PROSE CRIT THREAD

>“I trust you have a non-crazy explanation for all of this?”

i think this is too formal really. why not just "do you have a"

its good but i dont like the doubling up of "the doctor"

True, one moment.

>“I trust you have a non-crazy explanation for all of this?”
Reword this. Doesn't sound natural.

>“I heard when I was at the library last weekend that scientists have discovered the further away galaxies are the faster they're moving away from us. I started trying to measure it and found that they seem to be moving away from each other as well. The only thing that made sense was that space was expanding, like a piece of rubber being stretched out.”
Again this and the rest of the dialogue does not sound natural. You need to try and reword it.

True I rearranged the sentences earlier. I should change the second one to "one could see".

I like your desctptions, but what's interesting to me is that the narrator has significantly more of a presence then the character himself. He's easy to picture from his speech patterns, and older male, very serious, powerful enough to have the the reader killed and no issue with doing so if he thinks it's the best option

> The doctor packed his bag. From a small window the doctor ...

the doctor,the doctor doesn't flow that smoothly how about just

>The doctor packed his bag. From a small window he...

Something bothers me a little is that it doesn't seem rooted in a specific time/tense. You flicker from present to past without making it clear which makes it seem very jammed.

Another thing, very strong opening line however you don't really follow it up all that well. You just hit us with another opener

>The asylum did not loom, as he had been told, but instead drooped at all sides. Every stone, brick, and hall sagged like a summer squash left out far past its season.

this tells me that someone is just seeing this asylum for the first time ok what's next. BOOM a doctor is packing his bag. Is this the same doctor who's just arrived ? Or are you flickering between characters ? I hope you can see what I mean

Ok let's see now.

The asylum did not loom, as he had been told, but instead drooped at all sides. Every stone, brick, and hall sagged like a summer squash left out far past its season. Sitting upright, the doctor awoke from the first night with the distant glow of morning's arrival. From a small window near the bed one could see the peak of the slope where a weather vane span, pointing an accusatory iron finger towards him. That morning the nurse had left green oranges and fresh milk on the table looking out of that tiny dusted window. In the quiet moments preceding dawn, after the moans of the committed's night terrors, but before their morning exercise, he had eaten the sour fruit. A finger rooted in his cheek, picking at a seed lodged into a molar. Accompanying the fruit had been a short letter, written to him by the nurse, explaining she had picked the fruit herself. During vigorous exercise he entertained two notions, first the possibility that the nurse was sweet on him, and the second beings some kind of indirect spite pointed towards him over his sudden arrival and displacement of the chief physician. Sweat dripped from his brow, pooling in the small of his back to soak the over sized nightdress he wore. A cool towel pressed against his eyes soothed the dull headache, and as he prepared to bathe a pounding knock disturbed his routine.

It was an indescribable horror. That's what she said about my dick. Gripped by terror beyond imagining, I struggled to keep the madness at bay-- I suggested that my dick be unspeakable, also.
That day is now an ancient memory, but we cannot be know what secrets creep under veils of darkness, corrupting the hearts of the men. My future is a bleak ocean under stormy skies, and I know not what terrors yet lurk in the waters ahead.

That works a lot better i

*IMO

This is kinda nitpicky, but I think the verb "span" is a bit archaic sounding, and the alternative past tense "spun" would be a better fit. However, feel free to ignore that criticism, as it basically comes down to personal preference. Additionally, I think instead of the word "pointing" in this sentence, the phrase "turning to point" would sound more natural and logical.

Here is the beginning of a dialogue. I would appreciate feedback on whether it's worth pursuing:

pastebin.com/RAc16XzP

“Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost to fix?” Eve stared at her lap and said nothing. He saw her biting her lip and sighed. Fatherhood was a different job from rum-running, he reminded himself, sometimes it was just better to let things be. “I guess it was a good thing you used white-out for this,” he muttered, rubbing the drying liquid between his fingers, “we can just peel it off when it dries. At any rate we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. There're more important things to worry about at the moment. We have a shipment coming in tonight from down in Bridesburg and I need to know if the boys should be on the lookout for anything they might want to avoid.”

“Cops?”

“Cops, competitors, deer on the road. You know the drill by now, just tell me if you see anything between pickup and dropoff.”

“Oh,” she said, “okay, just give me a minute.” Eve took a deep breath and steadied herself. When she opened them again they faced forward, focused but staring at nothing in front of her. Mr. Bevitore stepped back and gave her some space, he had seen her do this many times before and he knew it was always best to remember where she was looking beforehand. He didn't quite understand how how it worked but he had a notion that he didn't want to obscure her line of sight at any time or place between where she was now and when she was looking.

Eve took a deep breath and steadied herself. There was a routine to this, and while being focused and grounded didn't make seeing the future more or less difficult, it did make her less likely to tip over. Seeing in such directions was not draining exactly, but it certainly was disorienting. There were at least 12 different directions she could turn her eyes in but humans were only supposed to use 4 of them: up, down, left and right. The other directions didn't have names as such and she never had much of a reason to come up with any.

I'm going to be honest with you. Your dialog game is weak. Unnatural word choices, a "broish" manner and over-use of swearing make it a displeasure to read. It sounds like I'm reading a paraody of a bad "two gamers on a couch webcomic"

If you're still early on, I think you need to think of something you already know people like reading and build on that. It's just a beginning step, but it gives you room to get your bearings

Feels like you're trying to describe literally every action he does. You can skip some of it, the readers will know what's going on regardless.

You did well at capturing how an functioning autist would portray themself. It's a short piece and we don't know the characters well so the dialogue and prose could use additional descriptory words to help characterise them.

Dialogue seems unrealistic and too over dramatised. The guy's mental illness was introduced pretty OK.

>You did well at capturing how an functioning autist would portray themself
gee, I wonder why...

at least the quality is better this time around, but I'm much more concerned about whether or not it's boring or generic

okay

Sentences too repetitively short and you're trying too hard with metaphors yet dropping them immediately

Pretty good. Keep going. Maybe make minor changes

You said the doctor twice at the start when "he" would work better

Destroys the force of terror, avant-garde - keeps up the promises made in error, finds out it is for naught. If I disappear with'r diñero, won't you call me back? Stupid sombrero, I wish I was still dead.

