Anonymous Writing (and Criticising) Group I: Buses, Birds and Blether

As trailed here: Lanz and the Court of Enquiry: a writing group for anonymous authors and nonymous critics

I got three contributions - now to unleash the hounds! This thread is for criticism - what worked, what didn't, what did you hate? No obligation to be nice; but do be constructive.

16 BUS BLUES
by Marion de la Ware

One at five-to-nine, one at around five-past, one before twenty past, we’ll be sound
Where d’you see that?
I’m extrapolating
Oh, he’s extrapolating, mind

We squinted a little harder, but the timetable stood firm. Indeed, it is hard to say that even had the vague hopes behind the collective squint borne fruit, we would have been in any better a position, given the lack of any obvious correlation between the printed promise and the busless reality.

Are we under any pressure?
Couldn’t be. Flight’s not til eleven
Means gate at half ten latest
Should be fine, I’m telling ye
He’s extrapolating again
He is, surely

We idled the time we didn’t have away by attempting to express the problem in mathematical terms. If a bus leaves a depot 40 minutes away every eight minutes, what is the longest period of time one should have to wait at any given stop?

Having satisfied ourselves as to the theoretically unquestionable solution, we then consider it through prisms of geography, religion and philosphy in turn to try to explain why the suggested flurry of transportation options might fail to manifest. In the end, politics and economics were held equally culpable for the phenomenon of the none-every-eight-minutes bus.

Half past, it was agreed, would mark a point of no return. A lift would be called, a passing cab would be hailed, we would bribe the next three cyclists, anything.

Yellow/blue-liveried salvation hove juddering into view at twenty nine minutes and three seconds past.

Be tight now at this stage. We’d better ask him before we get on

How long to the airport?
No idea
No idea?
No idea, he confirms. Already enjoying himself.
Could you guess?
I couldn’t
No idea at all?
None
This is the airport bus?
It is
Well how long, for instance, did it take yesterday?
No point in asking, sure today’s not yesterday

He shows, I note, a finer grasp of relative timekeeping than did the individual tasked with drafting the damned schedules.

Will we make ten thirty? Stoically delivered, though I say it myself.
Could be any time. 
Well, I suppose we’ll have to just chance it anyway

We pay. He calls out over his shoulder as we tackle the stairs-

I’ve to be gone out’ve the airport again by quarter to eleven, mind. We’ll have to get there before then I suppose.  His face a study in innocence.

He has to wait on pulling out to allow two buses past.

You couldn’t write it, we agree. You could write it, but they’d only laugh at you.

SAIGON
by Ines Andreu

Danny was coming past the tube when he heard a shout behind him.  A tall man with dark blond hair in a crew cut and thick black glasses was racing towards him, thrusting out a hand.  It took a moment to recognize him as Rob.

‘Alright Dan! What are you doing here?’ he shouted.

They shook hands. Danny pumped for a moment then felt weak and limp, unwilling to have his fingers twisted. Rob had stayed in Leeds for the summer.  He was carrying a leather record bag and wearing a padded corduroy car coat against the cold.

Danny put his hands back in his tracky bottoms.  ‘Alright Rob.’

‘I’m glad I ran into you Dan, I wasn’t sure I was going to get the chance.’

He moved within a tight compass, a bundle of healthy energy.  Danny was a child for a moment, cowering while his dad boxed above him, even though they were the same height.  Rob’s shoes were different as well, blocky, so that maybe Danny’s Samba did give away half an inch.  He wondered if this was how little Jake perceived things, lying on the floor.

‘Shall we get a coffee? Is there a Starbucks around here?’

They looked around.  The row of shops opposite boasted a hairdresser’s, two kebab shops, a chinese restaurant that Danny had never noticed before, something with no sign and a curtain, and a pub.

‘Fancy a pint?’

‘Nah,’ said Rob.  ‘Let’s get a coffee. Come on.’

He tried the door of the restaurant.

‘You can’t go in there.  For a coffee.’

‘’Course you can!’

A tiny woman came out from the back.

‘Are you open?  Can we get a coffee?’

‘A coffee?’  She pronounced the word as if she’d never heard it before.

‘Any drink, it doesn’t matter.’

‘I give you green tea.’

‘Yeah ‘s great – two green teas.’

