Writer's Colony

Talk about anything under the sun or stars - but keep it civil. This is where we really get to know each other. Everyone is welcome, and invited!
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Oliver Dale
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Writer's Colony

Postby Oliver Dale » Tue Oct 31, 2006 9:29 pm

Consider this a reincarnation of the previous so-called Writer's Club (that was never really a club).

Any writers around here?

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Postby anonshadow » Tue Oct 31, 2006 10:10 pm

I dabble.



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Postby Young Val » Tue Oct 31, 2006 10:26 pm

::raises hand::


present.
you snooze, you lose
well I have snozzed and lost
I'm pushing through
I'll disregard the cost
I hear the bells
so fascinating and
I'll slug it out
I'm sick of waiting
and I can
hear the bells are
ringing joyful and triumphant

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Postby powerfulcheese04 » Tue Oct 31, 2006 10:26 pm

I finished a NaNo once.

I still haven't edited it. I'm not sure I have it anymore.

I sometimes write the first 100 words or so of short stories. But then I lose steam and never finish.
-Kim

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Postby Eaquae Legit » Tue Oct 31, 2006 11:05 pm

I, uh, write research papers. And grant proposals.

Not a whole lot of fiction these days, sadly.
"Only for today, I will devote 10 minutes of my time to some good reading, remembering that just as food is necessary to the life of the body, so good reading is necessary to the life of the soul." -- Pope John XXIII

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Postby Young Val » Tue Oct 31, 2006 11:10 pm

i need to start bribing my muse. we've been estranged. she isn't very happy with me, what with all the neglecting i've been doing.
you snooze, you lose
well I have snozzed and lost
I'm pushing through
I'll disregard the cost
I hear the bells
so fascinating and
I'll slug it out
I'm sick of waiting
and I can
hear the bells are
ringing joyful and triumphant

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Postby Olhado_ » Sat Nov 04, 2006 7:35 am

I sometimes write the first 100 words or so of short stories. But then I lose steam and never finish.
I also do this. I need to learn to finish what I start. :)

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Postby Mahatma » Sat Nov 04, 2006 8:20 am

I write fan fiction (mostly Harry Potter -- short stories, because I can't be creative on a big enough level to write more) and poetry, which I don't share with anyone except maybe my best friend if she asks.

And, like EL, I write papers. Problem sets. Research. I definitely have more examples of these than the kinds of the former paragraph. :D
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Postby Virlomi » Sat Nov 04, 2006 9:33 am

Does rambling in a somewhat writingish fashion and occasionally putting it on paper with absolutely no discipline or regularity count?

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Postby Oliver Dale » Sat Nov 04, 2006 10:32 am

All writing counts. Rambling. 100-word false starts. Research papers. It's all good.

On the old thread, we would sometimes post snippets for critique. I wonder if I could be indulged here? Certainly ignore me if you're not interested.

I've got a short story I'm fiddling with, but I'm not sure if I've started it right. I'm uber paranoid about boring/confusing/stupid beginnings. Anyway, it's called "A River of Dead Things" and I'd appreciate your first reactions to the first couple of paragraphs:
From his room high in the east wing of L'église Estival, Andrew spotted a body in the river. It was draped in a heavy black cotton robe, and Andrew first mistook it for a fallen log the way it bobbed and rolled. The river was pregnant with mountain snow water, freshly melted from a winter that had been colder than usual. It had been carrying the debris of a newly birthing forest for weeks, full of rot and dead things.

In fact, Andrew wouldn't have bothered with it all, that supposed corpse of a dead tree, if it hadn't become snagged on an exposed root jutting out from the river bank. Due to the body's velocity, its entanglement caused it to spin and beach itself, its gray gaping maw savagely exposing twisted teeth where lips should have been but were not. Prodded by a constantly flowing river, the robe pushed its way up across half the body's length, revealing one blue and sodden leg and one stump starting just below the kneecap.
Thanks.

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Postby Young Val » Sat Nov 04, 2006 11:05 am

ollie,

fantastic, as usual. chock full of birth and death (i'm hoping all the birth metaphors will play out in the story in some way). i had to read the second paragraph twice to be sure of what was happening. i'd forgotten for a moment what we were looking at (a body) although this may have more to do with my current attention-span than your prose. everything came through loud and clear on the second reading.

as always, i'm hooked.
you snooze, you lose
well I have snozzed and lost
I'm pushing through
I'll disregard the cost
I hear the bells
so fascinating and
I'll slug it out
I'm sick of waiting
and I can
hear the bells are
ringing joyful and triumphant

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Postby Jayelle » Sat Nov 04, 2006 11:07 am

I dabble.
I dabble too, I do dabble too.
One Duck to rule them all.
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It needs to be about 20% cooler.