Step 1: You need to take out the cliches and there's a bunch of them

Wrote for some kind of flash fiction competition.

pastebin.com/0qJaLba6

GreGory leaned across the table with his arm outstretched, his iphone sitting in his open palm.
- Look at this chick bro
Winstone didn't look. He was busy, evidently.
- Look dude. Look at her fat tits. What do I say to a chick with fat tits?
Winstone looked puzzled, almost insulted. He stood up and walked to the door with deliberation.
- Their just tits... It doesn't really change the way you have to talk to her.
Winstone shook his head in disgust and exited the house. His first five steps were pleasant enough, but soon anger took hold. What the fuck was GreGory's problem? He almost felt like turning back. It wouldn't take long. He could go back inside and punch GreGory in his stupid fucking face. He could slam his dumb fucking face into the fucking table until his noes broke and blood splattered everywhere and Mom would wonder what the fuck had happened.
At that moment GreGory burst out of the front door. He was holding his phone and running like a retarded maniac towards Winstone.
- Dude, I said something but I think it was the wrong kinda thing to say. Im FUCKED dude.
Winstone smiled. In that moment he could have beaten GreGory to a pulp. He could have mercilessly beat the shit out of that little fucker running towards him, with his gangly little legs and ugly fucking face. He kept smiling, even letting out a little laugh. GreGory had no idea.
- Look, look what I said.
Winstone took the phone from GreGory. He pretended to look, but intentionally unfocused his eyes so that the screen was a blur. He handed the phone back and turned to GreGory with a strange expression.
- I think you're screwed. Big time. Might as well give up on that girl.
GreGory looked dismayed. He had been excited about the prospect of fat tits. He had already day-dreamt about pushing his face into them seven times that morning. Winstone wasn't finished though.
- In fact, I would delete her right now. You don't even want to see what she replies with. It'll just make you even more miserable.
Winstone laughed to himself at the word 'miserable'. GreGory was the most miserable pile of shit he had ever seen.
GreGory stood their pathetically. He took one last look at the fat pair of tits. They were just sitting there, hanging, pulling taught the unfortunate grey tank top that was tasked with keeping them in place. He would never rip off that tank top. He would never behold the naked tits, feeling the weight of them in his hands. He would never slap them from side to side, or suck on what he imagined were perfect, if not slightly oversized, nipples.
With a degree of difficulty he deleted the girl from his tinder matches, cursing to himself.
- Damn dude, this fucking sucks.
Winstone did not hear him. He was already walking down the street. Already his day was looking brighter. He felt fifty pounds lighter, as if he were floating over the pavement. He hadn't seen the look of disappointment on GreGory's face but he was imagining it. It was beautiful.

What;s with the spelling of GreGory ? Other than that I really like it. Its the always sunny effect of bad people being likable characters I guess. Though I'm not sure where you'd get something like this published

I like this generally, keep working on it. Some of the speech seems a little clunky though.

>“I trust you have a non-crazy explanation for all of this?”

>“That's why I used correction fluid. After it dries I can just peel it off.”

## Impromptu Séance ##

---

Clarissa forgot how damn straight cold it was out there, winter time, nightwise. Now she’s back in Sarah’s home-hole everything’s brighter. No more lone star children haunting the peripheries with their gaunt eye holes, no more weird slipped up graffiti about infidelity, no more jumbly picnic hamper screwing with the dream wine chemistry, shake-a-shake.

“You get by OK?” Sarah says

“I get by.” Clarrissa replies

Four women sitting on the couch and carpet here, form a square. Each one is wearing a different sorta dress, black polkadot, white side striped, flat pastel blue, ghost white with flashlight buttons. There’s blue Clarissa’s hamper from before, cracked wide open.

“Hang, I’ll fetch some glasses” Sarah says, go gets these bulbous see through things whilst the others share a few smiles and sick pleasantries, “Oh hows the kids” et cetera, no need to paint it out.

Glasses clink on Sarah return, real signal giver. Room acts like an autumn tree, leaves drooping off tock-tick, tapestry on the wall’s a shimmering pilot light now, depicts revellers, moon-bather corridor ramblers, forty naked women clambering, and center stage a lone, muscle-rippled boy child, body builder Cupid pointing up, lightning-struck, stare shot right off the canvas. Glass by glass, the women fall off, refracted through time, fairground mirror style, sleepyheads, door clicks open, swoosh shut, twice over.

Loneliness starts to creep out the ceiling, little slices of it dribble into atmospheres. Now it’s the witching while, just Sarah and Clarissa stuck back floorbound, final bottle of dream wine pouring out, drib-drop.

Clarissa interleaves her hands with Sarah’s, tears welling. Tapestry backwise seems to crack and scream light, pretty incantation, honey dripper glossolalia, begins to take form by repetition, over and over Clarissa’s chant, muddy bird song streamer, and just at predawn something hidden snaps, cork pop, out pours the answer:

“It’s a boy, oh darling, it’s boy.”

Could swear the wax candle in the corner peters out now, last licks abandon for the dawn. Two women tangle, hug under the warm morn-glow and drift asleep, tears of joy rolling down their dresses.

first scene is done. How can I establish that this is a fairy tale without re-writing the entire thing in a stylized way? I feel it's going to get written off as urban fantasy because the genre is obscured by a relatively modern setting and the absence of more common archetypes

pastebin.com/uwfNMRyh

while it's not necessary to make your narration style formal, the way you have this written is so improper and, for lack of a better word, regional, that it seems too shoddy to take seriously. On top of that, your dialogue feels truncated and unnatural.

It needs work is what I'm saying.

You start all your paragraphs with their names. It's not a good habit to get into. The names are spelled/capitalized kind of weird too and GreGory's dialog would only be believable if he was extremely drunk at the time and dumb even when he isn't, though from the context I think it's a safe bet

It's good narration, and I like it but a bit chaotic. I feel like steps are being skipped. One moment tane is in the water the next he's in a position to slam a guy against the wall hard enough to snap his arm. Make sure someone can follow the action as easy as you can

>Every stone, brick, and hall sagged like a summer squash left out far past its season.
How can he see halls sagging from outside? I also think the squash similie could be shortened ('like a squash left out to rot.')

>The doctor packed his bag. From a small window the doctor could see
Avoid repeating 'the doctor' so quickly, it sounds jarring.

>From a small window the doctor could see the peak of the slope where a weather vane span, pointing an accusatory iron finger towards him.
Is he inside? Why begin with an exterior description? Just say he could see a weather vane pointing to him. Saying the vane pointed 'at' him instead of 'towards' would let you drop 'accusatory'.

>on the table looking out of that tiny dusted window.
So the doctor and his table are looking out of the window?

