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I met her at a time in my life when meeting people was something you did as you might grasp at rose thorns to pull yourself from a raging river. And she herself was going through motions like a cracked china doll, insulating herself with a bubble of reserve, unable to leave the surfaces of herself open to any impacts at all. As we did not strongly chafe when we met, we fell across each other’s path for a time.
I was growing white hairs, and had left much undone that I would henceforth lack the energy of youth to accomplish. And she… A friend of hers had done what in retrospect was a deplorable thing, and this led to her spouse doing a reprehensible thing, and now she was cast adrift in the world and having to start anew at the standard tasks of life with the all of the need, but without the eagerness.
I might not ever have told her anything of my dream, for it seemed so private a thing as to cause me shame to reveal it to a relative stranger. But there was a look she gave me, as we approached a conversational topic that newly-met friends do not often discuss, and this encouraged me. And so I told her the story of the dream I’d had a week before, the story I was holding inside me, cherishing like a small shining jewel near my heart.
All I usually recall of my dreams are sensations and moods, so I do not want you to assume too much about the scene of my story. Some may want to imagine a place of air and light, perhaps with shining clouds and golden tracery. But these are things of our own experience, and they are not universal. As beings born under a star’s light, we cherish warmth and blue skies, and fear the cold and dark. I do not know if colors or dimensions had any meaning in the scene of my dream. There may have been other senses I could not conceive a way to perceive, something my brain was not built to interpret. I could only take what was given me and assume it was right.
There were things I will call children, and there was at least one thing I will call mother, but you should not think of children in terms of years or mother in terms of gender or genetics. Only one of the children enters this tale, approaching a mother with respect and deference, and whether this happened in a room with physical walls and windows, or in an energy cloud in which beings of thought intersect with each other through traces like mathematical formulas scribed in light, may be left to your preference.
Mother, said the child, there are certain times when you are absent from us. To many of us, this is not noticeable or worthy of remark, but as I study under your guidance, I notice it more and more and it has come to occupy my thoughts. May I ask where you go?
My child, I acknowledge your advancing perception and you are correct to ask. But before I answer you, you must know that learning the answer to this question may lead to states of mind that may set you at different tangents than your current fellows. Some of these tangents will bring discomfort, greater than that you have yet experienced in your explorations. With this in mind, do you still wish me to answer you?
The child considered. Those that went at tangents to the rest of the children were those that often went on to become things like mothers. Yes, I do.
My child, we have spoken before of spaces that work thus– Here there appeared a construction of a shining light with small spheres that surrounded it. –and some of these are the places to which I go. This particular one I show you here is one where I spend much of my away-time.
May I go there as well?
The mother paused. You may. Yet it involves a hard and painful task, one that I would not assign lightly to anyone.
The child recognized the potential offer. You may send me; I have felt pain and I am not afraid.
Do not say such things, before you go. You do not know all the conditions, and hence it is rash to speak for your future self so confidently.
Then please tell me–what shall I encounter there?
Were I to explain it to you now, you would not understand me, said the mother. Only experience will do, and the experience will necessarily cause you pain. I cannot fully brief you beforehand, for you cannot bring your present knowledge there; the scope of that place does not well contain it. Yet, you may carry your memories back from it, if you wish.
The child considered. If I cannot bring my learning with me, how can I accomplish the task you set for me?
You will rediscover your light as you stay there and grow; and this is your task. Eventually the nature of that place shall bring an end your presence there, and you shall return here. But do not… do not return before you truly, truly must; this is all I ask of you. Hearing all this, do you wish to proceed?
I cannot imagine failing you by any act of my own will, mother.
You need not imagine that. If you are certain, let us go. Here, this is the way; follow me.
So the child and mother both went, and it seemed not long at all before the child returned, alone, and it seemed much diminished. It said nothing, but awaited the return of the mother, and she was gone at least five times as long as the child had been. In the meantime, the pretty little spheres continued to spin around the shining light, but the child took no notice as it waited and indeed could not bear to look at them.
Eventually she flared back into presence, and joy surged in the child as it perceived her return, but it could not look long upon her, for she knew.
