A little about myself...

I write for the joy of writing, even when it is not such a joy. I did not read well effectively until the age of thirteen, where upon I devoured Sci-Fi and Fantasy at an alarming rate. The dam, as it were, had broken. Later I moved on to other genres, from the ancient classics on up to modern new publishings. I am not a literature or english major, or anything of the ilk. I have an artist mind, and I let my imagination roam around like bison on the plains. I am not well versed in grammar and punctuation. A take spelling a word I don't know a as a special challenge to be creative, and hopefully at least phonetic. Tense, person, and other particulars often ellude me. It's a joy to realize one's faults.

This said, I also tend to enjoy the sight of my own script, and so, if anyone is kind enough to puruse my material, feel free to get out your editor's scalpal, and cut away the cancerous chaff of my hyperbole. Thank you.

So here is a small exerpt my serial pulp driven cerebrum.

Sunshine In Shade

Chapter 1 Long Walk's Short Pier

Young, beautiful, and damn deadly with a gun. That was her, a goddess of sex and death incarnate. At the moment, she was down deep in her element.
A hulking man, his face a mask of shock with a gaping hole in his torso hurled through the air, and smashed through the glassteel window with such force that his body pulped as its impact shattered the near unbreakable pane into thousands of tinkling shards. In the sharp October sun, the crystalline slivers, glazed bloody red, sparkled round the dead man in lethal constellations, as he soared out in the lazy arch of his final plunge toward the pollution hazed street more than a mile below.

quote:

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At the moment, she was down deep in her element. A hulking man, his face a mask of shock with a gaping hole in his torso...

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Thanks for your advice. Really. However, this might not be your cup of tea. Yes, it is quick and jarring, sort of cyberpunk. It's meant to be unsettling. I don't want to focus on character, it's about situation and action. I want people to ask questions, Who are these individual? What's going on? Why am I reading this tripe? Etc, etc, etc. but you do bring up good points. I'll think them over. Thanks again for your impute.

Another bit. I wrote this piece as a novel or serial. Usually there is hook on the jacket or forepage, and a little charater development to snag the reader. On a serial chapter there's ussually a one liner slug above the story chapter to draw a reader in, but agian this material may not be for every body, but if you want to read more, Yanos, I'd be delight to shot you over a chapter copy, and you can give me an editorial beat down.

To Blade Of Words,

I think I'm hitting your demographic here, bro. I think you understand the genre and style I'm shooting for. Their names aren't important as of yet, it's that viseral, even replusive feeling, like looking at a bad car wreck, that I'm going toward. But I did get your attention, and peak your interset. Be honest, or am I way off base? Yeah, It's fast. Very, very fast. Wanna read more?

To Survivor,

What? Restraint? Good Taste? Talent?

Possibly. However, my friend, I got you asking questions, didn't I? Want them answered? You know the drill.

To Mary Robinette,

POV? Do you mean whose? As I said in my original post, Person sometimes get the better of me. I think this is in third person semi-omniscient, or something like that. Read on, and find out, but WARNING! this writing is not for the faint of heart. As Blade Of Words so cleverly discovered, I am adevotee of Quentin Tarantino, so be prapared.

I appreciate your help, my friend. However long it takes you, is however long it takes you. Give me a day and I'll send you the first chapter, if you want to read more, you'll let me know. Thanks again.

MS Word attachment, please!

Chapter I - Long Walk's Short Pier

Young, gorgeous, and the girl was damn deadly with a gun. That was her, a goddess of sex and death incarnate. At the moment, with blazing, golden pistols in each hand, and blood raging in her ice blue, brittle eyes, she was down deep in her element.

A hulking man, his face a mask of shock, was jerked off his like he was hit by a maglev train, as she blasted a gaping hole in his torso. The man's broken husk hurled through the air, and smashed through the glassteel window with such force that his body pulped, as its impact shattered the nearly unbreakable pane into thousands of tinkling shards. In the sharp October sun, the crystalline slivers, glazed bloody red, sparkled round the dead man in lethal constellations, as he soared out in the lazy arch of his final plunge toward the pollution hazed street more than a mile below.

Through the broken window, a high, cool wind rushed in, and whipped around the vast, opulently appointed room, as sudden, horrible violence erupted in a maelstrom within the mile high penthouse.

And I can always use readers, folks. Thanks.

WP