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Critiquing My Work(?)
Author
Would it be acceptable for me to post something I have written here and request comments? It would be entirely selfish, so I thought I would ask if anyone had a problem with in before I did.
If not, can someone suggest some other place I could go for constructive criticism?
I don''t think there''s a problem with that, though I may be wrong. We''re always willing to eviscerate...err...review stuff. 
Author
Okay. Here goes. Be nice, I''m a newb 
.
-------------------------------------------------------
Battle Scars
It was going to leave a scar. He was certain of that.
A wiry man in his mid thirties sat on a curb examining a gash on his left arm, under the dull yellow glow of the street lights. It wasn''t the first time Neil hat been injured at work.
Three weeks ago he had a tooth knocked out. Four months ago he was pepper sprayed by an elderly woman. Two years ago he was shot at.
It was to be expected in his line of work, and he excepted it as nothing but an undesired side-effect. He was a people-person after all. He always hung around large crowds. Packed night clubs, rowdy bars, concerts, wherever there are people, he would go.
Being a pick-pocket is not without its advantages though. An average person carries around enough cash to provide steady financing for Neil without having to risk taking more than his share. An amateur would get greedy and score as much as he can. One person loses his wallet, and it''s not a big deal. Three or four people, and you are sharing a cell with some rat-faced serial rapists.
Amateurs didn''t last long in this business. Taking something from someone’s clothing, while they are wide awake, is not a trivial matter. It''s not like stealing a car, or robbing a house. It requires skill, finesse, and most importantly balls.
Getting into the business was not what Neil had expected. He always used to imagine receiving an engraved invitation to an abandoned warehouse where he would be inducted into a secret society. Instead, he was just bored one day, so he went to the mall and tried to take some guy''s wallet. He screwed up and was chased into a parking lot where he hid under a car. He didn''t stop there though.
The next day he tried again. This time he was cautious. He watched for an opportunity to present itself. In mere few hours he was drop-kicked by opportunity. He found a morbidly overweight woman sitting on bench. She was just sitting, panting slightly, as the bench seemed to cry out for sweet death. Her purse sat next to her. Neil casually sat down, grinned at her, and started a conversation. She droned on endlessly about her theories on government coverups, and the diets she had tried. Neil eventually had to interrupt her to put a stop to the conversation. He got up and walked off. The woman was looking leaner already, having lost a two credit cards and thirty-five dollars cash.
After that he only got better. He began to learn the inner workings of a human brain. He always thought of a mind in the state alertness as his enemy. From this postulate, and a number of simple observations (purses are always easier than wallets, back pockets are always easier than front), he became one of the best.
It should heal quickly. He was always looking on the upside. A skilled criminal always separates emotion from his job. There probably aren’t any deadly viruses carried on a broken liquor bottle either. And there would be no way the guy could pick him out of a lineup. Not with the amount he drank.
It was dawn already. The sun sheepishly crept above the apartment buildings as Neil walked home. He had work tomorrow.
Work
His apartment was in every way unremarkable. Standard issue furniture coupled with slightly off-white walls. He really didn''t spend a lot of time at home. His only real neighbor was an unequivocal health Nazi. Neil tried to avoid her at all costs, but somehow he always found pamphlets comparing the poultry industry to Stalin''s mass murder tactics.
He had hardly enough time to shower, bandage his wounds, and eat before stepped out the door. Trying to juggle two jobs didn''t leave too much time for sleep, so you have to be creative. There isn''t an easy way to sleep on the job as a pickpocket, so Neil often would doze off at his legitimate job. Or try to get some of his after-hours work completed.
It''s no coincidence he worked at Disney Land. He didn''t have to be incredibly sly to discover the fact that lots of people, carrying lots of money, in a highly distracted state, equals money. Disney themselves realized this and sold plastic hats for twenty dollars. They made a multibillion dollar industry out of distracting people and taking their money. As an employee of Disney, it should almost be expected of Neil to do that very thing.
Work wasn''t necessarily something Neil dreaded either. He had friends there. A while back, he tried to get help for his stealing addiction, and joined a support group. He ended up meeting others who shared his passion and skill for the art of boosting peoples wallets. So they went into business together.