From her, there was a feeling, not of anger, but of deep sorrow and regret. My child… Oh, my child. You did not long abide there.
The child burned with shame. I didn’t know–oh, mother, it was so hard. It hurt so much at times. I… The child paused, still fitting the past self to the present… I was bewildered and afraid and without hope and I had not even the memory of you to comfort me. I grew confused and enraged at my own failure, and could think of nothing but fleeing the pain, even if it meant oblivion, even if it meant… never seeing you again. And I… I… cast aside my hopes, and I broke that vessel that was my self in that place. I released its inner fluid, and its pumps stilled and its warmth leaked away. And those things that seemed of such horrid consequence now seem so tiny and remote… Mother, I felt then that I must do it, but I know now that this is not true… and now I stand in shame before you, unable even to look you in the face.
My child, look at me. I do request it of you.
It met her gentle, sad countenance. Mother–I am so sorry, I failed–
I am sorry too. The task is often quite difficult, as I did warn you. It is pain I suffer myself when I go there. Though it hurts, it must be done, for imagine what that place would be like, if there was no hope in it at all–
Mother! No! Don’t even say that!
Yes. You saw how whelming that world was, how little reason there seemed at times to hope. You see how brave those native to that place are, to even strive to reach the light. They may succeed someday, but in the meantime… they can use our help, my child. Every little bit, every ray of additional light, it all helps. And so I go myself, over and over, and send those of mine who are strong enough as well. But when that light falters… When a spark ceases to shine… that hurts too, my child. It aids the darkness in that place when you abandon your task.
You mean I… Oh. Oh, Mother… I am not worthy of any tangents at all; I am a failure!
You did fail this task, but you are not a failure. Do not speak of yourself that way. You are not lessened in my regard; do not lessen yourself in your own.
I told you this task was not for all. If you stop now, you may take different tangents to become a mother, and forget that place, for you must not speak of it to your fellows, that they might not take unwittingly a burden such as this into their minds. Or if you think you can grow strong enough to persevere, you may try again. But I ask you not to try again… unless you truly think you can bear it this time. I often shall be there with you, and others as well, and when we lose a ray of light, it hurts. It makes it harder for the others to shine. It hurts all the worse when the light itself chooses not to shine anymore. Can you promise me that this time you will really persevere, really try?
The child hesitated. I… I suffered so much pain there, but it does not seem right, that I should forget it. Will it be like that again?
It will, and it may be very much worse, my child. Yet we cannot drag that place into the light by our force, just as you do not become counted as an adult unless you learn how to feed and feel and learn for yourself. It must grow into the light by its own power. We can only help to guide it, and help by showing what is possible, by our hopes joined with theirs. Will you take the long way, and shine with us for as long as you can?
The child thought long, as the spheres spun and swung around, then made its choice–
This was when I awoke, in a cold bed with the colorless light before dawn outlining the objects in my room, and for long moments I did not know what or where I was. I felt like a needle of thought stabbed into alien fabrics, something that was but had nowhere properly to be. I fought to fit myself among the gloom-shrouded shapes that lurked about me as incomprehensible artifacts, and I came slowly back to myself, though like a needle I still held the thread of that dream, and upon a sketchpad near my bed, I drew it out.
So this was the story I shared with my new acquaintance. She was smart, and she knew how to take the meaning of it. But as I recounted it to her, that look she had about her, the one that first led me to recount the story, felt stronger, and I wondered. If that dream could possibly be a shadow of reality, could it be the case that she was the mother-being from my dream… setting aside her own memories to come here, and share our woes to add to our hope, to help us work towards the light, however they define light wherever she comes from?
And could she have come now to such a state, if she was? Could something that great fall so far; could so fiery a brand crumble to embers in the ash?
I had no way to measure what resistance there was in the inner circuits of her pain, no way to gauge from external influences whether a thing that would make one person bend would bring her to bow. So we simply talked together of the dream, and of other things. I made her promise to meet me next week, and call if the cares and weights of the world pressed much harder, and she made me promise the same to her.
