Without further ado, here is the first paragraph of In the Frame of a Golden Sunset (and excuse me while I gag again at such a soap-opera-ish title, blech).
Missing. Missing. Missing. A funny mantra. But his own, his creation, or lack thereof. The business of his life seemed to meet the socially acceptable requirements. Successful job. Respect from his peers. A loving family, mother and father and sister, no wife, of course. After unsuccessful attempts at this world’s pathetic excuse for relationships, he had buried himself in that successful career of his. He had found himself attracted to a number of shallow women. He often wondered how he found them. Seemed to migrate toward them. One rather painful episode triggered him to embrace his work. It filled his life then. But no longer. And now that damned mantra. Missing. Missing. Missing.
I can find problems not only with each sentence, but nearly every word. The POV wanders, slips and slides. I've managed to create a character that, as written here, I already want to kick off a bridge--maybe that's a sign of latent talent to accomplish that in a paragraph? And I love that "no wife, of course" bit, how it seems to qualify the "socially acceptable requirements" of his life. Gag, gag, gag. I even somehow managed to give this ponderous oaf the name of a rather recognizable celebrity without realizing it at the time. That gaffe is the only thing that makes this piece even remotely entertaining (my character is a satirist, writes books and columns and such; the poor man I accidentally named him after does nearly the exact same thing). To think that I wrote this very early in 2000. I've come a long way in six years. A VERY long way.
Now please excuse me while I go scrub my fingers and eyeballs for ever having written and read this.
6 comments:
You're a braver soul than I. *-* My worst piece was written in 1993, and it is in the bottom of the bottom drawer of my desk, beneath old journals and sketch books. Every now and then, when I feel the need to cringe, I pull it out and read it - and usually jump right into a shower. I keep saying I'm going to destroy it, but it keeps managing to go back into the drawer. One of these days, someone else is going to get ahold of it, and I'm going to die on the spot. *-*
There are definitely days that I consider Sheila's choice to have all of her non-published writing burned immediately upon her death. Sometimes it seems just too horrible an idea that any of my bad stuff will ever be read by others. Flames (or a quick electromagnetic stripping...or both) just seems so safe. I shudder to think that one day, someone could stumble across some of this crap without having me there to explain it away...ick.
Oh, I'm sure there was a weather report a few paragraphs later. :)
How's this?
The young friar, sensing the fear of the young Sisters of Mercy while viewing their trembling habits, slowly turned his attention to the fragmenting door, the only protection from the raging storm that terrorized the fragile nuns huddled close to the opposite wall, and seeing more splinters and shards flying toward them boldly forced himself to his feet, opened his cloak, pressed himself against what remained of the door and courageously broke the wind.
Damn, Dad. All in one sentence, too. That's getting to "so bad it's good" quality, even with the elaborate pun. :)
It just may have come from one of those late 50's "Lenny Bruce Reads Faulkner" evenings at a downstairs beatnik watering hole in Greenwich Village.
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