a step back or too, and then I stumbled. I felt heavy as if there was a black hole in the room slowly dragging me in. Hell, I wouldn't have minded if there was one in there, if only to take the vile specimens with it.

Now on the floor, I gathered the courage to touch the filthy objects. Slowly moving my thumb over the surface of the same note that grabbed my attention before hand, I realised how rough the paper was. It was hardly sandpaper, but if you were to rub one of those against your palate you'd probably feel as sick as I felt back then. This wasn't just counterfeit money, it was bad counterfeit money, and yet this is how my father and his business partner sustained there sudden increase in wealth? Maybe I'd have gathered the strength to stand up if I'd have understood any of it, but, as it was, my father walked in to the floor covered in spilled banknotes, and sprawled in the middle of it, myself, with the first tears emerging from my sore eyes. And as those eyes met his, the most terrible look emerged.

I've probably introduce some Britishisms and I do not know much of American currency, I apologise. Anyways, that's it. I've cut from that point because I was too tired to carry on, sorry.
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I will admit I like the way you do it and this is a more conventional approach to short stories, but this just would not be something I would ever be able to get into. Don't get me wrong, you've got alot of tallent but this looks like something I had to read during a standardized test. Still I like your approach at it.

carrying the latest Duran Duran hit with reliable ease[/b]

I don't know about the rest of it, but god this made me cringe.

Originally Posted by Kaniaz

I don't know about the rest of it, but god this made me cringe.
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I was trying to establish some kind of time frame, since it was obviously a retrospective piece.

PS: I'm not exactly sure what sure a standardised test is. But I guess they'd only print good examples of English

I was trying to establish some kind of time frame, since it was obviously a retrospective piece.[/b]

Time frame or not, criiiiiinge.

EDIT: A standardised test in America is like basically their fancy talk for 'a end-of-year-type-test' (as far as I know). So I guess what PhantomBPR is trying to say is, I'm sorry, but your writing was good enough to go in a test.

Originally Posted by Kaniaz

Time frame or not, criiiiiinge.

EDIT: A standardised test in America is like basically their fancy talk for 'a end-of-year-type-test' (as far as I know). So I guess what PhantomBPR is trying to say is, I'm sorry, but your writing was good enough to go in a test.
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Pretty much.

EDIT: Please forgive my ignorance. I have no idea how the educational system works in England, but in America, we receive yearly exams from the government that are usually classified as "Standeredized Tests".

Short stories don't give me enough time to create as much plot as I would like. Writing novels demands too much information by the time I'm done with the plot. So there in lies my delima.