One of the people he met was Jim Holkens. He was a big guy; a bumbling fool. It was one of the most useful, and sought-after professions in the industry. Exactly one half of the traditional distract-and-steal formula is the distraction. Whatever it takes, wether it is bumping into them, or asking dumb questions, or just staging an all out brawl.
He arrived at work, not a moment late. The happy families strolled, oblivious, and in a state of outward bliss. Jim waved at them from the confines of his customly modified Minnie Mouse constume. He hugged a little girl, while the parent watched utterly unaware that inside was a two hundred-pound ex-con, moderate alcoholic, and one time professional street brawler. It never ceased to creep Neil out.
Of course his job was not nearly as bad as wearing a huge sweaty costume and hugging children with ice-cream all over their faces. Neil was a part of a proud tradition of trash sweepers. After paying three eighty-nine for a Pepsi, most guests at the park were students of the philosophy that having your empty bottle picked up for you was included in that price. That''s where Neil came in.
The trash removal system at Disney Land is fairly elaborate but when it came down to it, they still needed underpaid, mostly foreign workers in blue jumpsuits to do the actual picking up. Not that it bothered him. It was all about having the correct mind set. Treating it as a childhood game like fifty-two card pickup, or a scavenger hunt, rather than being paid just barely over the legal minimum to pick up strangers'' garbage. The key to happiness is seeing the good in a bad situation. That and alcohol.
"Good morning Jim," Neil said, brandishing his trademark used car salesman grin.
"Oh, there you are. You should have been here earlier. Saw some good game. A guy with a gold watch and an expensive suit."
"Sounds like a good prospect. I''m just worried he''s the type to press a lawsuit against you after you meet him."
"No, not a law suit. Looked more like a business suit to me," Jim said earnestly.
Neil laughed. "No, like he is going to drag us to the court."
"I don''t know about that. Him draggin’ someone my size half way across the park to the tennis courts--."
"Court room. I''m sure you know. A jury, lawyers, a judge behind a bench."
"Don''t worry. They have benches at the tennis court."
"Never mind."
Conversations with Jim pretty much always ended like this. A hopeless mess of miscommunications and incoherence. He wasn''t stupid though. Far from it in fact. He was resourceful, savvy, and some might even say sly. His learning disability hardly got in the way of his work.
Neil got used to it quickly. Pickpocketing requires an enormous amount of patience like hunting (which led to many hunting analogies shared between Neil and Jim). Neil had long since learned to use patience when dealing with Jim. It was part of being a good friend, and part of avoiding being beaten by someone twice your size.
Just then, Jim''s oversized mouse ears seemed to perk up.
"Hey Neil."
"Yeah Jim."
"That guy is back."
"The suit? Where?"
"Waiting in line for a corn-dog."
An older man in a three-piece suit casually glanced at his watch as he stood in line. He stood like--well--an investment banker in Disney Land.
"Maybe a tornado picked him up and sat him down here," Jim said.
"Or maybe the clouds opened up God himself delivered him to us," replied an entirely mesmerized Neil.
This was like two hunters spotting a deer the size of a small giraffe. Neil was stunned beyond movement. Jim''s powers of observation where not quite at Neil’s level and he has not yet grasped just how perfect this was.
It was simple deductive logic. A man wearing a suit at Disney Land meant he was a likely workaholic. A man affording expensive clothing in the first place meant he has a well-paying job. Putting it together, a workaholic at a well-paying job deduces to money, and possibly more money on the side. He might as well have a "free US currency" sign taped to his ass.
At a certain point experience and professionalism took the place of sheer bewilderment. It is something paramedics and police officers are accustomed to. One moment you will be staring at a car wreck and next dragging a limp body out of a flaming Honda.
The plan was simple, and has been agreed upon without a work being spoken. As far as distractions go, there are only a few things that would make a man loose all perception of the world around him. Being jumped by Minnie Mouse ranked up there with being smiled at by a beautiful woman, or ingesting large amounts of amphetamines. It was not expected of Minnie Mouse, being the well-regarded trophy wife of the esteemed Micky.