>after the moans of the committed's night terrors
Apostrophe should go after the S if you're referring to more than one 'committed'

>Sweat dripped from his brow, pooling in the small of his back
Your brow is on the front of your head, sweat from their will not reach your lower back

>over sized
Hypenate this

You're putting more on the page than you should be. You've got so much you want us to see and know that it's all becoming fuzzy because you aren't giving it to us in a sensible order.
----
This is a story I've been working on lately. I would appreciate any and all comments, even if you only read part of it.

pastebin.com/pLjyeGf4

Cartley is a small region of hilly, seaside land that sits south of the city of Borne. Despite its small size, it has everything it should to support a population of just over 10,000: A locally owned shop, a pub, a school, churches, and a train station. The shop and the pub occupy the same street, which has led to the area being referred to colloquially as “Cartley Village”. The shop opens every day of the week despite being run by a single person. The slew of tourists that pass through the village reaches its peak during the summer months, and they along with the locals, are received warmly by the polite, well-spoken shopkeeper.

I can see what you mean. I clarified part of it . Seperating the outter description and the inner with waking.

>So the doctor and his table are looking out of the window?
Fair point. I should change it a little to clarify.

I should change the brow portion as well. How I worked it was odd.

It was a Friday afternoon, school was out and the day was wonderful. Little Timmy being the adventurous little boy he was, decided to go on a joy ride on his bicycle. Wonderful, splendid, amazing was the scenery. The trees flowed like water, the grass danced like fat kids seeing papa john's pizza for the first time. Little Timmy decided to lie down next to a tree. Pokey. The ground felt like a stick stabbing my back, I look back, it was a stick stabbing my back. Being the problem solver i am, I decided to pick up the stick and move it. Nice. Comfortable. affordable. Care act. The day slipped by as though it were a slidey slippy waterslide. I wake up cold, It's almost dark. I glance at my phone. Bright. Hurt. Big Daddy called me. I was utterly spooked, as though a car's headlights were flashing on a cow. I rush home forgetting what a phone's general purpose is used for. Parents happy Little Timmy home. I sleep.
It was a Friday afternoon, school was out and the day was wonderful. Little Timmy being the adventurous little boy he was, decided to go on a joy ride on his bicycle. Wonderful, splendid, amazing was the scenery. The trees flowed like water, the grass danced like fat kids seeing papa john's pizza for the first time. Little Timmy decided to lie down next to a tree. Pokey. The ground felt like a stick stabbing my back, I look back, it was a stick stabbing my back. Being the problem solver i am, I decided to pick up the stick and move it. Nice. Comfortable. affordable. Care act. The day slipped by as though it were a slidey slippy waterslide. I wake up cold, It's almost dark. I glance at my phone. Bright. Hurt. Big Daddy called me. I was utterly spooked, as though a car's headlights were flashing on a cow. I rush home forgetting what a phone's general purpose is used for. Parents happy Little Timmy home. I sleep.
I wake. My bed was horrendously filthy as
though it were a public restroom. It was afternoon. What do. I seek my parents for help and friendly advice. They are not at home. Scared. Lonely. I decide to watch Disney channel. As i turn on the T.V. the shock of realization comes over me. I need my parents permission. Depressed. Agonizing. I just wanted a piece of Bob Duncans bald head.

>How can I establish that this is a fairy tale without re-writing the entire thing in a stylized way? I feel it's going to get written off as urban fantasy because the genre is obscured by a relatively modern setting and the absence of more common archetypes
You don't have to. Just let it be itself.

if you want critique, crit shit yourself

How many exclamation marks are too many for dialogue? I want to show that the characters are emotional and sometimes yelling, but I don't want to overdo it.

>,affordable. Care act.

Kek

Two is too many.

Write it first and then post it here.

Who knows, you might naturally put the right amount. If not, anons can specifically tell you which one's should go or where more could be added.

Anyone would tell you that the words characters use should carry the amount of emotion, but as said, post it here. There might be something in it, by some stroke of luck.

The sudden opaque cloud of black smoke which had appeared under the contraption before Davie's conscience had the power of Medusa's gaze. In this immobile contemplation, the youngster felt his feet's soles dancing over the rumble. The trembling ignited by the flying beast threw a rhythm and produced a deafening, unnerving melody.

Seldom had Davie seen such amazing display of the prowess that Man's orchestra, composed of gears and steam, and indeed that sight would stick to his memories forever. The young child was awestruck as the steam engine propulsed the shuttle, drowning it in the thick, creamy soup of cloud roofing over the people watching the event attentively.

It was then that the kid realized that there were people inside the machine! How fearless! The courage of these men inspired many, but Davie wanted badly to do the same. Adrenaline came rushing and suddenly Davie knew that this was his future.

Am I trying too hard?

*the prowess of

Oops

Never use more than one exclamation point. In any situation. Ever.

Okay. Sounds like limiting their use might be best for now. I'll work on the scene I have in mind and maybe post it up here if I finish it.

No, no, don't listen to them it depends on the writing and the scene whether there should be one or a hundred.

Alright. I'll keep that in mind too. I still need to write the scene to see how it goes.

> Scottish boys in empty school dining hall.

We all sat in the dining hall, Freddo wrappers littering the table in front of us as Kenan chomped through his fifth one. David had bought M&Ms and was arranging them by color into warring factions. I sat slouched in my chair with another a few feet in front of me to rest my legs on as Jack and Wee Patty chatted back and forth.
“Look at them…” Jack said pointing to the learning support kids who sat up near the canteen serving area, so there wasn’t too much distance for them to walk with their hot plates. I waited for Jack to continue, praying that the conversation wasn’t going to go down the gutter.
“They’ve been here since the beginning eh? No’ worried about being up town or the troubles of the land and gentry. Solid lads.”
Wee Patty chuckled but he wasn’t really paying attention, he pulled apart the first of his three cafeteria cheeseburgers like a surgeon setting about his first patient of the day, excited yet nervous as a life hung in the balance: his own. Would he survive the cafe cooking for another day? Only time would tell. As he squirted the ketchup all over the burger and reassembled it Jack continued talking.
“They’re the guardians of the cafe, the three wise men of the lunch hall. Coming to eat under the vision of baby Jesus in the stained glass.” Jack motioned towards the window on the left hand side of the hall stained with religious iconography, I burst out laughing almost drowning on the Coke I was sipping at.
“What are you talking about Jack? The three wise men? It’s just wee Stuart, Patch and their mate eating lunch.”
“That’s Balthazar - Paul. He went to my primary school.” Jack replied quickly. “He used to wear this head protector that looked like a crown. He likes a high five does auld Balthazar.”
I stared at Jack in disbelief. Looking around the table I wanted to see if anyone else was hearing this or if I was in some abstract fantasy inside Jack’s head.
David was down to the Red and Green M&Ms though he had been distracted by Kenan who had got up and started boxing him. Wee Patty was now three cheeseburgers deep. I was alone, awash in the sea of Jack’s insanity.
“Y’know Andrew, it’s no’ a bad wee life they’ve got. Peace and quiet to study, company without the social awkwardness of making friends. Other than us a whole lunch hall to themselves. Bar the disability, it must be an alright existence. This is their holy land, their Babylon!”
Before I could reply, Jack was up off his seat and marching towards the learning support table. I looked on curiously, wondering what had possessed him. After a few seconds the blonde haired boy, the one Jack had nicknamed Balthazar was on his feet giving Jack a high five. Christ.