And now, along with the jewel of my dream, I hold also near my heart that look she gave me, which so embodied that feeling of gentle reproach, of sorrow sans anger, of the patience and persistence of the light.
I was growing white hairs, and had left much undone that I would henceforth lack the energy of youth to accomplish. And she… A friend of hers had done what in retrospect was a deplorable thing, and this led to her spouse doing a reprehensible thing, and now she was cast adrift in the world and having to start anew at the standard tasks of life with the all of the need, but without the eagerness.
I might not ever have told her anything of my dream, for it seemed so private a thing as to cause me shame to reveal it to a relative stranger. But there was a look she gave me, as we approached a conversational topic that newly-met friends do not often discuss, and this encouraged me. And so I told her the story of the dream I’d had a week before, the story I was holding inside me, cherishing like a small shining jewel near my heart.
All I usually recall of my dreams are sensations and moods, so I do not want you to assume too much about the scene of my story. Some may want to imagine a place of air and light, perhaps with shining clouds and golden tracery. But these are things of our own experience, and they are not universal. As beings born under a star’s light, we cherish warmth and blue skies, and fear the cold and dark. I do not know if colors or dimensions had any meaning in the scene of my dream. There may have been other senses I could not conceive a way to perceive, something my brain was not built to interpret. I could only take what was given me and assume it was right.
There were things I will call children, and there was at least one thing I will call mother, but you should not think of children in terms of years or mother in terms of gender or genetics. Only one of the children enters this tale, approaching a mother with respect and deference, and whether this happened in a room with physical walls and windows, or in an energy cloud in which beings of thought intersect with each other through traces like mathematical formulas scribed in light, may be left to your preference.
Mother, said the child, there are certain times when you are absent from us. To many of us, this is not noticeable or worthy of remark, but as I study under your guidance, I notice it more and more and it has come to occupy my thoughts. May I ask where you go?
My child, I acknowledge your advancing perception and you are correct to ask. But before I answer you, you must know that learning the answer to this question may lead to states of mind that may set you at different tangents than your current fellows. Some of these tangents will bring discomfort, greater than that you have yet experienced in your explorations. With this in mind, do you still wish me to answer you?
The child considered. Those that went at tangents to the rest of the children were those that often went on to become things like mothers. Yes, I do.
My child, we have spoken before of spaces that work thus– Here there appeared a construction of a shining light with small spheres that surrounded it. –and some of these are the places to which I go. This particular one I show you here is one where I spend much of my away-time.
May I go there as well?
The mother paused. You may. Yet it involves a hard and painful task, one that I would not assign lightly to anyone.
The child recognized the potential offer. You may send me; I have felt pain and I am not afraid.
Do not say such things, before you go. You do not know all the conditions, and hence it is rash to speak for your future self so confidently.
Then please tell me–what shall I encounter there?
Were I to explain it to you now, you would not understand me, said the mother. Only experience will do, and the experience will necessarily cause you pain. I cannot fully brief you beforehand, for you cannot bring your present knowledge there; the scope of that place does not well contain it. Yet, you may carry your memories back from it, if you wish.
The child considered. If I cannot bring my learning with me, how can I accomplish the task you set for me?
You will rediscover your light as you stay there and grow; and this is your task. Eventually the nature of that place shall bring an end your presence there, and you shall return here. But do not… do not return before you truly, truly must; this is all I ask of you. Hearing all this, do you wish to proceed?
I cannot imagine failing you by any act of my own will, mother.
You need not imagine that. If you are certain, let us go. Here, this is the way; follow me.
So the child and mother both went, and it seemed not long at all before the child returned, alone, and it seemed much diminished. It said nothing, but awaited the return of the mother, and she was gone at least five times as long as the child had been. In the meantime, the pretty little spheres continued to spin around the shining light, but the child took no notice as it waited and indeed could not bear to look at them.
Eventually she flared back into presence, and joy surged in the child as it perceived her return, but it could not look long upon her, for she knew.
From her, there was a feeling, not of anger, but of deep sorrow and regret. My child… Oh, my child. You did not long abide there.