Jim was in a state of complete concentration. He prided himself on his work. He was the considered one of the best, and for good reason.
"Let''s do it Jim.”
Minnie Mouse marched off toward the corn-dog stand with a distinct air of determination. If it was possible to read facial expressions on the giant felt and glue construction, you would have seen her eyes narrow and a slight grimace creep across her animated face.
She wobbled right up to the fifty-something investment banker, and wrapped her arms around him. And would not let go. A moment’s worth of astonishment steadily turned to rage.
"Okay, okay! Get off of me you damned rodent!" he cried.
Jim did not release his unopposable hold. He didn''t even flinch. This was not nearly a first time for Jim hugging someone until near compression. There was a certain psychology to a person’s response. The first stage was screaming obscenities. The second stage was struggling. Third was making threats. He usually let go then.
"I told you to get the fuck off of me! Fucking sewer rat!" He began to turn a certain shade of red usually reserved for sunsets.
"Dammit!" He continued to scream, saliva flying in all directions.
He began to struggle with all his might. All his might added up to about enough to unscrew a bottle of aspirin. He was no match for the veteraned Minnie. Through all of this, no one noticed a completely unphased janitor brush by the two on his way to pick up some trash.
"Go help me, I will sue your ass into oblivion!"
Minnie reluctantly released her iron grip. She patted the man on the head, and walked off in the opposite direction, leaving the investment banker to straighten his tie and attempt to figure out what had just happened.
-------------------------------------------------------------
It''s obviously not completed. I plan on having a story ending up that the investment banker was the manager of Disney Land, and Neil gets involved in a organized crime ring that exists inside Disney.
Thanks for your time.
.-------------------------------------------------------
Battle Scars
It was going to leave a scar. He was certain of that.
A wiry man in his mid thirties sat on a curb examining a gash on his left arm, under the dull yellow glow of the street lights. It wasn''t the first time Neil hat been injured at work.
Three weeks ago he had a tooth knocked out. Four months ago he was pepper sprayed by an elderly woman. Two years ago he was shot at.
It was to be expected in his line of work, and he excepted it as nothing but an undesired side-effect. He was a people-person after all. He always hung around large crowds. Packed night clubs, rowdy bars, concerts, wherever there are people, he would go.
Being a pick-pocket is not without its advantages though. An average person carries around enough cash to provide steady financing for Neil without having to risk taking more than his share. An amateur would get greedy and score as much as he can. One person loses his wallet, and it''s not a big deal. Three or four people, and you are sharing a cell with some rat-faced serial rapists.
Amateurs didn''t last long in this business. Taking something from someone’s clothing, while they are wide awake, is not a trivial matter. It''s not like stealing a car, or robbing a house. It requires skill, finesse, and most importantly balls.
Getting into the business was not what Neil had expected. He always used to imagine receiving an engraved invitation to an abandoned warehouse where he would be inducted into a secret society. Instead, he was just bored one day, so he went to the mall and tried to take some guy''s wallet. He screwed up and was chased into a parking lot where he hid under a car. He didn''t stop there though.
The next day he tried again. This time he was cautious. He watched for an opportunity to present itself. In mere few hours he was drop-kicked by opportunity. He found a morbidly overweight woman sitting on bench. She was just sitting, panting slightly, as the bench seemed to cry out for sweet death. Her purse sat next to her. Neil casually sat down, grinned at her, and started a conversation. She droned on endlessly about her theories on government coverups, and the diets she had tried. Neil eventually had to interrupt her to put a stop to the conversation. He got up and walked off. The woman was looking leaner already, having lost a two credit cards and thirty-five dollars cash.
After that he only got better. He began to learn the inner workings of a human brain. He always thought of a mind in the state alertness as his enemy. From this postulate, and a number of simple observations (purses are always easier than wallets, back pockets are always easier than front), he became one of the best.
It should heal quickly. He was always looking on the upside. A skilled criminal always separates emotion from his job. There probably aren’t any deadly viruses carried on a broken liquor bottle either. And there would be no way the guy could pick him out of a lineup. Not with the amount he drank.