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Postby Hegemon » Sat Nov 04, 2006 12:14 pm

most of my writing seems to be limited to statutory interpretation papers.... in a couple months I believe it will be focusing more on the legality of the torture of terrorism suspects and whatnot.

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Postby Oliver Dale » Sat Nov 04, 2006 10:53 pm

Thanks Val. I suspect that the second paragraph is a bit confusing, like you mentioned. I'll probably tweak that a bit. But I should probably get the rest of the thing written first. Thanks again for the comments (and can we expect something of yours soon?).

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Postby Young Val » Sat Nov 04, 2006 11:03 pm

ask and ye shall receive.


opening to the second chapter of my novel which i have recently totally overhauled. this is the first introduction of what will be one of three main characters.

Cherry had no problem spending the night in jail. The mattress was only slightly lumpier than the cot she usually slept on at home, and she had brought a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses with her in case she couldn’t sleep. She was the only guest in the holding cell—“guest” had been the guard’s word—and in fact, she was the only person in the building aside from the guard herself. The quiet was blurred only occasionally by the muffled ring of a telephone echoing down the concrete hall.

It had taken Cherry ages to get rid of the guard, who seemed both grateful for the company, and full-to-brimming with southern sympathy. What she wanted most was to be left alone, but under the circumstances Cherry felt it best to be indulgent.
you snooze, you lose
well I have snozzed and lost
I'm pushing through
I'll disregard the cost
I hear the bells
so fascinating and
I'll slug it out
I'm sick of waiting
and I can
hear the bells are
ringing joyful and triumphant

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Postby Oliver Dale » Sun Nov 05, 2006 9:38 am

Solid and engaging. No crits.

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Postby Jayelle » Sun Nov 05, 2006 2:57 pm

My edits:
Cherry had no problem spending the night in jail. The quiet was blurred only occasionally by the muffled ring of a telephone echoing down the concrete hall.The mattress was only slightly lumpier than the cot she usually slept on at home, and she had brought a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses with her in case she couldn’t sleep. She was the only guest in the holding cell—“guest” had been the guard’s word—and in fact, she was the only person in the building aside from the guard.

The guard seemed both grateful for the company and full-to-brimming with southern sympathy and therefore hard to be rid of. What Cherry wanted most was to be left alone, but under the circumstances she felt it best to be indulgent.
_______
Just changed things around a bit, I think the "quiet was blurred..." line is a hook and does well at the beginning. I deleted the "herself", which is unnessary and changed the second paragraph line since "it took ages" seemed a bit out of place.

Take what you will.
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It needs to be about 20% cooler.

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Postby Jayelle » Sun Nov 05, 2006 3:15 pm

From his room high in the east wing of L'église Estival, Andrew spotted a body in the river. It was draped in a heavy black cotton robe, and Andrew first mistook it for a fallen log the way it bobbed and rolled. The river was pregnant with mountain snow water, freshly melted from a winter that had been colder than usual. It had been carrying the debris of a newly birthing forest for weeks, full of rot and dead things.

In fact, Andrew wouldn't have bothered with it all, that supposed corpse of a dead tree, if it hadn't become snagged on an exposed root jutting out from the river bank. Due to the body's velocity, its entanglement caused it to spin and beach itself, its gray gaping maw savagely exposing twisted teeth where lips should have been but were not. Prodded by a constantly flowing river, the robe pushed its way up across half the body's length, revealing one blue and sodden leg and one stump starting just below the kneecap.
Okay - my critique. It's a touch wordy. Don't use 10 words when 2 will suffice. Include things that are actually significant, don't just add extra adjectives for the sake of adding them.

Specifically:
1) Cotton? How would he know it's cotton from a distance? I would go with just "heavy black robe" (it also flows better that way)

2) Is it significant to the rest of the story that the winter was colder then usual? If not, I would delete that. (Plus, as a nitpick, it generally snows less when it's been quite cold - at least where I am).

3) "Due to the body's velocity"? Scrap it. Too technical and doesn't match the mood. Took me right out of the story.

4)Same with "In fact", just start with "He wouldn't have bothered..."

5) Same with "...but were not". "Should have been." period end of sentence. If they should have been there, it's implied they were not.