The child burned with shame. I didn’t know–oh, mother, it was so hard. It hurt so much at times. I… The child paused, still fitting the past self to the present… I was bewildered and afraid and without hope and I had not even the memory of you to comfort me. I grew confused and enraged at my own failure, and could think of nothing but fleeing the pain, even if it meant oblivion, even if it meant… never seeing you again. And I… I… cast aside my hopes, and I broke that vessel that was my self in that place. I released its inner fluid, and its pumps stilled and its warmth leaked away. And those things that seemed of such horrid consequence now seem so tiny and remote… Mother, I felt then that I must do it, but I know now that this is not true… and now I stand in shame before you, unable even to look you in the face.
My child, look at me. I do request it of you.
It met her gentle, sad countenance. Mother–I am so sorry, I failed–
I am sorry too. The task is often quite difficult, as I did warn you. It is pain I suffer myself when I go there. Though it hurts, it must be done, for imagine what that place would be like, if there was no hope in it at all–
Mother! No! Don’t even say that!
Yes. You saw how whelming that world was, how little reason there seemed at times to hope. You see how brave those native to that place are, to even strive to reach the light. They may succeed someday, but in the meantime… they can use our help, my child. Every little bit, every ray of additional light, it all helps. And so I go myself, over and over, and send those of mine who are strong enough as well. But when that light falters… When a spark ceases to shine… that hurts too, my child. It aids the darkness in that place when you abandon your task.
You mean I… Oh. Oh, Mother… I am not worthy of any tangents at all; I am a failure!
You did fail this task, but you are not a failure. Do not speak of yourself that way. You are not lessened in my regard; do not lessen yourself in your own.
I told you this task was not for all. If you stop now, you may take different tangents to become a mother, and forget that place, for you must not speak of it to your fellows, that they might not take unwittingly a burden such as this into their minds. Or if you think you can grow strong enough to persevere, you may try again. But I ask you not to try again… unless you truly think you can bear it this time. I often shall be there with you, and others as well, and when we lose a ray of light, it hurts. It makes it harder for the others to shine. It hurts all the worse when the light itself chooses not to shine anymore. Can you promise me that this time you will really persevere, really try?
The child hesitated. I… I suffered so much pain there, but it does not seem right, that I should forget it. Will it be like that again?
It will, and it may be very much worse, my child. Yet we cannot drag that place into the light by our force, just as you do not become counted as an adult unless you learn how to feed and feel and learn for yourself. It must grow into the light by its own power. We can only help to guide it, and help by showing what is possible, by our hopes joined with theirs. Will you take the long way, and shine with us for as long as you can?
The child thought long, as the spheres spun and swung around, then made its choice–
This was when I awoke, in a cold bed with the colorless light before dawn outlining the objects in my room, and for long moments I did not know what or where I was. I felt like a needle of thought stabbed into alien fabrics, something that was but had nowhere properly to be. I fought to fit myself among the gloom-shrouded shapes that lurked about me as incomprehensible artifacts, and I came slowly back to myself, though like a needle I still held the thread of that dream, and upon a sketchpad near my bed, I drew it out.
So this was the story I shared with my new acquaintance. She was smart, and she knew how to take the meaning of it. But as I recounted it to her, that look she had about her, the one that first led me to recount the story, felt stronger, and I wondered. If that dream could possibly be a shadow of reality, could it be the case that she was the mother-being from my dream… setting aside her own memories to come here, and share our woes to add to our hope, to help us work towards the light, however they define light wherever she comes from?
And could she have come now to such a state, if she was? Could something that great fall so far; could so fiery a brand crumble to embers in the ash?
I had no way to measure what resistance there was in the inner circuits of her pain, no way to gauge from external influences whether a thing that would make one person bend would bring her to bow. So we simply talked together of the dream, and of other things. I made her promise to meet me next week, and call if the cares and weights of the world pressed much harder, and she made me promise the same to her.
And now, along with the jewel of my dream, I hold also near my heart that look she gave me, which so embodied that feeling of gentle reproach, of sorrow sans anger, of the patience and persistence of the light.
Man...