It was dawn already. The sun sheepishly crept above the apartment buildings as Neil walked home. He had work tomorrow.
Work
His apartment was in every way unremarkable. Standard issue furniture coupled with slightly off-white walls. He really didn''t spend a lot of time at home. His only real neighbor was an unequivocal health Nazi. Neil tried to avoid her at all costs, but somehow he always found pamphlets comparing the poultry industry to Stalin''s mass murder tactics.
He had hardly enough time to shower, bandage his wounds, and eat before stepped out the door. Trying to juggle two jobs didn''t leave too much time for sleep, so you have to be creative. There isn''t an easy way to sleep on the job as a pickpocket, so Neil often would doze off at his legitimate job. Or try to get some of his after-hours work completed.
It''s no coincidence he worked at Disney Land. He didn''t have to be incredibly sly to discover the fact that lots of people, carrying lots of money, in a highly distracted state, equals money. Disney themselves realized this and sold plastic hats for twenty dollars. They made a multibillion dollar industry out of distracting people and taking their money. As an employee of Disney, it should almost be expected of Neil to do that very thing.
Work wasn''t necessarily something Neil dreaded either. He had friends there. A while back, he tried to get help for his stealing addiction, and joined a support group. He ended up meeting others who shared his passion and skill for the art of boosting peoples wallets. So they went into business together.
One of the people he met was Jim Holkens. He was a big guy; a bumbling fool. It was one of the most useful, and sought-after professions in the industry. Exactly one half of the traditional distract-and-steal formula is the distraction. Whatever it takes, wether it is bumping into them, or asking dumb questions, or just staging an all out brawl.
He arrived at work, not a moment late. The happy families strolled, oblivious, and in a state of outward bliss. Jim waved at them from the confines of his customly modified Minnie Mouse constume. He hugged a little girl, while the parent watched utterly unaware that inside was a two hundred-pound ex-con, moderate alcoholic, and one time professional street brawler. It never ceased to creep Neil out.
Of course his job was not nearly as bad as wearing a huge sweaty costume and hugging children with ice-cream all over their faces. Neil was a part of a proud tradition of trash sweepers. After paying three eighty-nine for a Pepsi, most guests at the park were students of the philosophy that having your empty bottle picked up for you was included in that price. That''s where Neil came in.
The trash removal system at Disney Land is fairly elaborate but when it came down to it, they still needed underpaid, mostly foreign workers in blue jumpsuits to do the actual picking up. Not that it bothered him. It was all about having the correct mind set. Treating it as a childhood game like fifty-two card pickup, or a scavenger hunt, rather than being paid just barely over the legal minimum to pick up strangers'' garbage. The key to happiness is seeing the good in a bad situation. That and alcohol.
"Good morning Jim," Neil said, brandishing his trademark used car salesman grin.
"Oh, there you are. You should have been here earlier. Saw some good game. A guy with a gold watch and an expensive suit."
"Sounds like a good prospect. I''m just worried he''s the type to press a lawsuit against you after you meet him."
"No, not a law suit. Looked more like a business suit to me," Jim said earnestly.
Neil laughed. "No, like he is going to drag us to the court."
"I don''t know about that. Him draggin’ someone my size half way across the park to the tennis courts--."
"Court room. I''m sure you know. A jury, lawyers, a judge behind a bench."
"Don''t worry. They have benches at the tennis court."
"Never mind."
Conversations with Jim pretty much always ended like this. A hopeless mess of miscommunications and incoherence. He wasn''t stupid though. Far from it in fact. He was resourceful, savvy, and some might even say sly. His learning disability hardly got in the way of his work.
Neil got used to it quickly. Pickpocketing requires an enormous amount of patience like hunting (which led to many hunting analogies shared between Neil and Jim). Neil had long since learned to use patience when dealing with Jim. It was part of being a good friend, and part of avoiding being beaten by someone twice your size.
Just then, Jim''s oversized mouse ears seemed to perk up.
"Hey Neil."
"Yeah Jim."