Cont.

That night, as Eve prepared to turn the lights out and go to bed she took one last look at the day in front of her. She could see herself waking up and slapping sleep-blind at the alarm clock to turn it off, followed shortly by the realizing that it was the telephone set in the kitchen and rolling off the mattress in a tangled heap of lethargic anatomy and linens. Breakfast would consist of buckwheat pancakes with apple syrup and knobs of warm salty butter, and a frothy mug of coffee she would sweeten until it made her teeth hurt. Her father would dance embarrassingly to the tune on the phonograph, and then after she put on her shoes the day would begin.

With great effort she closed her eyes. Tomorrow was going to be a good day, and dwelling on it could only stand to change it. She turned out the lights, climbed under the covers, and thought about her discovery until she drifted off on her own

She was only just forming the start of a dream when a noise at the door woke her up. A bleary glance at the clock on her radio told her it was nearly four in the morning. She blinked lazily, allowing her eyes to refocus on the present. It was three fifty seven, and someone was hammering on the front door. As she blinked in the darkness, struggling to keep her eyelids in synch with each other, she noticed the door was ajar, and her was standing in hall, his face a grim mask full of hard lines.

“Stay out of site and stay quiet,” he breathed. It was an order, not a request. Something long and heave landed on top of the covers, and she realized with confusion it was the family rifle. “If anyone but me or your mother steps into this room, you fire. Do I make myself clear?” Eve couldn't remember seeing any of this in her vision, and felt swept up in the strangest sense of unreality. Was she dreaming?

“Wha-” started, still rubbing her eyes.

“Do I make myself clear?” He barked.

“Angelo,” a man's voice bellowed from outside the apartment. “It's Luca! Open up!”

Eve clutched the rifle to her as she took a place behind her bedroom door. She wasn't sure what was going on, or whether or not she was dreaming, but she followed her orders and took a place out of the line of sight. Through the crack in the door frame she her mother take a place opposite her, her pink bathrobe a deep blue in the dark. Mr Bevitore towered over her like a statue as he undid the locks. With a steady hand he opened the door, and two men stepped into the home.

Uncle Luca looked as he always did on the occasions they had met. He was a tense and wiry man whose coppery hair seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the forces that saw fit to slick them back. He had a pale, beaky face, and stood as if her was never sure what to do with his hands. The man beside him was big and lumpy, with nose that must have been broken a half-dozen times without being set, and a wide, toad-like mouth that made him somewhat resemble a lunch lady.

>cont.
I gathered the boys around and explained what was going on, no one had a clue why Jack was so interested in the learning support table. It was odd. Almost as quickly as he was gone he was back. David grabbed the Green M&Ms and threw them into his mouth.
“Jack, what was that about?” David chuckled softly, a smirk creeping across his face. “Making some new pals? We not good enough eh?” David raised his eyebrows mockingly. Using his face to express like a vaudevillian actor - nothing more than his movements at his disposal.
“Aye, feel more at home down there eh?” Wee Patty jibed in before making his usual alien noises and clicking his tongue.
“Fuck off Patty! It’s paying respects! This isn’t our place. It’s theirs. The Magi of the munch, the cafe kings.” Jack laughed, finding himself hysterically funny.
“I know, plus you’re the one making the Abe noises Richard. Maybe you should go introduce yourself.” David quipped.
We all roared in laughter, David wasn’t frequent with his retorts, but this one was on point. Wee Patty’s eyebrows lowered. For fuck’s sake - was David really about to get the evil eyebrows for that? It was barely anything, and yet Wee Patty looked just about ready to ex-communicate him. Kenan rolled up his jacket and checked his watch.
“Nae time for shenanigans boys, time to get back to school.”
Kenan hopped up from the table and left his pile of Freddo wrappers lying in his wake. Wee Patty threw his bag over his shoulder, his lunch rubbish on top of Kenan’s, and made for the door. He and Kenan were out of sight before I had the time to tell them to clean up their mess. David looked at the Red M&Ms left on the table, the survivors of his mental war, and then at the pile of rubbish, before his eyes made their way over to the learning support table.
“Suppose I better clear this up. No-one else is going to do it.” he muttered, his face dropping into a sulk. He always got like this as lunch finished. It was the end of the heady rush of freedom and now time to head back to the classroom. He gathered up the rubbish and took it to the bin, Jack and I followed behind.
“Bye boys!” Balthazar yelled as we made for the door. I turned around and smiled, and then it was back out into the grey.

bumping to save this thread

It wouldn't need bumping if any of the past five people posting samples offered a critique on anything.

Don't be lazy kids

The beginning has very concise descriptions of what Eve imagines with a certain warmth but also a viscosity to them; I get the impression that Eve believes that she is clairvoyant in a delusional sense.

The comparison of the man to a lunch lady is a bit upsetting; I would go for someone who has more of a domestic experience in their work such as a cleaner, or maybe a warehouse runner. Perhaps, a comparison other than that does not have the correct immediate sensibility and would seem to not fit, though.

There's good subtle information density that clues the reader into thinking that Mr Bevitoire has had dealings with the two men that come in at the end during the past.

I'm not sure if the rifle is a bit extreme for the start of the novel, being such a powerful technology, but maybe the calm before the storm lends it a resolve.

