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Against the Endless White
It's that time again, isn't it? Hmm, no. Passed time. Late again, per usual. That's alright. As long as there are hours left in the day I might still find myself a purpose. The enemy we face is endless and tireless, yet patient. It never presses forward of its own accord, but always waits for a goodly soldier to stumble upon it, whereupon it might abuse the poor soul's mind forevermore.
Whereas some of my comrades approach their work with an endless zeal, valiantly stepping into the fray daily to push back the vacant tide that plagues us, I find myself unable to quite join in their fervor as of yet. I wonder often if I am lazy or a coward, unable to take up my place in the ranks without first and infrequently fortifying my courage against the task ahead. Once, even, a dear friend questioned my dedication to the effort without, bless her heart, accusing me of either. Such tact was her way, and suited her all the better in the war.
"Maybe," she had said, "though your mind and heart are strong, there is a vocation elsewhere that you might set yourself to? One that will pull you into itself completely and burn away all thought of distraction? Your work here is fine, pay no mind to any who say otherwise, and truly your fellows love you. But take heed of this: the world doesn't long tolerate a man who soldiers as a hobby while proclaiming it his passion."
"You may be right," I had replied. "However, I think myself weak of character and not of passion. The time I most feel alive, when I feel the rightness of God's purpose, if such a thing can be honestly felt by man, is when upon I've gone forth from my rest and into battle against the Endless White and returned slathered in black, to be noticed, if not praised, by my fellows."
"Then from whence comes hesitation? If it is indeed what you love, do it with no thought for any other thing which does not sustain you."
She was right, of course, as oldest friends often are. No amount of food or drink or game rights my heart for long, and never in such a way as a day well spent at arms. And yet I hesitate, and though my heart is my own I can only speculate what lies deepest within it.
It is the enormity of the enemy, I think. Still and patient though it is, it has plagued man since the dawn of time memorial. The cruel humor of it is we'd barely have a record at all if not for our enemy, for the Endless White is also the tapestry upon which we weave the most fundamental bedrocks of our lives. For all our years against it, it only spreads and shifts, but as it does so too do we grow and flourish. One could imagine a worse war.
A never ending task lies before us, and I think now that is what breaks me. What mark might any one man leave on the world in the face of eternity? Some have marked well, and we have remembered their greatness for centuries. But, as sure as daylight comes is it not the pinnacle of hubris to think I might one day be counted among them? And yet, so many others persist with nary a thought of it.
I've been aiming myself wrong, I think now. The Endless White, though the slow and patient enemy of my people, is not meant to be overcome. Against it we sharpen ourselves and our arts and out wit, and in returning from driving against it we are made all the stronger.
I see now the value in every effort. Time washes away all things; what is the value in a day to a century, a century to a millennium, or an eon to eternity? It is the making of work, not the lasting of it, where lies the value. The words I leave here, though brief and quiet before long, are my battle standard for the day. In the working we are made better people, and the world all the brighter for it. The greatest shame which might plague a man is a soul unfulfilled. Rise, if it suits you and fills your heart with joy, and work upon the world whatever good things move you.
I will as well, evermore.
Whereas some of my comrades approach their work with an endless zeal, valiantly stepping into the fray daily to push back the vacant tide that plagues us, I find myself unable to quite join in their fervor as of yet. I wonder often if I am lazy or a coward, unable to take up my place in the ranks without first and infrequently fortifying my courage against the task ahead. Once, even, a dear friend questioned my dedication to the effort without, bless her heart, accusing me of either. Such tact was her way, and suited her all the better in the war.
"Maybe," she had said, "though your mind and heart are strong, there is a vocation elsewhere that you might set yourself to? One that will pull you into itself completely and burn away all thought of distraction? Your work here is fine, pay no mind to any who say otherwise, and truly your fellows love you. But take heed of this: the world doesn't long tolerate a man who soldiers as a hobby while proclaiming it his passion."
"You may be right," I had replied. "However, I think myself weak of character and not of passion. The time I most feel alive, when I feel the rightness of God's purpose, if such a thing can be honestly felt by man, is when upon I've gone forth from my rest and into battle against the Endless White and returned slathered in black, to be noticed, if not praised, by my fellows."
"Then from whence comes hesitation? If it is indeed what you love, do it with no thought for any other thing which does not sustain you."
She was right, of course, as oldest friends often are. No amount of food or drink or game rights my heart for long, and never in such a way as a day well spent at arms. And yet I hesitate, and though my heart is my own I can only speculate what lies deepest within it.