"That guy is back."
"The suit? Where?"
"Waiting in line for a corn-dog."
An older man in a three-piece suit casually glanced at his watch as he stood in line. He stood like--well--an investment banker in Disney Land.
"Maybe a tornado picked him up and sat him down here," Jim said.
"Or maybe the clouds opened up God himself delivered him to us," replied an entirely mesmerized Neil.
This was like two hunters spotting a deer the size of a small giraffe. Neil was stunned beyond movement. Jim''s powers of observation where not quite at Neil’s level and he has not yet grasped just how perfect this was.
It was simple deductive logic. A man wearing a suit at Disney Land meant he was a likely workaholic. A man affording expensive clothing in the first place meant he has a well-paying job. Putting it together, a workaholic at a well-paying job deduces to money, and possibly more money on the side. He might as well have a "free US currency" sign taped to his ass.
At a certain point experience and professionalism took the place of sheer bewilderment. It is something paramedics and police officers are accustomed to. One moment you will be staring at a car wreck and next dragging a limp body out of a flaming Honda.
The plan was simple, and has been agreed upon without a work being spoken. As far as distractions go, there are only a few things that would make a man loose all perception of the world around him. Being jumped by Minnie Mouse ranked up there with being smiled at by a beautiful woman, or ingesting large amounts of amphetamines. It was not expected of Minnie Mouse, being the well-regarded trophy wife of the esteemed Micky.
Jim was in a state of complete concentration. He prided himself on his work. He was the considered one of the best, and for good reason.
"Let''s do it Jim.”
Minnie Mouse marched off toward the corn-dog stand with a distinct air of determination. If it was possible to read facial expressions on the giant felt and glue construction, you would have seen her eyes narrow and a slight grimace creep across her animated face.
She wobbled right up to the fifty-something investment banker, and wrapped her arms around him. And would not let go. A moment’s worth of astonishment steadily turned to rage.
"Okay, okay! Get off of me you damned rodent!" he cried.
Jim did not release his unopposable hold. He didn''t even flinch. This was not nearly a first time for Jim hugging someone until near compression. There was a certain psychology to a person’s response. The first stage was screaming obscenities. The second stage was struggling. Third was making threats. He usually let go then.
"I told you to get the fuck off of me! Fucking sewer rat!" He began to turn a certain shade of red usually reserved for sunsets.
"Dammit!" He continued to scream, saliva flying in all directions.
He began to struggle with all his might. All his might added up to about enough to unscrew a bottle of aspirin. He was no match for the veteraned Minnie. Through all of this, no one noticed a completely unphased janitor brush by the two on his way to pick up some trash.
"Go help me, I will sue your ass into oblivion!"
Minnie reluctantly released her iron grip. She patted the man on the head, and walked off in the opposite direction, leaving the investment banker to straighten his tie and attempt to figure out what had just happened.
-------------------------------------------------------------
It''s obviously not completed. I plan on having a story ending up that the investment banker was the manager of Disney Land, and Neil gets involved in a organized crime ring that exists inside Disney.
Thanks for your time.
Hmm. I read roughly the first screenful (down to ''Work''), and the immediate criticism I have is that the point of view jumps around too much.
First we are in this man''s head, echoing his thoughts. Then we are outside, across the street, the view of a stranger. Then we are outside, but familiar with him, because we know his name. then we jump back into his head. And so forth.
I''ve seen it before on pieces people submit. I''m not sure what causes it. Maybe the writer doesn''t know how to introduce elements, or maybe the writer can''t decide on a point of view so just lumps them all together. Heck, maybe it''s too much TV
A consistent POV is much easier to read.
Hope this helps,
JSwing
First we are in this man''s head, echoing his thoughts. Then we are outside, across the street, the view of a stranger. Then we are outside, but familiar with him, because we know his name. then we jump back into his head. And so forth.
I''ve seen it before on pieces people submit. I''m not sure what causes it. Maybe the writer doesn''t know how to introduce elements, or maybe the writer can''t decide on a point of view so just lumps them all together. Heck, maybe it''s too much TV
A consistent POV is much easier to read.