Okay, now that I've brutalized your writing... the good. It totally hooks me. I want to know more and I want to know it now.
One Duck to rule them all.
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It needs to be about 20% cooler.

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Postby Oliver Dale » Mon Nov 06, 2006 7:41 pm

I don't feel brutalized at all! Actually, many of those line edits I may have made myself, down the road. I'm far from the polishing stage yet, though. At this point I want to make sure that I've started the story in the right place before I make it pretty... kind of like making sure the forest fire is out before you start manicuring the bushes.

Edited to say: Thanks for the comments, though. I didn't mean to discourage. I appreciate any and all insights.

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Postby Oliver Dale » Fri Nov 24, 2006 2:42 pm

Because I refuse to let this thread die....

Here's the opening to a new piece. Currently untitled:

Eric had been dead for four days, and I found myself lying in the crabgrass outside our old elementary school, smoking cigarettes with my head in Amy's lap. She plucked the Camel from my lips, took a long drag on it, and exhaled a puff of smoke that rose and mingled with the clouds above us. She smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, like a candle from her SoHo apartment. It was the most perfect summer day.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Purple," she said. That was Amy's way of answering every pointless question. I didn't care what time it was, and she knew it. I just hated silence.

"How much do you think he had to drink?" I asked. A cumulous dinosaur was running hurdles above me. Or maybe it was a pig playing leap-frog. The wind was warm and welcoming. I kept expecting my Principal to run out and yell at us for smoking. This is a tobacco-free campus, he'd say. Actually, he probably wouldn't. I'm pretty sure he's dead now, just like Eric.

"A lot," she said.

"But how much, really? He'd been drinking for years. Really drinking. I bet he finished a liter of vodka all by himself before he jumped."

Amy grunted but said nothing.

I thought about the causeway. This would be the perfect day to hit the beach. All three of us -- Amy, Eric, and me -- could pile into my Dodge and head across the bridge and lie in the sand and piss and moan about our professors. Amy would have her sunscreen, and I'd bring the towels, and Eric, of course Eric, would have a pint of gin tucked into his backpack.

He'd been seeing ghosts. Eric had told me that a few weeks ago. He called me up at two in the morning. I stubbed my toe on the doorjamb, fishing through my jeans pocket for my cellphone.

It's my dad, Eric had said. I saw him in my bathroom mirror. He was old, and rotten, and his skin was peeling away from his skull, but it was him.

I told Eric to put the booze away and go to bed.

Now he was dead, and his two best friends were ditching his funeral. He'd have wanted it that way.

"What's the point?" I asked Amy.

"The point to what?" she said.

"I don't know. Life?"

She took the last drag of the cigarette and flicked it into the weeds.

"Purple," she said.

And she was f****** right.

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Postby Young Val » Mon Nov 27, 2006 9:34 pm

*bump* to remind myself to reply to this.

i've got lots of thoughts, Ollie, but i'm in no frame of mind to type them at the moment.

soon, though. honest.
you snooze, you lose
well I have snozzed and lost
I'm pushing through
I'll disregard the cost
I hear the bells
so fascinating and
I'll slug it out
I'm sick of waiting
and I can
hear the bells are
ringing joyful and triumphant

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Postby Miguel Ardevaas » Fri Dec 01, 2006 10:39 pm

Here's the first page of a manuscript I just started. Feel free to be brutally honest, here. In fact, that's what I'm looking for. I could use the crits.
Isaac could never completely wash the Ajax out of his left eye. Fighting back the panic, he tried flushing it out with water. He dialed 9-1-1. He went to the hospital.

Nothing helped. The emergency room couldn't help; even the pain killers they prescribed him didn't help. The blood pumped in his ears, in his eyes. His face throbbed; the Ajax festered in his flesh. It flared in his mind. It made him think of things no man should be forced to think of. Throwing his only child from the balcony. Burning him alive. Slicing through his skin like a hot knife through butter. Horrible, monstrous things.

Isaac had been admitted to fifteen different psychiatric hospitals over the years. Diagnosed a schizophrenic, they did nothing more than prescribe anti-psychotic after anti-psychotic. Every time Isaac tried to tell them it was the Ajax, they only sent him to more therapy, prescribed him more drugs.

Bellevue was no different. Nobody believed him there, either. That's why he fled the hospital. He had to. His mind wasn't fractured. He didn't need medication. He didn't need therapy. He needed to get that damn Ajax out of his f****** eye.

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Postby Jayelle » Fri Dec 01, 2006 11:08 pm

One crit: what's Ajax?