It is the enormity of the enemy, I think. Still and patient though it is, it has plagued man since the dawn of time memorial. The cruel humor of it is we'd barely have a record at all if not for our enemy, for the Endless White is also the tapestry upon which we weave the most fundamental bedrocks of our lives. For all our years against it, it only spreads and shifts, but as it does so too do we grow and flourish. One could imagine a worse war.
A never ending task lies before us, and I think now that is what breaks me. What mark might any one man leave on the world in the face of eternity? Some have marked well, and we have remembered their greatness for centuries. But, as sure as daylight comes is it not the pinnacle of hubris to think I might one day be counted among them? And yet, so many others persist with nary a thought of it.
I've been aiming myself wrong, I think now. The Endless White, though the slow and patient enemy of my people, is not meant to be overcome. Against it we sharpen ourselves and our arts and out wit, and in returning from driving against it we are made all the stronger.
I see now the value in every effort. Time washes away all things; what is the value in a day to a century, a century to a millennium, or an eon to eternity? It is the making of work, not the lasting of it, where lies the value. The words I leave here, though brief and quiet before long, are my battle standard for the day. In the working we are made better people, and the world all the brighter for it. The greatest shame which might plague a man is a soul unfulfilled. Rise, if it suits you and fills your heart with joy, and work upon the world whatever good things move you.
I will as well, evermore.
Sadly this doesn't do much for me, with the generally navel gazey nature of the story preventing me from really sinking my teeth into anything. The turn is also pretty quick, going from "it breaks me" to "eh, maybe I'm just looking at this wrong." He very immediately contradicts himself in that section regarding the nature of eternity, which further confuses a bit.
I think this piece would benefit a lot from getting that fear of eternity out there up front, and having that be the heart of the conflict, rather than the narrator being unsure of what they want.
Beyond that, the world here is really unclear. The diction makes me think this is some sort of fantasy world, but honestly, I don't think there is a single detail that really tells me anything about the nature of the world. Some mystery is fine, but yeah, I have -nothing- to grab onto here.
I think this piece would benefit a lot from getting that fear of eternity out there up front, and having that be the heart of the conflict, rather than the narrator being unsure of what they want.
Beyond that, the world here is really unclear. The diction makes me think this is some sort of fantasy world, but honestly, I don't think there is a single detail that really tells me anything about the nature of the world. Some mystery is fine, but yeah, I have -nothing- to grab onto here.
it is a bold venture to make a story with almost nothing concrete.
my first and strongest impression upon reading is that I would like to figure out the symbolism. It is a feeling of curiosity and smug intellectualism. "Wow, I can tell that this story has symbolic meanings! I am so smart!" It is that feeling.
in the end however this is only a Nietzschean ramble. I do not come away convicted of, or even tempted by, the worldview encapsulated, and I put this down to the lack of concreteness.
The opening is unfortunate in that there is the misspelled word in the first sentence and then also the archaisms stick out more strongly in the opening.
my first and strongest impression upon reading is that I would like to figure out the symbolism. It is a feeling of curiosity and smug intellectualism. "Wow, I can tell that this story has symbolic meanings! I am so smart!" It is that feeling.
in the end however this is only a Nietzschean ramble. I do not come away convicted of, or even tempted by, the worldview encapsulated, and I put this down to the lack of concreteness.
The opening is unfortunate in that there is the misspelled word in the first sentence and then also the archaisms stick out more strongly in the opening.
Against the Endless White
TAILS (sum of 20 points)
T-4 A-3 I-4 L-5 S-4
Gestalt (Considered) : Appreciable
Technical (Correctness) : 4
I wonder often if I am <<< inversion of word order (hyperbation!) (often wonder) for effect?
without first and infrequently fortifying <<< use of 'infrequently' here is nonsensical?
accusing me of either <<< of either what? (laziness or cowardice?)
from whence <<< redundant 'from'
and out wit <<< typo: and our wit
Abstract (Clarity) : 3
Probably a metaphor for existence? (Would say existentialism/absurdism/ect., but the whole God thing throws a wrench in there.) Offers little to no concrete details of this Endless White, using that struggle only to showcase the debate of purpose.
("[The enemy] has plagued man since the dawn of time memorial." is perhaps the only clue given, implying the enemy (the Endless White?) has only 'plagued man' since he has been able to record it.)