Hope this helps,
JSwing
I''ve done that on a lot of fiction I write. It takes serious effort to avoid it, but it helps a LOT when you do.
It also depends on the objectives and the nature of your piece. Generally, POV is supposed to be consistent, but for the more satirical or slapstick style of writing (private eye novels come to mind), it is sometimes suitable.
If you are going for the private eye detective type of story, then perhaps you should stick with what you have. Convention-wise, we call what you have done meta-art. It is a modern and experimental convention. Its application here is narrative self-conscious, or otherwise the-story-within-the-story.
These stories are often told using meta-art as one of the many literary conventions. However, if you are going for a more classical approach to writing, you should take it out.
Again, such stories tend to be humorous, and meta-art is used as one of the methods to produce this humor.
Do not forget that audience is also an important factor. In this case, let us stick with the critiquing audience. Let''s say, for instance, you want a person to judge your work, which is of the horror genre. Let''s also say that this person has only read and written love novels (and they know only of love novels in terms of rhetoric). Do you believe this person will be a reliable critic of your work? Only in format, perhaps, but not rhetoric.
Additionally, a classical poet, as in a poet who writes poetry in only the classical format (usually with set rhyme schemes, established sound patterns, etc.), would likely think poorly of a poem from the Beat generation. It is likely that he or she would say that the poem is not art; it is only an assortment of words thrown together. They have preconceived notions stuck in their mind concerning the format, the flow, and even the content of poems. Anything that does not remotely follow such will be deemed "bad" or "incorrect."
The same can certainly apply to prose and its many genres.
Remember, simply because a writer is a writer does not necessarily mean he is a suitable critic of the field. The same applies to art and other creative mediums. However, if he or she has established him/herself as being reliable and consistent, then you can place greater confidence in their critique(s). In the same token, you can take my words lightly as well.
One last, ambiguously included note to contemplate: literary authority vs. literary theory.
--------------------
Vol Tare
"Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her[;] but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game." ~ Voltaire
If you are going for the private eye detective type of story, then perhaps you should stick with what you have. Convention-wise, we call what you have done meta-art. It is a modern and experimental convention. Its application here is narrative self-conscious, or otherwise the-story-within-the-story.
These stories are often told using meta-art as one of the many literary conventions. However, if you are going for a more classical approach to writing, you should take it out.
Again, such stories tend to be humorous, and meta-art is used as one of the methods to produce this humor.
Do not forget that audience is also an important factor. In this case, let us stick with the critiquing audience. Let''s say, for instance, you want a person to judge your work, which is of the horror genre. Let''s also say that this person has only read and written love novels (and they know only of love novels in terms of rhetoric). Do you believe this person will be a reliable critic of your work? Only in format, perhaps, but not rhetoric.
Additionally, a classical poet, as in a poet who writes poetry in only the classical format (usually with set rhyme schemes, established sound patterns, etc.), would likely think poorly of a poem from the Beat generation. It is likely that he or she would say that the poem is not art; it is only an assortment of words thrown together. They have preconceived notions stuck in their mind concerning the format, the flow, and even the content of poems. Anything that does not remotely follow such will be deemed "bad" or "incorrect."
The same can certainly apply to prose and its many genres.
Remember, simply because a writer is a writer does not necessarily mean he is a suitable critic of the field. The same applies to art and other creative mediums. However, if he or she has established him/herself as being reliable and consistent, then you can place greater confidence in their critique(s). In the same token, you can take my words lightly as well.
One last, ambiguously included note to contemplate: literary authority vs. literary theory.
--------------------
Vol Tare
"Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her[;] but once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game." ~ Voltaire
Sorry for being non-constructive, but I just want to say that I liked it. It has an original yet likable idea behind it (we all know that Disney and Microsoft are robbing us!), and nice presentation. Go on with your writing.
As for the point of view, in my current piece it jumps from person to person to create comical effect. Sadly, it''s in Russian, so I can''t show it off.
As for the point of view, in my current piece it jumps from person to person to create comical effect. Sadly, it''s in Russian, so I can''t show it off.
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