Quirky and some very distinguished characters from the start, with different occupational approaches to how they see things. So far this sounds very fun

I posted this in another thread, but that thread didn't really favour critical deconstruction. Perhaps the people here could intervene

In an indiscreet place: there he sat, rapping on the stool, while he squinted at the carnation exuding from the incandescent manhole.
He wasted no time; there was a lack of much at all swimming about in the sea, but it was essential. He opened the manhole, and the pastoral light grew in thick carnation over the ceiling. Water patted the floor; Kletus cautiously stooped over and reached for a rung

Climbing down the ladder and landing on the decking, a net was abstracted from the wall. The door was opened and the net tied on one of the vertices of a pole on the scaffolding. He rubbed his eyes. Looking up: he nodded his head, and went back inside to respite. On his way to the door, there was a light rattle of timbers. He rubbed his eyes and reacted by going back inside faster; he'd failed to lock the door. Knotted with ambiguous security, the net was outside all night; the net wasn't stable there.

No. 2 (Sovenric)
Through the narrow portico: there glared the dissonance.
Convinced that this spelt something out for him: he stood erect before his eyes catched up. Ambling over to the portico he took a short gaze through the cylindrical window for a spell; the net he'd placed there yesterday had disappeared.
He frowned deeply into the far horizon, and simply uttered "Ok".
Now he was driven by something else than reason to find what should certainly be there. Looking through his chest of drawers wasn't helpful, but there was a flask of water in there, amongst paper, ink cartridges and other useless stationery.
He took a small flask of distilled sea-water out before he'd time to think. He quickly imbued his soul with clothes before he turned to face the manhole. He was tempted to gambol down without the rungs and land with his legs bended, but the impulse seemed inconvenient.
Not looking at where he was going: he made it down the ladder from what he remembered. Opening his eyes, running out of the agape door: he saw the clouds of burning rose reflecting sourly against the pernicious and water-covered scaffolding
There was no fruit in his search, and with that the whole house was thoroughly gone through. Shaking his head into nothingness: all that remained was that thin sky ahead, composing itself of void, and ethereal shrieks of the savoury soup named the sea, crashing infintiely together and stretching infinitely apart. In times like this, he couldn't remember whether he posited leaving or not and his eyes wandered.
Finally, they latched on to something: an island.
Flicking his lower lip outwards, and furrowing his brow before speaking to himself: "It's a way, I guess", he moved across.
Then again, all surfaces were gelatinous from yesterday; he moved across slowly. Finding himself at the orange steps: he lingered past the ramparts to an unsteady boardwalk. There he noticed his very narrow boat; it was quite exclusively his size.
"I've got to stop losing things", he told himself, before wincing. He noticed the ores and they were suitably corrugated and didn't have much plasticity. They were not commonly used, this was quite clear, and he still wasn't sure this was his intention. He abstracted the rod and reflexively crunched up his whole face. He took one gaze across the whole of what he saw from this instant. Finding the house and remembering all his inclinations: he blinked and quickly turned away.

My pastebin is about to time out with no comments on here, so I'll post it again pastebin.com/WtAkaj4C and try to do some criticism in the same post this time.

Maybe I'm dumb, but I honestly can't follow this. Your word choice is grammar is really peculiar. I think either you need to polish your style or "try less hard".

This is good, albeit sloppy. For example you have words missing in some sentences, like in, "Through the crack in the door frame she her mother take a place opposite her, her pink bathrobe a deep blue in the dark." It could also flow better. I think you just need to write a ton, and things like this will get ironed out. Other than that I would somehow mention the gun in the first sentence, because that got me really excited, and *then* give us all the stuff about her breakfast, which is what starts giving her character and makes us care for her. Also be careful with too many new names at once. Oh, and I actually liked the lunch lady comparison a lot. It's colorful and unusual yet I think I know exactly what you mean.

Yup.

Would be solid non-fiction at least.

>Am I trying too hard?

Yes. Much.

What are we watching here? Was this the launch of a spacecraft? Because if it was:

propelled, not 'propulsed.'

"before Davie's conscience" is not a place, and what is he guilty about?

I am having difficulty imagining what a transparent cloud of black smoke would look like, and therefore wondering why 'opaque' is necessary here.

Wouldn't the rumble be dancing under his feet, rather than vice versa?

Stick 'to' his memories (ick) or stick 'in' his memory?

I am also unaware of any physical law, or historical line of thinking that ever envisioned or permitted a 'steam engine' to propel a spacecraft.

Best I can tell, you are trying to convey the moment a young boy decides he wants to become an astronaut. But I am only guessing, because the words as deployed are doing their level best to obscure that first-level intent.

Dialogue and characters feel believably real to me, if that's a comment worth anything.

I think the setting and characters were described smoothly.

I doubt I'd be standing in a cafeteria with hands on my hips for three quarters of an hour, reminiscing about the past if the world has become as potentially dangerous as described. A shadowy figure driving home the point to get in and get the hell out as quick as possible.

In my opinion, the description of the girlfriends' origin from an asylum sounds more like she was a patient from a psychiatric institution rather than a occupant of a refugee camp, as it appeared only staff had died from internal bleeding as the 'blasts' occurred. Making me assume that patients were somehow shielded.

I haven't written anything creative in well over two years as I'm laughably shit at it. I don't know if the random onomatopoeia adds much of anything to the story. pastebin.com/Ch1NAhnV

A bit purple. Try paring the prose back a little. Remove modifiers like 'opaque' and 'immobile'. Be brutal. Such things get in the way of smooth reading.

this is evidence that I did my job wrong.

She was only just forming the start of a dream when a noise at the door woke her up. A bleary glance at the clock on her nightstand told her it was nearly four in the morning. She blinked lazily, allowing her eyes to refocus on the present. It was three fifty seven, and someone was hammering on the front door.

Her father had returned home at some point during the night, and she heard the floorboards creak under his feet as he moved. Eve couldn't remember seeing any of this in her vision, and felt swept up in the strangest sense of unreality. Was she dreaming? Through the crack in the door frame she saw her mother loom in the kitchen doorway, her pink bathrobe a deep blue in the dark. Mr. Bevitore towered over her like a statue as he undid the locks. With a steady hand he opened the door, and two men stepped into the home.

Uncle Luca looked as he always had in the years she had known him. He was a tense and wiry man whose coppery hair seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the forces that saw fit to slick them back. He had a pale, beaky face, and stood as if her was never sure what to do with his hands. The man beside him was big and lumpy, with nose that must have been broken a half-dozen times without being set, and a wide, toad-like mouth that made him somewhat resemble a lunch lady. Eve had seen him a handful times throughout her life, but never once had she bothered to learn his name.

“What in the hell are you doing coming into my home at this time of night?” Angelo growled.

“Sorry to barge in at an odd hour,” Luca replied, “we know you don't like people banging on your door at 4 am – I know I don't – but I'm afraid we've got some of them, whatchamacallit, ex-tin-u-ating circumstances.”