Impact (Consequence) : 4
Message of "the value is in the doing" is not a bad one, but getting there was egregiously long-winded when compared to the extent of exploring the virtue of that message.
Language (Congruence) : 5
Here may be found cutting word choices, expansive vocabulary, and deliberate effort to evoke a high-minded tone. (No one talks like these people, but philosophers do write that way...) By stark contrast, the first lines scream incoherence of though, which is most jarring. Further nesting of dependent clauses would not go amiss, but, one must stop to ponder, to what end must be considered carefully.
Structure (Composition) : 4
Lots of talk surrounding an abrupt turn—mostly preceding. Nebulous, oddly fitting with the work as a whole, but not necessarily benefiting from it.
TAILS (sum of 20 points)
T-4 A-3 I-4 L-5 S-4
Gestalt (Considered) : Appreciable
Technical (Correctness) : 4
I wonder often if I am <<< inversion of word order (hyperbation!) (often wonder) for effect?
without first and infrequently fortifying <<< use of 'infrequently' here is nonsensical?
accusing me of either <<< of either what? (laziness or cowardice?)
from whence <<< redundant 'from'
and out wit <<< typo: and our wit
Abstract (Clarity) : 3
Probably a metaphor for existence? (Would say existentialism/absurdism/ect., but the whole God thing throws a wrench in there.) Offers little to no concrete details of this Endless White, using that struggle only to showcase the debate of purpose.
("[The enemy] has plagued man since the dawn of time memorial." is perhaps the only clue given, implying the enemy (the Endless White?) has only 'plagued man' since he has been able to record it.)
Impact (Consequence) : 4
Message of "the value is in the doing" is not a bad one, but getting there was egregiously long-winded when compared to the extent of exploring the virtue of that message.
Language (Congruence) : 5
Here may be found cutting word choices, expansive vocabulary, and deliberate effort to evoke a high-minded tone. (No one talks like these people, but philosophers do write that way...) By stark contrast, the first lines scream incoherence of though, which is most jarring. Further nesting of dependent clauses would not go amiss, but, one must stop to ponder, to what end must be considered carefully.
Structure (Composition) : 4
Lots of talk surrounding an abrupt turn—mostly preceding. Nebulous, oddly fitting with the work as a whole, but not necessarily benefiting from it.
This has already got a bunch of reviews, but I need to speak up since none of the previous reviewers seem to have understood the core metaphor here:
The Endless White is a blank page. The narrator is a writer.
It doesn't seem to me to be contradicted by anything in the text, and there are a couple of clues which don't seem to point anywhere else. Most crucially:
"... I've gone forth from my rest and into battle against the Endless White and returned slathered in black ..."
"The cruel humor of it is we'd barely have a record at all if not for our enemy, for the Endless White is also the tapestry upon which we weave the most fundamental bedrocks of our lives."
"The words I leave here ... are my battle standard for the day."
Plus what >>KwirkyJ noted at the end of the Abstract section, and in the parenthetical in Language. So close, yet so far. ;-p
But while the others complained about the lack of ultimate meaning, author, I'm going to apologize and go to the other extreme: I was actually kinda disappointed when I realized (at "slathered in black") what metaphor you were going for. It felt like it transformed this piece from some cool magical-realism metaphorical fight into a slightly veiled complaint about writer's block, and reading a story about writer's block has always felt to me like a musician singing a song about roadies: the fastest possible way to announce to the world that you have no actual inspiration driving the piece. For me, that's one of those cannot-unsee things, and it ruined my ability to appreciate the "Endless White" in the mystical terms in which you presented it. The idea of an amorphous, eldritch and unbeatable enemy does have a pretty cool ring of tragedy to it (reminding me a lot of the RPG Polaris -- if you haven't heard of it, that was half the inspiration for Melt).
So ironically, the one reader who would have scored your story higher if he hadn't gotten your point is the one who got it. Hopefully I can make up for that by explaining your story to the others.
Tier: Misaimed
The Endless White is a blank page. The narrator is a writer.
It doesn't seem to me to be contradicted by anything in the text, and there are a couple of clues which don't seem to point anywhere else. Most crucially:
"... I've gone forth from my rest and into battle against the Endless White and returned slathered in black ..."
"The cruel humor of it is we'd barely have a record at all if not for our enemy, for the Endless White is also the tapestry upon which we weave the most fundamental bedrocks of our lives."