The room was bare, like a cross between a front room and an office.  Photographs of lush watery countryside were the only decoration, apart from an elaborate porcelain creature on a table at the back, part butterfly, part something like an elephant.  The woman returned with a vase and some tired flowers.

‘Two green tea yes.’

‘Please.’

Rob lounged against the wall, his legs over the seat beside him, taking it in. ‘I love this,’ he said.  ‘It’s so Spartan.  You can’t even tell what it is, it could be a prison waiting room.’

‘Visiting rooms have got all the furniture screwed down.’

The woman brought the tea, weak green water steaming in two bowls.  She placed a receipt on the table.  £1.90.

‘Could I see a menu please?  Have you got any, like, small desserts or biscuits or something?’

‘No dessert.’

‘Can I get a menu anyway?’  She scuttled off.

Rob looked all round and above, his head swinging in a wide arc.  ‘I just want to see what kind of place this is.  It’s amazing you can come in here and order stuff and still you’ve got no idea.’

‘It’s a Chinese innit?’

‘You could be right mate, you could be right.  Listen, were you at the game today?’

‘Nah, couldn’t get a ticket.’

‘It was only Middlesbrough.  I could’ve got you one.’

‘Were you there?’

Rob only laughed.  ‘Nah.’

‘What you down for?’

‘Just seeing my mum.  No, what am I saying, it’s for the music, man.  I’m playing with a band tonight.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.  Do you remember Clive?  I’m playing with his band tonight.  Just a rehearsal.  But it should be fun.’

‘Yeah I know Clive.’

‘’Course you do, I’m forgetting.  I introduced you didn’t I?  D’you see him much?’

The woman returned with the menus and put down a couple of fortune cookies.  Rob put down a handful of coins.

‘I was supposed to be playing with him tonight,’ said Danny.  ‘I’m in a band with him.’

‘That’s great.  Good guy.’

‘Yeah we play over in Dalston.’

‘Get out of it, we’ll be jamming together. You better give me some room bro!’

They both played guitar.  Danny had introduced Rob to it at school.  Rob was never much good at it to be honest – you got good by putting in the hours at night in your room – but he could chop chords and he looked good and knew people, and evetually it paid off when he couldn’t keep up with Clive when he moved away and Danny got the nod to fill in.

Danny looked down and shook his head.  ‘I can’t make it tonight, I got babysitting.  I didn’t know you was coming, you should have said.’

‘God, I’m forgetting.  How’s the kid?  Is it born yet?’

‘A month. Liane said she met your mum’

‘Yeah yeah. What’s the name, remind me?’

‘Jake.’

‘That’s brilliant.  I’ll need to drop by.’

‘You can come up now if you like.’

Rob was looking closely at the menu.  ‘It’s Vietnamese I think.  Look at this.’  He pointed at the menu: ‘“Steamed cobbler at chestnuts.” It’s a fish you only get in Vietnam.  I might be going there next year.  It’s meant to be amazing.’

‘What would you want to go there for?  Ain’t it all, I dunno?’  Danny let the thought hang.

‘Yeah maybe.  You got to check it out though.  A mate of mine’s been all through Asia, he said it was the best after Cambodia.’

‘What’s that then?’

Rob was reading out the menu.  ‘I love this, you get words in English you don’t even know, then on the same line they get ‘with’ or ‘in’ wrong.’

‘I dunno why you’d want to have a Vietnam restaurant round here,’ said Danny.  ‘If I were them I’d just call it a Chinese, everyone likes Chinese.’

‘No no no, it’s totally different.  You ever eaten Thai?  Thai is totally different.  This girl I’ve been seeing is an excellent cook, she makes Thai curries.  Really spicy, you’d love it.’

‘Nah thanks.  I’ll get myself a kebab sometimes but that’s it basically.’

‘There’s a Japanese place on campus at Leeds.  You think it’s all raw fish but it’s not really, they do all kinds of stuff.  You’d like that.’

The tea was like drinking water after you’d boiled potatoes.  Danny looked around for sugar but there was nothing except salt and a square bottle of some kind of amber oil.  ‘So how come you’re playing with Clive tonight then?’

‘He asked me, no reason.  Just ‘cos I’m around I guess.’

‘How’d he know you was around?’

‘I saw him a few weeks ago.  I was down for the Fluxus exhibition.  Did you go?  It was excellent.’

‘Come on up.’