“Extenuating circumstances?”

“Yeah, that's the word,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with with his hand. The back of his knuckles collided with a coat rack, knocking hats, jackets and mahogany to the floor with a noisy clatter. Mr. Bevitore swore and began picking up scattered clothing when the other man spoke.

“Ange,” the toad-like man added. The groaning baritone of his voice did nothing to dispel the image in Eve's head. “The boss is dead.”

Angelo's shoulders tensed as he realized what had just been said. Mrs. Bevitore crossed herself, mouthing a prayer silently somewhere in the kitchen. Eve did nothing, said nothing. This was not the kind of path her dreams usually took, but that didn't mean anything did it?

“Who did this?” Angelo growled.

This could just be a dream, Eve reminded herself, she would have seen it otherwise.

“That would be me.” Luca drew from a hip holster in a fraction of a second, but Angelo Bevitore was as fast as he was. The coat rack struck the side of his knee with great sucking pop moments before the gun went off.

you pick the biggest words you can then reuse them. too purple but not enough

Reposting this since it wasn't the right place.
Hi guys, I'm reviewing a book a friend wrote.

Problem is, most of my comments ends up being things like :
>Another word would be better
>That's the wrong tense
>That's grammatically incorrect
>Show, don't tell
for style, and for plot, it's even worse, he casually describes important exposition but spends time on useless dialogue that sounds horribly artificial.

Basically I really, really don't like his style of writing at all, mostly because he uses the first person at all times, and his character talk like a teenager from today instead of a fantasy character. How would you try to reason him ? I don't want to sound like an ass since he's a good friend and genuinely love what he has done, and it's not that bad, but to me he should basically rewrite the entire thing.

Pretty interesting, although Eve doesn't feel too much child-like, but I suppose it's voluntary.

Don't reason with him. Tell him that he could benefit from actually reading some books (classics, literature, not just YA) and comparing what he's doing to what they are doing.

A lot of amateurs who write haven't read enough to develop a taste for what is good or bad writing. It sounds like he's in that category and he has to read some more in order to get to the level where he can self-critique. I'm just theorizing, though.

Opening to my novel

Spittle flying from his mouth with every muttered curse, the hunchback made his way up the tower. Bits of bird droppings and broken windowpane crunched beneath his boots. Cobwebs clung to his beard and spiders to his hair, but he paid them no mind. The stars shone, cold and distant without the Moon. “No one,” fumed Lunkwood, eyes blazing, “no one is permitted…disturb her sleep…the tower…only the Mistress”
Crack. He collapsed, head pounding from the iron trapdoor. Its ring looked down on him like the eye of some hideous creature. Lunkwood sat up and vomited on the rough-cut stones. As soon as he could stand he pulled at the ring, and with a hideous creak it swung open. The hunchback pulled himself up and looked around. Everything was as it should be. Hundreds of books sat on their shelves, each bound in leather with tiny gold lettering that Lunkwood could not read. The rugs looked somber in the faint starlight, but he knew come morning they would blaze forth purple and scarlet. The Mistress’s brass telescope, inscrutably complex, clung to the wall like a clockwork dragon. And the bed was immaculate, draped in silks that billowed gently in the nighttime breeze.
None of this calmed Lunkwood. He stumbled to the window and stuck out his head. There! On either side hung the lanterns, the same lights he had seen from his own window far below. He clenched his fists till his palms bled and turned back inside. Hatred for the intruder, for the polluter rose up inside Lunkwood. “Where are you?” he howled. “You dare…you dare…” He sunk to the floor, sobbing.
Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder. The hunchback jerked, ready to tear its owner limb from limb. But the hand had no flesh, and the face he saw above him was a grinning skull. Only the eyes, dull as glass, remained to stare into Lunkwood’s own. His mouth moved in silent wonder and his eyes darted ran from one bleached bone to another, and eventually to the now-open silk hangings of the bed. Finally, he found enough strength to speak. “My Lady, how?”

I really like it. You have a good grasp of atmosphere and your characters are pretty vivid, but your last part is too abrupt. even for an obviously mad and concussed figure the hunchback moves through emotions way too quickly to be believed. You don't need to move so fast, maybe stretch it out a bit?

mine

I think I really let down in the second and third sentences.

I like this style. It seems pretty personal and fixed on the action. Makes me feel like a front-row spectator. Keep working at it, m8.

Mine (is "deciduously" really a word? it should be):
The clumps of parched earth, momentarily tire-churned, settled once again upon the red rutted track. Vehicle-spawned vibrations phased into stillness. Nothing appeared moving or perturbed save the celestial gold dust motes natant in their arboreal sunbeams. Sweat, as if erupted from subcutaneous geysers, fashioned darker patches into [Protagonist]’s already black t-shirt. The late afternoon heat, donning the vestments of a hygrophobic evangelist, exorcised the surrounding woods of water, leaving [Protagonist] the only moisture bearing heathen in sight.
Unfixing his gaze from the rise on which the pickup had seemingly dissolved, [Protagonist] fished the bottle from his rucksack’s side pocket, swirling it around to gauge how much remained before allowing himself a conservative sip. Judging by the liquid escaping his pores in unrelenting streams and what little his water bottle still held, [Protagonist] felt it only a short matter of time before his calm also evaporated. With every passing vehicle his hope of transport to civilization returned, only to be hastily shooed away as the drivers whisked by, each time somewhat faster than prior to having taken notice of [Protagonist]’s extended thumb. Deciduously hemmed in on all sides, the dirt track was all that bound him to the human world.

>celestial gold dust motes
too many adjectives

I meant celestial-gold, or celestially gold.

I think you probably anticipate this criticism, but this feels fairly overwritten. Some of these descriptions feel unnecessary, or unnecessarily verbose. I'm with you up until about

>Unfixing his gaze

The verbosity is forgivable at the start, it's setting the scene, but in this latter half of your passage it drags. Choose carefully where you want to inject your poetics. Not every image deserves it.

"You're a soldier, Vychik. A murderer.
A pawn on some old fool's chessboard.
You can't think or do for yourself.
All you were taught to do by the soviets was kill, Vychik.
All you are is a killer, Vychik.
You don't deserve a family, bastard child.
I watched you. I've been watching you.
How did it feel to line them against the wall? How old were they, Konstantin? Fifteen?
You enjoyed watching them being raped, didn't you?