"The words I leave here ... are my battle standard for the day."
Plus what >>KwirkyJ noted at the end of the Abstract section, and in the parenthetical in Language. So close, yet so far. ;-p
But while the others complained about the lack of ultimate meaning, author, I'm going to apologize and go to the other extreme: I was actually kinda disappointed when I realized (at "slathered in black") what metaphor you were going for. It felt like it transformed this piece from some cool magical-realism metaphorical fight into a slightly veiled complaint about writer's block, and reading a story about writer's block has always felt to me like a musician singing a song about roadies: the fastest possible way to announce to the world that you have no actual inspiration driving the piece. For me, that's one of those cannot-unsee things, and it ruined my ability to appreciate the "Endless White" in the mystical terms in which you presented it. The idea of an amorphous, eldritch and unbeatable enemy does have a pretty cool ring of tragedy to it (reminding me a lot of the RPG Polaris -- if you haven't heard of it, that was half the inspiration for Melt).
So ironically, the one reader who would have scored your story higher if he hadn't gotten your point is the one who got it. Hopefully I can make up for that by explaining your story to the others.
Tier: Misaimed
Oh, almost forgot. In terms of concrete editing suggestions, take a look at your opening paragraph:
I've highlighted the first half to compare and contrast it with the second half, because it's almost like you're starting a new story mid-paragraph here. The first half is introspective, disjointed, and in medias res. The second half is outward-looking, expository, and concrete.
For that reason, the second half makes a much more effective hook, but that's only part of the problem. The big issue is that the rest of your story picks up and runs with the war story established by the second half. You only return to that introspective "outer framing" again at the very end, long after that opening idea -- that this is actually about the narrator's search for purpose -- has been forgotten.
If you really have to keep that framing, expand that first half of your cold open into a much more substantive paragraph in its own right: get the search for purpose very firmly established before moving into the grabby conflict stuff, so readers will recognize that you're returning to it later. But honestly, I think this would be stronger without that framing entirely. Ditch the ending (everything after the quick turn that the others complained about) and the bolded part of your opening. Focus on the war and bury the metaphor a little more. Let the magical realism carry it.
It's that time again, isn't it? Hmm, no. Passed time. Late again, per usual. That's alright. As long as there are hours left in the day I might still find myself a purpose. The enemy we face is endless and tireless, yet patient. It never presses forward of its own accord, but always waits for a goodly soldier to stumble upon it, whereupon it might abuse the poor soul's mind forevermore.
I've highlighted the first half to compare and contrast it with the second half, because it's almost like you're starting a new story mid-paragraph here. The first half is introspective, disjointed, and in medias res. The second half is outward-looking, expository, and concrete.
For that reason, the second half makes a much more effective hook, but that's only part of the problem. The big issue is that the rest of your story picks up and runs with the war story established by the second half. You only return to that introspective "outer framing" again at the very end, long after that opening idea -- that this is actually about the narrator's search for purpose -- has been forgotten.
If you really have to keep that framing, expand that first half of your cold open into a much more substantive paragraph in its own right: get the search for purpose very firmly established before moving into the grabby conflict stuff, so readers will recognize that you're returning to it later. But honestly, I think this would be stronger without that framing entirely. Ditch the ending (everything after the quick turn that the others complained about) and the bolded part of your opening. Focus on the war and bury the metaphor a little more. Let the magical realism carry it.
This was a great story until I realized it was about writers block. Good writing, poor premis, misleading execution.
3/10
3/10
This sounds very much bombastic to my ears. The style and prose are overwrought, and the message is — well we all know what the message is, and it's been brought up times and again, so you end up flogging a dead horse.
Plus the pseudo-philosophical ending which vaguely borrows from Camus.
It's a pea that hides in a soufflé.
I mean the allegory is not bad per se, but really, use your undeniable power of imagination and mastering of the language for something more interesting than telling us writing is an eternal combat against the blank. So corny.
Plus the pseudo-philosophical ending which vaguely borrows from Camus.
It's a pea that hides in a soufflé.
I mean the allegory is not bad per se, but really, use your undeniable power of imagination and mastering of the language for something more interesting than telling us writing is an eternal combat against the blank. So corny.
Mmm, I didn't think this was about writers block (why we don't write) but was instead about identity as a writer - why we do write. They're similar, but somewhat different.
On the whole, I think this is one of the better pieces of meta that I've run across this round. It has a conclusion that I can actually understand and agree with: why should I write? Because I think it's a good thing, and that's enough!
