if you ever read this at a bookstore, would you buy the book?

Question

Your Open Question
Show me another »
Do you think my writing is good?

Angel sped down the corridor. The sound of his father's footsteps followed him like a dark premonition that got stuck to him all of his life. He knew not what to do. He looked all around him and found a square window behind a beige curtain. He pulled the curtain and waited for the clock to strike twelve o'clock. He was promised to disappear from all existence at that moment; he was promised to witness the unknown right at the strike of twelve. He closed his eyes, and breathed in. It was time to unveil the mysteries within. He breathed in once again then opened his eyes. His body shivered as the sound of footsteps grew louder. He pushed the window open and climbed to the sill. It was cold. Rain pattered against the green plastic ceiling at the top floor. He was used to hear his breath as he sniffed in, so he had to sniff louder so that he could hear the rhythm of it; fast, steady and comforting. His father appeared at the window.
He gasped and jumped. With every passing moment, he was getting closer to the ground, but somewhat he knew that he wouldn't die. He was promised safety. First his knees hit the stone ground; he could feel them shattering under his body weight. All the bones breaking, smashing and fragmenting inside this sack of skin. At first he fell nothing, but as his body collapsed onto the stones, a rush of alarming pain took over all of his body and he could barely breathe. He pressed against his knee and moaned. From the side of his eye, he could see his father looking down at him from the window. He grinned at him then vanished.
He couldn't calculate for how long he remained on the stony grounds. Hours, days, months. He wasn't sure. All he knew that the clock stroke twelve a long time ago and those who promised him safety had betrayed him. The pain vanished as the minutes passed down the lane of time and slowly, he felt his knees losing their function. He tried to get to his feet, but he moaned so loud that he could hear his voice resounding all over the huge palace and he fell back to spot where he lied for the last few unidentified time measurement.
A few hours later, a man dressed in a cape and a black coat appeared at his feet. He offered him a hand. Angle tried to stand but he couldn't. The man carried him and he walked to the entrance of the palace. He stopped there for a moment and as if he had forgotten something, he turned and walked to the other door. He said something onto a cellular; it was a strange language that angle had not the conscious or the effort to recognize. They walked into a dimly lit hall with the smell of Indian incense foaming up its arched ceiling. The man placed Angle over a red mat on the ground and patted him on the shoulder. "I'll be back." He went to the other side of the hall and returned with two edged knife. One of the edges was colored blue. "It'll hurt."
Angle gazed at the knife and screamed. "I'm fine."
"Yeah I know," the man grinned at him then dipped the knife into Angle's feet.
Angle screamed for a split of a second with his whole body tightening up but then after a few seconds, he sighed and fell back over the mat, unconscious with a mysterious grin over his face.
He woke up at the break of dawn. The man was beside him. He offered him a glass of water. Angle drank and thanked him. Everything seemed so quiet around him. He touched his feet and found it strangely solid. He gave the man a questioning look. The man smiled at him with his moustache quavering at the sides of his mouth. " it's gold. We gave you a leg of gold. I have one myself. "
The man held up his pant, took a fork from the bedside table and dipped it into his knee. It clicked. "Do you see? it's solid"
"How did you get that one?"
"The same," The man stood up and walked to the small window at the red bricked room. "my father was running after me. I had just turned twelve and my father was doing what was instinctive for him. He was trying to kill me. I jumped from the window of my room and broke my two legs. The ashtara of the palace came and he gave me two new legs. "
"Is your father still following you?"
"They never leave us," he said," they'll always be hiding ready to attack. It's instinctive."
That night, the man that came to call himself Boyd, showed angle all over the palace and gave him lots of books to read. Angel sat at the wooden table beside the fire and every night he'd read parts of the books. The subjects ranged from astrology up to drama and world literature. He liked reading but du

Answer 1

if you don't want a constructive, honest critique please do not read any further.



I think you have potential as an author. You have a good story, creative, and I like some of the personality you let show for the protagonist. I want to like the rest of it too, but your writing style does not match the story. You tend to be overly wordy and some of your syntax is too antiquated. You tend to be repetitious for the sake of clarity. Clarity is good to think about but you should also get your story to flow. Also by the end you are telling, not showing. There is a fine line between to walk between good storytelling and being overly poetic the trick is knowing where it is.



Some examples of what i am talking about:

"The sound of his father's footsteps followed him like a dark premonition that got stuck to him all of his life." Good imagery, but is too wordy and poetic for your purposes.

"He knew not what to do." This syntax is too old for current readers, even if you are trying to give an old feel to the story do it with the descriptions and the dialogue.

" He looked all around him and found a square window behind a beige curtain. He pulled the curtain and waited for the clock to strike twelve o'clock." This has two examples of repetition. First, at the end of the last sentence, the last noun used is "curtain", which is also the first noun in the second sentence. The way you did this was technically correct but will flow better if you replace the "curtain" in the second sentence with "it". Secondly, if a clock is going to strike you don't have to mention that it will be "twelve o'clock" simply "twelve" will do and will flow much better.

In the middle the narrative gets choppy. This happened. This happened. That happened. how about some reactions and details to make it seem more real.

The ending of this sample could use some extension or deletion. It would be much better to use this time for expository dialogue or if it will be a major setting in the story a description of the rooms. A combination of those would work even better.





I hope this helps and if you need a full edit, let me know. I'll be happy to help.

Btw The Amulet of Samarkand by Jonathan Stroud has a great opening that might help you in setting a dark scene without resorting to archaic language and overly poetic wording. :)

Answer 2

Yes I have, I am a pace reader you spot. It's a bit skillability I picked up from perusing actually hundreds of books of high-quality literature, If I do say so myself. The final publication I learn duvet to hide in beneath a million hour, by no means leaving the publication retailer, used to be I think, Hop on Pop by way of Dr. Suess. Come from a literary loved ones and all, incredibly expert do not you already know.

Answer 3

I stopped at this:

Your Open Question

Show me another »

Do you think my writing is good?





Because you're obviously desperate for approval and that makes me think the book would be lame.