Too cowardly to act, Vychik.
Too cowardly to look them in the eyes before you pulled the trigger.
They were all facing away from you, weren't they?
You carried out the orders like a good little bitch. A good dog, on a short leash.
Tell me, did it look like strawberries when you blew their brains out against the wall?
Did it make you hungry for all the sweets we couldn't have as children?
I cannot blame you, Vychik
It would have my stomach groan too. "

and then i never finished the rest of the story

because i ran out of idea

Yeah, I felt that I was overdoing it by the second paragraph at least. Thanks for the criticism, I'll keep it in mind.

Not a big fan of the "strawberries," or "sweets," parts.

Wrote this last night, the last part is a bit rushed, I'm not sure if the deer metaphor makes any sense.

A gentle hush settled over the house. Tristan listened for a few seconds by the locked door. The sound of footsteps and indistinct chatter grew softer, quieter and gradually dissipated, leaving in its wake a vacant, limpid silence that seemed not to have been newly created by the departure, but rather to have been there the whole time, lurking below the surface like the bare canvas that still remains under layers of oil in a painting. When he was certain his friends had departed, and after a brief period of thoughtless hesitance, Tristan turned away into the dim hallway and retreated to his study. He was alone.

Although his striking looks and a certain enigmatic charm had earned him a handful of romantic companions in his younger days, he had failed to secure a lasting partner and had long ago resigned himself to the quiet life of a bachelor. In doing so he had managed to rid himself of the pretences of those who try desperately to attain trust and companionship. He was not a particularly careless or unhygienic man, but any concern he had regarding his appearance was purely a case of upholding his own set of personal standards, not an attempt to impress anyone else. Rusty wires of knotted facial hair had taken up residence on his chin around his stern, hermetic mouth, also creeping up the sides of his face like trails of ivy on an old house to meet a scraggly mass of hair which swept across his head and hung loosely about his forehead in no particular fashion. His soft brown eyes seemed simultaneously naive and gravely sceptical, giving the impression of a deer caught in headlights that stands in place not in a state of transfixed panic, but out of stubborn disbelief in the reality of the massive vehicle soon to forcibly evict its life and throw the newly-vacated body emotionlessly underneath its great bulk.

It's pretty solid writing. You cooker the steak well, but over-seasoned it in the second paragraph.
Maybe shorten the description of Tristan's appearance overall, and I'd recommend losing the deer metaphor altogether.

Cooked*

was a bit bored until the last sentence's hilarious simile. you have a gift for those, write more of them and hesitate never.

A DESCRIPTION OF A GENIOUS
dont much care what that flabby old fuck might think, wine-smelling lardass going teary at some yawnsome poem about the farting sea, you can just see him twiddling his wormy dick and grimacing as he jizzoms - yuck! thats a grown stephen d type for you, face all drooping from disuse, nasty little lips that suit their words.

don't listen to him, the deer thing is the highlight

Don't listen to him, the deer thing isn't the highlight.

Now I don't know what to believe

Well, you can't ever please everyone. If it sounds good to you, keep it. If you have doubts, revise it.

It sets off opinions and emotions, that's the main thing
AKA the deer thing might not be the highlight, but it's important

The sun returned again, shining on a field stained red. Among the grass lay broken mail and bent shields, shattered blades and helms split wide. There were fingers, chipped teeth, lips, tongues noses splattered ‘cross the green; the wolves often carried off still-whole limbs, sometimes still jangling with jewelry, deep into the forest.

Much of those who had originally bore the flesh and metal had come from the sea, and the rest hailed from a newly-built village further southeast. The sailors had come from a people with saltwater in their veins, for whom everything they had been given had been given by the ocean. They had sang songs on their way to the village to cast aside the fear within themselves, songs of salt and water, storm, iron and gold, though this tactic only succeeded so well. As they landed, those who had come from families lucky enough to own a coat of mail drew it around themselves and prayed. Those who didn’t clasped their hands and hoped to earn a shirt of their own, through heroism or luck either. They had trudged up the beaches, the night air whisking away the heat away from their backs, war-songs and funeral dirge’s both battling to be heard in the quiet parts of their minds. The moons light alone was enough to see by. A different people had come from the south and settled: close, too close to the homes of the young mariners. This new clan quickly made a reputation for themselves as aggressive and treasure-lusting; Two groups in such an anxious balance could not coexist. There was too little to honestly live on, and too much to gain from war. Eventually one would be destroyed by the other, and those who remained would be made into slaves. As it was, as it is and it likely would be for centuries or untold millennia, this fact had bound the saltwater people for generations, and the newest children in the cycle were no exception. Through field and forest the young mariners continued on, slaying the sentries they found as they went.

It's alright. I feel like you've got a good image in your head. You might have a lot to gain from being more minimalist; some of these things kind of repeat themselves. If it was me, I would lose "not to have been newly created by the departure, but rather" and "like the bare canvas that still remains under layers of oil painting", or at least get rid of one of those two. Maybe "and after a brief period of thoughtless hesitance" could be simplified or something.
There's a lot of stuff I would lose in the second paragraph. It's not un-eloquent language, but it's just THERE and not adding much to what I think you're trying to do, taking up space.

I'll throw another worthless opinion into the group:

"Deer in the headlights" is a cliche (Well, it's an idiom, but in writing it feels like a cliche). If you want to reference it in order to subvert it like you do here, you should make it clear that's what you're doing, and maybe even preface the words with an excuse. Instead you play with the language of the cliche AND explain it with "stands in place not in a state of transfixed panic," when the whole point of using a cliche should be that it deserves no explanation. Also "disbelief in the reality of the massive vehicle soon to forcibly evict its life and throw the newly-vacated body emotionlessly underneath its great bulk" is pretty fucking wordy.

Overall, I don't like your transition from the first paragraph, which details events, to the second, which describes the character. It's abrupt, and it undermines what you create in the first paragraph, imo.

A lot of it feels really strange for someone to actually say. My advice if you continue this story is to try and define the character saying it and why they are, and read the thing out loud to yourself. If it doesn't flow or sound in-character, change it until it does. I would start with just "You're a murderer, Vychik, a pawn on some old fool's chessboard" or "You're a murderer, Vychik." Try and use fewer expository details like the line about sweets, Vychik having a family, or him being a bastard child.

I love it. You've got a great writing style. The only complaint I have is that the intro is comparatively uninteresting, and I didn't actually start to want to read it until five sentences in.

I'm trying to create a character who is lonely despite not necessarily being alone. I feel like at least one of these has to stay, because the idea of silence being a distinct, omnipresent entity and not just the absence of sound reflects how loneliness and melancholy is a fundamental aspect of Tristan's character and the presence of friends don't serve to alter this, but merely distract him from it.