I liked this one a lot. It's very nearly pitch-perfect. The tone is unusual but spot-on, the fuzzy lens used conveys emotions without needing to belabor them, and there's a deeper undercurrent and theme through the story that - as someone who deals with depression - I really do appreciate.
That being said, I couldn't help but feel that your inner story is a bit too... archetypal? Cute? Neat? Clean? I think... if this wasn't a dream-within-a-dream, a story that uses the inner work to modify the outer work, I would rather dislike it. I'm... not really a fan of allegory, even if it is one I agree with. As it is, the offset makes it palatable by tying it into the communication between these two characters, so it's not the author pointing an allegory directly at the audience - or not so directly as it might be, that is.
Overall, I found this remarkably effective and well written. Perhaps it's not perfectly perfect.
But then, what is?
Perhaps that's kinda the point. Suffice to say, I don't think I can give you advice on how to improve it, and it did make my day a little better.
Thanks for writing.
I liked this one a lot. It's very nearly pitch-perfect. The tone is unusual but spot-on, the fuzzy lens used conveys emotions without needing to belabor them, and there's a deeper undercurrent and theme through the story that - as someone who deals with depression - I really do appreciate.
That being said, I couldn't help but feel that your inner story is a bit too... archetypal? Cute? Neat? Clean? I think... if this wasn't a dream-within-a-dream, a story that uses the inner work to modify the outer work, I would rather dislike it. I'm... not really a fan of allegory, even if it is one I agree with. As it is, the offset makes it palatable by tying it into the communication between these two characters, so it's not the author pointing an allegory directly at the audience - or not so directly as it might be, that is.
Overall, I found this remarkably effective and well written. Perhaps it's not perfectly perfect.
But then, what is?
Perhaps that's kinda the point. Suffice to say, I don't think I can give you advice on how to improve it, and it did make my day a little better.
Thanks for writing.
Your first two sentences:
Take it from someone who abuses mixed metaphors like a fish riding a donkey: this is a horrible collision of imagery, and not a good first impression. I suppose that abstractly "grasping at rose thorns to pull yourself from a raging river" works, in the sense that if you're drowning you'll flail around even for things that hurt you, but there are better ways to express that. And there's nothing about china dolls (now your third unrelated metaphor element) that relates to "bubble of reserve" (four), unless the doll is being packed away by its owner for shipping/storage, and you can't exactly pack yourself in a box.
So you have a narrator who is madly flailing about like they're drowning and don't care what gets damaged, and a person so damaged that they are retreating to self-made safety ... and they DIDN'T strongly chafe??!?
Kill that first paragraph with fire. D:
I am definitely not a fan of the narrator's continual emphasis on breaking the scene-setting here -- deliberately foiling any attempt to ground this, and denying the reader any chance to establish a mental image -- but I do like this. It reinforces that ambiguity in a way that offers some actual detail (and pretty, besides).
I also rolled my eyes a bit at the dialogue between the mother and child establishing that they're aliens/gods/something that are incarnating as humans on earth, but largely forgave it when this sank its teeth into the core theme of suicide. That was a pretty cool place to take the idea, and a solid yet unusual take on the prompt.
The framing story here needs a lot of work, but it's surrounding an interesting core. Other than that, I don't have a lot to say. This seems like it has about a 2000-word idea, which is a good quality for a 2000-word story.
Tier: Almost There
(And that makes every story reviewed at least twice!)
I met her at a time in my life when meeting people was something you did as you might grasp at rose thorns to pull yourself from a raging river. And she herself was going through motions like a cracked china doll, insulating herself with a bubble of reserve, unable to leave the surfaces of herself open to any impacts at all.
Take it from someone who abuses mixed metaphors like a fish riding a donkey: this is a horrible collision of imagery, and not a good first impression. I suppose that abstractly "grasping at rose thorns to pull yourself from a raging river" works, in the sense that if you're drowning you'll flail around even for things that hurt you, but there are better ways to express that. And there's nothing about china dolls (now your third unrelated metaphor element) that relates to "bubble of reserve" (four), unless the doll is being packed away by its owner for shipping/storage, and you can't exactly pack yourself in a box.
As we did not strongly chafe when we met, we fell across each other’s path for a time.