On the downside, the prose is somewhat less than deft. Handling archaic words with ablomb is tricky... and even if it's done 'right' it might not 'read right'. I can't say you've definitely broken any rules here, but the wording and words chosen tended to make this more of chore to read than, I think, it needed to be. It did convey an interesting atmosphere, but I don't think this needed quite as much confusion as it had in order to do that; the above and beyond was more confusing than it was worth.
And that paragraph probably isn't very clear either. Sorry about that. :P
Anyways, pretty good IMHO. Decent theme, moderate story, could be better in the mechanics, but overall fairly enjoyable.
On the whole, I think this is one of the better pieces of meta that I've run across this round. It has a conclusion that I can actually understand and agree with: why should I write? Because I think it's a good thing, and that's enough!
On the downside, the prose is somewhat less than deft. Handling archaic words with ablomb is tricky... and even if it's done 'right' it might not 'read right'. I can't say you've definitely broken any rules here, but the wording and words chosen tended to make this more of chore to read than, I think, it needed to be. It did convey an interesting atmosphere, but I don't think this needed quite as much confusion as it had in order to do that; the above and beyond was more confusing than it was worth.
And that paragraph probably isn't very clear either. Sorry about that. :P
Anyways, pretty good IMHO. Decent theme, moderate story, could be better in the mechanics, but overall fairly enjoyable.
This has an artsy feel to it with the archaic-type language that tips me off that I might not be the target audience. It was a decent read, though.
I'm not sure comparing writing to a battle is all that interesting, but I like the message. Perhaps I'm a bit numb from the meta fics about writing we've had this round. Not sure if it appeals to me here. I didn't get all that invested, but again, probably not the target audience for this kind of nazel gaving.
I'm not sure comparing writing to a battle is all that interesting, but I like the message. Perhaps I'm a bit numb from the meta fics about writing we've had this round. Not sure if it appeals to me here. I didn't get all that invested, but again, probably not the target audience for this kind of nazel gaving.
>>Monokeras
I must apologize and note that I've never heard of let alone read Camus. So maybe I get points for accidentally copying a popular Frenchman? Probably not.
To clear some things up: not about writer's block! Though given the very meta nature of the entries I still kind of feel like an obvious hack. This story was born from an afternoon watching Shakespeare on stage (Much Ado About Nothing, but WW1 era!) and a harsh but loving ass kicking I got from a friend of mine last week about the nature of being a professional writer versus a hobbyist. She blasts forward and just writes at every possible chance, where I tend to languish and fret and not get much done.
>>horizon
The original brainstorming session did have the White (with the added bonus of inverting the moral color compass from King's universe) as a more real, defined enemy kept at bay by and drawn to the sum creative efforts of humanity. Something about standing on the art of the past and seeing that there's no end to the canvases (generally speaking) we can fill.
But that's a lot to pack in so I went less literal :\
Thanks everyone for the time and the comments. My first foray into nonpony fiction in a long time went better than I expected.
I must apologize and note that I've never heard of let alone read Camus. So maybe I get points for accidentally copying a popular Frenchman? Probably not.
To clear some things up: not about writer's block! Though given the very meta nature of the entries I still kind of feel like an obvious hack. This story was born from an afternoon watching Shakespeare on stage (Much Ado About Nothing, but WW1 era!) and a harsh but loving ass kicking I got from a friend of mine last week about the nature of being a professional writer versus a hobbyist. She blasts forward and just writes at every possible chance, where I tend to languish and fret and not get much done.
>>horizon
The original brainstorming session did have the White (with the added bonus of inverting the moral color compass from King's universe) as a more real, defined enemy kept at bay by and drawn to the sum creative efforts of humanity. Something about standing on the art of the past and seeing that there's no end to the canvases (generally speaking) we can fill.
But that's a lot to pack in so I went less literal :\
Thanks everyone for the time and the comments. My first foray into nonpony fiction in a long time went better than I expected.
>>Rao
No need to. It was a compliment rather than a reproach.
She's a professional writer; it's part of her job, she earns her living churning out lines of words. You don't, you have other things to tend to, so don't feel bad about it.
I must apologize
No need to. It was a compliment rather than a reproach.
She blasts forward and just writes at every possible chance,
She's a professional writer; it's part of her job, she earns her living churning out lines of words. You don't, you have other things to tend to, so don't feel bad about it.