>Overall, I don't like your transition from the first paragraph, which details events, to the second, which describes the character. It's abrupt, and it undermines what you create in the first paragraph, imo.
I kind of agree with this, but I'm not sure how to fix it. I feel like a lot of the wordiness and redundancy in the second paragraph is caused by my trying to link things together and avoid abrupt transitions like that.

I understood that about Tristan well, and I really enjoyed it. I got the feeling that to him silence is a constant companion; one that knows how to fade into the background and wait sometimes, but never truly leaves. Those two bits were good for communicating this and one SHOULD stay, but I think both of them were somewhat diluted.

Personally, i'd start off the second paragraph by describing his study as he retreats there, and then use the description of his study to transition into describing Tristan. Maybe it's dusty and clearly the study of a bachelor or something, which leads into describing how he's not ugly or abrasive and he DID have romantic companions before and the study hadn't been dusty THEN or something, but he had ultimately failed.

Her hands slowly reached for her dirty, worn out shoes. They were black and white, and a billion different shades of grey in-between. The shoes also seemed to be adorned with a brand logo that I had never seen before, embedded into the design on the outside of both shoes. Laces done up tightly, she gently pulled on both of them on her right shoe, lifting it high in the air at the end of her leg while she sat on the seat in front of the teller desk. Once the bow that the laces were tied with was undone, she lowered her foot a little and lifted up the tongue of her shoe, loosening the whole thing a little altogether. For the final step of removing her shoe, she pointed the end of her foot downwards. When this happened, her shoe slowly slid off of her foot like a drop of evening drew slowly sliding down the middle of a single leaf, pausing for a moment, but only that, no more no less, and then dropping onto the ground.

CLATTER

The teenage girl’s right shoe fell to the ground, right on its sole. As if this hadn’t taken long enough already, we still had yet to see the left shoe come off. The laces for this shoe were tangled in a bit of a knot, so I watched as she struggled to pick away at the knotted patterns of fancy string. How big were those shoes anyway? I’d have to guess they were a size 7? Maybe even a size 8. And this shoe seemed to have even more holes throughout. If I looked closely into the holes I could sometimes see flashes of fabric through the darkness. I turned my attention back to the laces, those grey laces, finally unknotted. They unravelled through each other elegantly then fell to the sides of the shoe. Just as before, she lowered her foot and then gave it a little kick and nudge. Once that happened, it seemed to bounce off her foot and fall to the ground.

CLACK

Both shoes were now on the ground, the right one standing upright, and the left one haphazardly lying on its side. It’s only now that I realized how well black and purple go together, and it was on the under-shoes of a beautiful, young girl. They engulfed and wrapped her toes, going over to her heel, over her ankle, and then traveling up her silky smooth legs and finally stopping right before her knees. Of course, she can’t start her sock puppet show with her socks still on her feet, so something definitely needs to be done about that. Almost as if in response to my thoughts, she quickly gripped her right sock, and started slowly peeling it off of her skin and down her leg. It had been a hot day, and anyone who hadn’t been outside would still be able to figure that out upon looking at her leg. Why? As she peeled her sock down, off of her leg and increasingly more skin was revealed, a thin, gleaming layer of sweat was revealed. Once the sock was all of the way pulled down her leg, having created many thick wrinkles down just above her ankle, she pinched the end of her sock and quickly gave it a little tug, successfully removing the garment without turning it inside out

>pastebin.com/PMDNstgZ
Here's mine. A development from something I posted in an earlier critique thread. Might be a bit full-on at times, but whatever. opinions appreciated.

Critique & opinions:

Cool. Would read. Either histoical fiction or fantasy, I'm guessing?

>for whom everything they had been given had been given by the ocean
Risky stab at repetition, here. Something about the phrasing is more liable to trip up the reader than get them into rhythm.

> As it was, as it is and it likely would be for centuries...
Personally, I'd rephrase as: As it was, is and likely would be for centuries...

Your prose is easy to follow. Minimal risk of confusion. A lurking potential for characteristic, unique voice, but you seem to be too cautious to really bring it out. Yet, at least. It's just that some of the metaphors and explainantion are... idk, what's the phrase?... they feel a little bit like they've been selected out of a ready-made tool box and pasted in. (So keep practicing, test limits, push the envelope of understandable language). But that advice is very optional; you might just want to play it safe, you might want clarity and lucidity of narrative over any kind of exploration of language. You might want to not confuse readers. Fairo. If so, my only gripe is that I can't retract the sense that some of the metaphors and themes still feel like canned soup. As in, they're too ready-made. Maybe I'm a pedantic fuck.

I can't really say much about the direction of story and plot, since I'd need to read more. But I'm liking the theme of conflicting clans/groups of people which emerged just before the end. Perfect set-up for narrative conflict, which will raise the Big Question the readers will ask, which in turn can only be answered by reading on. So use that to your advantage.

I also get a warm feeling of comradery just hearing about these mariners and their lives. You describe them with the intimacy you'd normally ascribe to a character, which brings them together into one tight unit of life experience. Keep that up. It's feels nice. Real potential for cozy arm-in-arm scenes around warm fires and stew together, the reader feeling like one of them, even though they exist outside the story.

bimp

I am at a Crossroad when writing my book. Any advice on how to help

Need more info than "I'm stuck at a capitalized crossroad", m8... what's at these crossroads? Why can't you decide which way to go? Hey!... why not fuck going left or right and go up instead?!

Was thinking of Starting my Novel in a Somewhat Slow pace. Before it would pick up speed. I'm it would dissuade people from reading it.

>I'm it would dissuade people from reading it.
I'm certain it would dissuade people from reading it.

>it would dissuade people from reading it.
Nej. Nein. Not really. Not unless you're a bad writer. It's very possible to keep people's interest with a slow pace, since pace isn't everything. I would worry more about the presence of conflict -- with a capital C -- since you seem so fond of those. Conflict, resulting in the big question, is what will keep readers on board. If it's always fast-paced in your novel, then it'll never be fast-paced. Just... the same, all the way through. If you have variations of slow, medium, and fast pace, then you'll have a dynamic of speed which will make your novel easier to slide into rhythm with.

Pro tip it doesn't matter how slow the novel is if you have likeable characters.

>I would worry more about the presence of conflict
Conflict through situation.

>Pro tip it doesn't matter how slow the novel is if you have likeable characters.
Would this work if they have flaws in their character?