That is, besides someone in the Iliad.
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It needs to be about 20% cooler.

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Postby Miguel Ardevaas » Fri Dec 01, 2006 11:27 pm

It's a cleaning product. Linky.

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Postby VelvetElvis » Fri Dec 01, 2006 11:54 pm

It never occured to me that Ajax wasn't a common product everywhere. Around here it's even used in everyday phrases. For example, to imply that someone is promiscuous, you might say that he or she has something even Ajax can't remove.

"Paris Hilton sure is a looker."
"Maybe so, but I'd bet she's got hold of something even Ajax can't wash off."
Yay, I'm a llama again!

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Postby Oliver Dale » Sat Dec 02, 2006 2:06 am

Miguel, interesting bit, certainly. I'm not sure it's enough of a hook to keep me interested though. I know that seems strange -- what more can you include, right? I think actually you have a problem similar to one of mine (or rather, one I used to have) -- you start with what should be an emotionally charged scene, but because we have no context and no reason to care about the main character, it comes off as just slightly strange and a bit confusing. Especially if the main character is crazy.

However, that doesn't mean you can't start the story this way. It just means you have to be even MORE clear, and have an even BETTER hook, so that we will persist with the prose until we actually get to the point where we care what happens to the MC.

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Postby Qing_Jao » Mon Dec 04, 2006 9:29 pm

I'm a poet, which probably should be in the other thread, but it's writing. Haven't done much lately, but if I do, I'll post it either here or there.......
--SARA
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no evil shall escape my sight!

Let those who worship evil's might,
beware my power... Green Lantern's light!"

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Postby Young Val » Mon Dec 04, 2006 10:08 pm

ok, Ollie. finally feel like i can devote the proper attention to your snippet posted above.

as always, good, solid story-telling. very interesting. i want to keep reading.

here's my one issue, and it's a semi-big one for me, personally. a large percentage of your dialogue just doesn't sound believable to me. i know that the whole "purple" thing is probably designed to do just that, but it doesn't work for me. it seems too contrived, or as though you're trying too hard to achieve that sense of a private language between friends. perhaps this would work better without the explanation in the narrative? especially if it's used twice in such a short span of time, i think you could trust the reader to understand the intent in such a seeming non-sequiter.

beyond the "purple" issue, the other things being spoken about in the dialogue seem to be typical cliche death-speak. the point of life and specifically trying to understand the death. i feel like those sorts of conversations happen in the immediate shock. (again, this is just in my limited experience with this sort of thing). but what would two best friends talk about while ditching their other best friends' funeral? would they talk at all? about him? about everything but him? how much of what they feel are they able to say? or allowed to say? or desire to say? how does this death change the relationship between those who remain? are they uneasy? do they find pain in one another's company? comfort?

all of these things and so much more can be taken into consideration when you're writing your dialogue. i just want it to feel more... real, i guess. at the moment it seems too constructed to me. it doesn't feel genuine.

your narrative, on the other hand, is quite strong. i love the part about eric thinking he saw his father.


as always, take what you like, leave the rest. i look forward to whatever comes next.
you snooze, you lose
well I have snozzed and lost
I'm pushing through
I'll disregard the cost
I hear the bells
so fascinating and
I'll slug it out
I'm sick of waiting
and I can
hear the bells are
ringing joyful and triumphant

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Postby VelvetElvis » Mon Dec 04, 2006 10:58 pm

I think you should have ended it at "purple". Cut out the "she said" part and all.
Yay, I'm a llama again!

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Postby Fodi » Mon Dec 04, 2006 11:18 pm

I'm not sure about your first piece (it didn't seem like my type of read), but your second I really liked. I won't try to offer criticisms because I've yet to take a single course on creative writing, also because I don't believe I have any. It had a very interesting start and really drew me in. I happened to like the purple repetition.

I now feel obligated to contribute a bit of my own writing. If for no other reason than to offer you the chance to criticise me.
Ms. Maura Richards was overflowing with excitement and nerves. Even as she sat in her aisle seat on the 747 to East Limerick Airfield the child next to her banged his head into the window due to the excess of excitement in the air and she was forced to bite her tongue, lest she cry out, as the stewardess tread on some of the nerves that had spilled onto the floor. Maura wasn’t usually an excited or nervous type of person. She liked to think of herself as cold and calculating, only letting people think she was warm to better calculate them from a cool distance. She was after all a doctor. A psychiatrist, to be exact, one who specialized in unorthodox cases.

