So here's the deal: I work with Penguin books at a website called Spinebreakers, where I write reviews in return for books. The only reason that they aren't being republished here is that I'm unsure as to whether I am allowed to reproduce content written for Penguin or not. But still, moving on... I have a small job as a reviewer (win!). As a small side thing, the website also sports a 'Creative Content' page, where budding Spinebreakers may publish their own work, whether that happens to be pictures, writing or videos of whatever description. Being a writer, I post in this section with fair regularity. Presently I'm posting up a story that I've serialised.
Every time and again, I take a look through the pages to see what people have written. I'm sorry to say that most of it is utter drivel. Mostly poetry, the authors seem to have no sense of what grammar is, nor how to implement it correctly. The sections of actual stories that I come across generally consist of single paragraphs of what seems to be SMS language (I can't believe I just said 'SMS') that the authors have the audacity to call 'chapters'.
Now I enjoy being a critic, and I like to help people along with good, honest constructive criticism, but now I feel as if my job is moot. I feel like typing: "Quit writing! You are terrible at describing this, that and the next thing; your characters are either unrealistic or undeveloped to the point of being gelatinous masses of tasteless gloop; your style is comparable to bovine excrement." However, I tend to swallow my fingers and try to type out a lengthy and slightly critical review of their work and leave it at that. Sometimes I get emails saying "Ooh, you read my story but did not like it, you shall be EXECUTED!", but mostly it's taken in silence. Plus, I'm still alive, so that's a bonus.
As to my own work, I include a sample below this article. Mostly my stuff gets some very positive feedback indeed - "OMG, that's well good man," - but very little of it actually helps. Sure, it's great to recieve feedback saying that it's a wonderful piece, but truly? I need something more to go on if I am to better my work. All I can say is that perhaps my work's just faultless. Either that, or people are lazy and don't subject articles, story extracts etc. to critical thought.
There are some good writers at Spinebreakers and online in general, and among those are some good critics too who will give you some nice feedback on what you wrote. However, they are vastly outnumbered by those aspiring writers who think they're doing a good job and really just aren't. Some people have the skill with which to write, and others don't. But a candle's light is brightest when the night is at its darkest. Perhaps there is hope for the online authorship; perhaps not. But those of us who are flames may at least try and set others alight: Either to make them shine, or burn them to the ground.
* * *
The following is an extract from something that I'm in the middle of writing. To be more accurate, this is actually the prologue. Set five years before the events of the actual story, it sets the scene for certain events to come.
*
It started in the night. It began as a whisper at the back of his mind, increasing in volume until it was a roar that rocked the very core of his being. And then, very suddenly, it stopped. And he opened his eyes.
The room was on fire. Everything – the pale wallpaper, the wardrobe, the bookcase and its load of paperbacks – was burning fiercely, flames leaping up from the hardwood floor to lick the painted ceiling. The bedcovers were alight, the fire devouring the soft fabric.
He reacted instinctively, kicking back the covers and springing out of bed and to the floor. More by accident rather than design, he managed to land in a patch free of flame. The heat was searing and the smoke thick, catching in the back of throat. He had to escape. He glanced at the door. It was succumbing to the inferno, its white paint peeling away. The brass doorknob glowed menacingly. There was no way out. But wait - the window.
Moving like lightning, he picked up a lamp and hurled the heavy object at the glass. It smashed through the single pane with a crash. He turned to it and backed up several steps. He killed the seeds of doubt in his mind – he didn’t have time to question the wisdom of what he was about to do. Grimacing with anticipation, he ran to the window and leapt.
The cool air was both a shock and a relief to him as it rushed past. The cold wind flowed over his loosely-clad body and outstretched arms. Then he made contact with the rough bark of the tree, and his flight ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Hooking his arms around the thick branch of the old tree, he hauled himself up into the foliage. Leaves still damp from the night’s rain wiped water across his forehead, mingling with the sweat. Twisting around, he looked back at the house. The whole building was lit from the inside by the glow of the fire, shadows dancing on the neatly mowed lawn. The crackle of blazing material and the crash of a collapsing roof filled the air. It was a symphony of destruction: The booming bass drum was the jerry cans in the garage; the xylophone’s tinkle was glass breaking; the trumpet’s fanfare replaced by the wail of sirens.
When they found him, he was sitting at the base of the tree, fresh burns colouring his skin an angry red. His expression was blank, wiped clean by shock. But it was his eyes that caught the attention; held them rapt. They burned with the infernos of rage.
The fire fighters may have extinguished the flames, but the fire blazed on.
*
And that is how fiction is really written, people. Just so that you're aware that I'm not a complete and utter hypocrite. I like to write, and I'm told that I'm good at it. So that's how it's done. Boom.
Regards,
Professor Pisces
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