So you have a narrator who is madly flailing about like they're drowning and don't care what gets damaged, and a person so damaged that they are retreating to self-made safety ... and they DIDN'T strongly chafe??!?
Kill that first paragraph with fire. D:
whether this happened in a room with physical walls and windows, or in an energy cloud in which beings of thought intersect with each other through traces like mathematical formulas scribed in light, may be left to your preference.
I am definitely not a fan of the narrator's continual emphasis on breaking the scene-setting here -- deliberately foiling any attempt to ground this, and denying the reader any chance to establish a mental image -- but I do like this. It reinforces that ambiguity in a way that offers some actual detail (and pretty, besides).
I also rolled my eyes a bit at the dialogue between the mother and child establishing that they're aliens/gods/something that are incarnating as humans on earth, but largely forgave it when this sank its teeth into the core theme of suicide. That was a pretty cool place to take the idea, and a solid yet unusual take on the prompt.
The framing story here needs a lot of work, but it's surrounding an interesting core. Other than that, I don't have a lot to say. This seems like it has about a 2000-word idea, which is a good quality for a 2000-word story.
Tier: Almost There
(And that makes every story reviewed at least twice!)
The visceral nature of this story really benefits from a second read-through, potential readers. Don't let the obtuse presentation put you off from considering this story fairly, because the surrealism really is in service of the message that the author is trying to present.
That being said, I do think that as horizon has pointed out before me, the level to which this surrealism has been taken, from the non-conventional descriptions, obtuse artisan metaphors, and the general presentation of the "dream" or allegory, whatever you'd like to call it, all coalesce together in a fever dream of confusion if you're reading it for the first time. This is mainly because we as an audience are thrown face first into an exceedingly dense first paragraph of descriptive prose that doesn't quite establish what the grounding of this story is, and as a result, it is difficult to understand until the concept is basically explicitly defined half-way of the way through the story. Not helping matters is the once again very dense dialogue between the child and mother characters that form the basis of the allegory.
Look, I know this is not intended as a light read; it is a story you have to sit down and think about why the author is making all these strange choices, and largely, these choices pay off, but the manner of presentation doesn't really inure the reader to read deeper. I remember reading the first three paragraphs of this story, somewhat agitated at the over-the-top artistry of the metaphors plus the exceedingly removed narration, and then hit the point where a dream would be introduced, to which I rolled my eyes. To be fair, what I got from the dream sequence was much greater than I anticipated, but nonetheless, the introduction of this story does nothing but dissuade me from continue reading.
That being said, once I got over the hump, the story became a rather pleasant interpretation of depression / suicidality that I can appreciate and respect. It's sweet and understanding, and removed aspect of the narration and sketchbook quality of the characters and their circumstances let the reader immediately understand that these people could easily be them as well, and perhaps even more impressive, gives reason for the readers to feel empathetic even though they barely know these characters. It's a mature and soft-spoken message that I don't see many stories trying to tackle this topic attempting.
The title "No Shortcuts" is accurate, both as a means to understanding this story and as a means of reading it, which is its main problem. Grounding it a bit more early on or changing how the overall story is framed could do wonders for it, I think.
That being said, I do think that as horizon has pointed out before me, the level to which this surrealism has been taken, from the non-conventional descriptions, obtuse artisan metaphors, and the general presentation of the "dream" or allegory, whatever you'd like to call it, all coalesce together in a fever dream of confusion if you're reading it for the first time. This is mainly because we as an audience are thrown face first into an exceedingly dense first paragraph of descriptive prose that doesn't quite establish what the grounding of this story is, and as a result, it is difficult to understand until the concept is basically explicitly defined half-way of the way through the story. Not helping matters is the once again very dense dialogue between the child and mother characters that form the basis of the allegory.
Look, I know this is not intended as a light read; it is a story you have to sit down and think about why the author is making all these strange choices, and largely, these choices pay off, but the manner of presentation doesn't really inure the reader to read deeper. I remember reading the first three paragraphs of this story, somewhat agitated at the over-the-top artistry of the metaphors plus the exceedingly removed narration, and then hit the point where a dream would be introduced, to which I rolled my eyes. To be fair, what I got from the dream sequence was much greater than I anticipated, but nonetheless, the introduction of this story does nothing but dissuade me from continue reading.