It wasn’t the flight that was causing her to feel so excited and nervous. Although, the boy banging his head against the window was just a bit disturbing. Even as she watched he pulled his head back only to send it back into the pane of glass again with a dull thump. There was even a rhythm to it that was almost soothing until you realized that what you were listening to was somebody thumping their way through the only thing keeping you from several thousand feet of free falling to an untimely death. But, then again, it was more likely that the kid would crack his skull and fall out of his seat dead than that the two panes of thick glass keeping the plane pressurized would give. Yes, there was nothing on the flight to feel excited or nervous about.
I believe I fixed that run on sentence once before, but apparently it insisted on reasserting itself.

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Postby Kaira » Tue Dec 05, 2006 9:31 pm

i feel like adding to this thred, i like to write, though i have issues with spelling. i want to add my 2 cents to everything everyone else posted but i dont have the time.
this is a poem i wrote about a year ago, not many seem to understand what its about, so i know i need to fix it, but i havent yet.. i want crit. lots of it. lol

its called...
Through the bottom of a dark brown bottle

The sharp rustle of my delicate skin sliding
On sharp blades of grass faintly
Reaching my ears.
And you, slipping in and out of that milky stream, illusive
Behind solid glass construing
Your perfectly chiseled marble
Reminding me of my unfailing cowardice seen
Through a bald, bitter, Budweiser.

Consciousness, lightly blowing kisses on my lips
Leaving gritty chunks of dirt to dig deeper
And deeper beneath my fingernails.
Then comes the tingling rainbow of pins and needles in my knees
Standing immobile on your slab of stone

I can no longer shift my weight to quiet
My restless discomfort, or guilt
At having lost you
Or rather, what would have been you.
That tiny embryo of misused passion and a motel room
Mocking me, through this bottomless
Dark brown bottle

Sliding from my long beautifully artistic
Now unfeeling fingers
To pollute this gushing torrent of My freshwater
Tears staining tan parchment,
Blotting ink, turning blue
The words of this hopeless apology.
Into that world inverted
Where left is always right,
Where the shadows are really the body,
Where we stay awake all night,
Where the heavens are shallow as the sea is how deep,
And you love me.

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Postby Young Val » Tue Dec 05, 2006 9:48 pm

kaira,

the subject matter seems clear to me. undoubtedly death. most likely abortion/miscarriage/stillborn or some other type of infanticide or accidental death.


i'm not a poet, and i studied the writing of poetry only as much as i was required to in college. i am, therefore, hesitant to give much concrit. as it's likely that i don't quite know what i'm talking about.

at least i would say that at times the writing is heavy-handed and vague, i am not grounded in any particular time or place, and i would like to be. i get the makings of a graveyard, but the bottle displaces me. is it metaphorical, or physically present? ect.
you snooze, you lose
well I have snozzed and lost
I'm pushing through
I'll disregard the cost
I hear the bells
so fascinating and
I'll slug it out
I'm sick of waiting
and I can
hear the bells are
ringing joyful and triumphant

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Postby Kaira » Tue Dec 05, 2006 10:01 pm

ohh thanks, that helps... your very right-- abortion actuly, but i do need to be more clear... hmm.
thanks!
Into that world inverted
Where left is always right,
Where the shadows are really the body,
Where we stay awake all night,
Where the heavens are shallow as the sea is how deep,
And you love me.

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Postby Oliver Dale » Tue Dec 05, 2006 10:41 pm

Kelly,

Actually, I think you're absolutely right. I mean, dead on. You said it, and the lightbulb hit me. Actually, I'm fairly certain that's the reason I've been locked up on that story. I've been reaching for cliches, and the dialog is giving me away. I shall have to ponder this. P.s. Where's yours?

Fodi,

I'm not sure what kind of piece it is you're writing, but it seems a bit sluggish for my tastes. Is this kid hitting his head more important than just a source of anxiety? Cut that second paragraph and start moving on with the story. Your mileage may vary.

Kaira,

I, as a general rule, don't critique poetry -- especially poetry that is so obviously personal. It probably served its purpose when you wrote it. That being said, I have to second what Kelly said. It seems a touch nebulous. There are some truly lovely turns of phrase and imagery here, but I'm not entirely sure what they all mean.

Jayelle
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Postby Jayelle » Wed Dec 06, 2006 11:50 am

It's a cleaning product. Linky.
Sorry, I should have been more clear. I was making a point about writing. I actually do know what Ajax is, but not everyone will. It's something to think about when putting brand names in your writing, especially ones that are characters in other (well-known) literature.
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