That being said, once I got over the hump, the story became a rather pleasant interpretation of depression / suicidality that I can appreciate and respect. It's sweet and understanding, and removed aspect of the narration and sketchbook quality of the characters and their circumstances let the reader immediately understand that these people could easily be them as well, and perhaps even more impressive, gives reason for the readers to feel empathetic even though they barely know these characters. It's a mature and soft-spoken message that I don't see many stories trying to tackle this topic attempting.
The title "No Shortcuts" is accurate, both as a means to understanding this story and as a means of reading it, which is its main problem. Grounding it a bit more early on or changing how the overall story is framed could do wonders for it, I think.
No Shortcuts
I think there's a lot to be said for a “literary style” – heavy with vivid metaphors, interesting phrasing and baroque sentence structures. But here, while I applaud the attempt, I can't say it's working for me.
Let's look at the first paragraph. The first sentence is good – it's information-heavy and comes with a vivid metaphor. As a point of nitpicking, I suppose you could say you'd grasp at rose-bushes despite the thorns. And it might help to extend the metaphor a bit – “to try and stop yourself being carried away” or something like that.
The second sentence overdoes it though. It's a Jackson Pollock of mixed metaphors, leaving no raly impression save a sort of generalised archness. Stick to one vivid image if you can. Better yet, extend the previous metaphor.
Next up, another nitpick: “I was growing white hairs” – why not just say “I was getting old”? If you want to be subtle, you work that information – the signs of old age – into your existing sentence structures.
Later, we get: “Here there appeared a construction of a shining light with small spheres that surrounded it.” From later reading, I suppose this must be the Solar System. But this is evident from the description – and the description itself seems rather limp in comparison to the beginning.
That's all for style. What of substance?
I'm not sure I see much of it.
Once you pull back the gauze of Shikasta the stricken, what's left? Life is painful. Please don't kill yourself, because light. It's not demonstrated, dramatically or otherwise. It doesn't come by metaphor. It doesn't even come by allegory. It's a lecture given by one character to the other – a platitude, unexamined and unchallenged.
And, worse, the conceit itself undermines the message. When we die – that's final. That's it. Game over. No do-overs. When these creatures die, or commit suicide, they have to wait about for a bit and then get a lecture about light. It's not really the same thing.
I don't know if I can get behind this. Maybe there's some deeper level of meaning here that I'm not astute enough to see. But, since I can't see it, I guess I'll have to settle for this …
I think there's a lot to be said for a “literary style” – heavy with vivid metaphors, interesting phrasing and baroque sentence structures. But here, while I applaud the attempt, I can't say it's working for me.
Let's look at the first paragraph. The first sentence is good – it's information-heavy and comes with a vivid metaphor. As a point of nitpicking, I suppose you could say you'd grasp at rose-bushes despite the thorns. And it might help to extend the metaphor a bit – “to try and stop yourself being carried away” or something like that.
The second sentence overdoes it though. It's a Jackson Pollock of mixed metaphors, leaving no raly impression save a sort of generalised archness. Stick to one vivid image if you can. Better yet, extend the previous metaphor.
Next up, another nitpick: “I was growing white hairs” – why not just say “I was getting old”? If you want to be subtle, you work that information – the signs of old age – into your existing sentence structures.
Later, we get: “Here there appeared a construction of a shining light with small spheres that surrounded it.” From later reading, I suppose this must be the Solar System. But this is evident from the description – and the description itself seems rather limp in comparison to the beginning.
That's all for style. What of substance?
I'm not sure I see much of it.
Once you pull back the gauze of Shikasta the stricken, what's left? Life is painful. Please don't kill yourself, because light. It's not demonstrated, dramatically or otherwise. It doesn't come by metaphor. It doesn't even come by allegory. It's a lecture given by one character to the other – a platitude, unexamined and unchallenged.
And, worse, the conceit itself undermines the message. When we die – that's final. That's it. Game over. No do-overs. When these creatures die, or commit suicide, they have to wait about for a bit and then get a lecture about light. It's not really the same thing.
I don't know if I can get behind this. Maybe there's some deeper level of meaning here that I'm not astute enough to see. But, since I can't see it, I guess I'll have to settle for this …
Back when I was on my college's speech and debate team, we had a criticism we sometimes lobbed at particular speakers: "rhetorical masturbation."
Was the word-smithing here interesting? Yes, I guess it was. But reading a paragraph like this:
Is like drinking a tablespoon of maple sugar. What precisely is this paragraph trying to say? What's with all the digressions? If you chopped out all the deadwood, how many words would this story really be?
This story bubbles with conceit. Why is the dialogue entirely in italics? Are quotation marks out of style? Were they not hip enough? What is with this line?
I'm sorry, author. I see from the reviews that other readers appreciate this style of writing. The actual story, when one sifts through the dross and gilt enough to find it, shows promise. But, in this form, it is unrealized.
Was the word-smithing here interesting? Yes, I guess it was. But reading a paragraph like this:
All I usually recall of my dreams are sensations and moods, so I do not want you to assume too much about the scene of my story. Some may want to imagine a place of air and light, perhaps with shining clouds and golden tracery. But these are things of our own experience, and they are not universal. As beings born under a star’s light, we cherish warmth and blue skies, and fear the cold and dark. I do not know if colors or dimensions had any meaning in the scene of my dream. There may have been other senses I could not conceive a way to perceive, something my brain was not built to interpret. I could only take what was given me and assume it was right.
Is like drinking a tablespoon of maple sugar. What precisely is this paragraph trying to say? What's with all the digressions? If you chopped out all the deadwood, how many words would this story really be?
This story bubbles with conceit. Why is the dialogue entirely in italics? Are quotation marks out of style? Were they not hip enough? What is with this line?
My child, look at me. I do request it of you.
I'm sorry, author. I see from the reviews that other readers appreciate this style of writing. The actual story, when one sifts through the dross and gilt enough to find it, shows promise. But, in this form, it is unrealized.
>>Not_A_Hat >>horizon >>Cassius >>Scramblers and Shadows >>Cold in Gardez >>Cassius
I apologize for my absence; I’ve been busier with work than usual lately. Thank you all for your comments and criticism.
This story formed from an idea I’ve been kicking around for a while; I’d been thinking about trying it in comic format, but the prompt catalyzed it as a short story. The problem behind its core is (spoilered for painful and possibly dangerous idea) “If Robin Williams and Hunter S. Thompson and Thomas M. Disch and David Foster Wallace found this world not to be worth it… what am I waiting for? Why do they get to give up and leave while I have to stay?” I wondered if it was possible to construct a reassuring parable that might work for atheists, and this is my first attempt at the same.
I wanted to be as unspecific as possible, suggesting rather than stating, to encourage readers to form their own connections to the idea. I seem to have gone too far in this direction (amid the usual fumblings of composing a story under time pressure). I’ll probably let this cook a while longer and try a full rewrite, or just treat this as a first draft of a script for a graphic interpretation such as I originally planned.
Thanks again!
I apologize for my absence; I’ve been busier with work than usual lately. Thank you all for your comments and criticism.
This story formed from an idea I’ve been kicking around for a while; I’d been thinking about trying it in comic format, but the prompt catalyzed it as a short story. The problem behind its core is (spoilered for painful and possibly dangerous idea) “If Robin Williams and Hunter S. Thompson and Thomas M. Disch and David Foster Wallace found this world not to be worth it… what am I waiting for? Why do they get to give up and leave while I have to stay?” I wondered if it was possible to construct a reassuring parable that might work for atheists, and this is my first attempt at the same.
I wanted to be as unspecific as possible, suggesting rather than stating, to encourage readers to form their own connections to the idea. I seem to have gone too far in this direction (amid the usual fumblings of composing a story under time pressure). I’ll probably let this cook a while longer and try a full rewrite, or just treat this as a first draft of a script for a graphic interpretation such as I originally planned.
Thanks again!