Rob checked his watch and threw down a couple of coins.  ‘I dunno, I said I’d get dinner with my mum, she might have started already.’

‘It’ll only be for a minute.  He’ll be getting his dinner himself in a minute.’

‘I don’t want to disturb him.  Another time, eh?’

The woman came out now and gathered up the menus. ‘You no want nothing?’

Rob became all charming suddenly.  ‘No, it was lovely, thank you.  We’ll come back another time.’

She smoothed down the tablecloth and straightened the chairs, erasing all trace of them.

Oh hey.

Fwiw i v much like the second piece, idg the third but i am an admittedly impatient reader

First is too wordy, too pleased with itself and the last line partic needed leaving out

i take it that's you then

it's v myles. the formatting of the speech bothers me a little, maybe use periods instead of line breaks. or give them new paragraphs with the same weight as the actual new paragraphs. or whatever.

jump into present tense bad idea.

i like it though! is this part of a longer thing or is this just a thing

I hate thinking of different words for said tbh. thanks for thoughts. it's something i jotted down as an entry for a 400 word contest celebrating myles last year and because i'd not written creatively since english paper ii in 1999. Not part of anything more, tho fwiw it is p much 100% actual occurrence

if you were aiming for myles then job well done i reckon. any luck in the contest?

They printed the best twelve or so, ms mac hastily agreed that all were pure shite

I read the Myles entries to the Irish Times contest if that is the contest you mean

Thats the one, they werent all really shite obv

But it was a small kindness on her behalf and i was grateful

The winning 3 or so were OK as I recall

Was there one about a cow that i liked, there was i think.

does anyone else have anything to say about any of these pieces of writing, i ask as a totally disinterested party

I liked all 3 fwiw but my critical faculties are weak at the best of times & I have a ruinous hangover so I don't have anything of use to say, I just wanted to bump this thread because I want this to continue.

2nd one is especially good; darraghmac's most appealing to my particular sensibilities, myles as a reference point goes some way towards explaining that. Bookmarking this thread in the hope that some of the ILB big hitters will show up to eviscerate you offer their constructive criticism

i am waiting for ismael to drop his pose of imperial detachment and weigh in

Ha, okay - I was going to remain aloof, but I'll do just one at the moment, ere it gets late:

De La Ware

- this is good; a short, punchy scenario, ideal for the form
- but the narrator's doing too much; e.g. telling us that the driver's the picture of innocence - you could show us instead, build up the picture; there aren't many physical details in the story
- these jokey asides ('oh, he's extrapolating, mind') are, not getting in the way exactly, but not doing anything beyond establishing the narrator as a guy who repeats other people's words; which is a character trait, but not one that anything particularly happens with
- the other people there, I don't get a feel for at all; it could be just one person waiting, were it not for the dialogue, but the dialogue isn't between different voices; you're missing an opportunity here, is there tension between them? something at stake? There could be a secondary, even primary, storyline to bring to life with only a few brushstrokes (apologies if it's there and I'm missing it, btw)
- I like the kind-of-maths theme, you can have a lot of fun with that; but a couple of the sentences are too long for me to follow in one go, which I felt diluted their gag impact
- the dialogue itself is great, just what you want with each line flowing from the last; I hate when I have to count back and check who's talking now - no such problem here
- lose the last sentence or two; the punchline is too brazen

Ya i asked the guy i emailed to do that when i mailed it

JUST SAYIN

Fucking hell! A thousand apologies, but it was nearly a month ago.

The officialese in the second one put me off initially; I've read a lot of lit that uses a similar register as a dabbling pretence at playing with narrative and form, but without ever being brave enough to try something of its own. However, on second reading I like this a lot. The voice is consistent, and although you can foresee the general pattern of narrative it keeps up a tension re: exactly what it is that will transpire. Also, kids are horrible and I like stories about how kids are horrible. I'm easy to please on that score.

There are a few things that I'm not sure about. This is probably a bad, quibbling example, but the first one I can see: Supply admits possibly this was in error - this is a strange way of putting it, surely it should be 'supply admits this was possibly in error', but... is this consistent with the slight mangling of English that such reports produce anyway? As far as I can see it's a toss-up as to whether this could be edited or if it's intentional.

Beckmann

- I didn't like this initially; it's difficult to read because of the register; while this is entirely apt, it'd maybe benefit from breaking up the longer sentence structures, at least in the first couple of paragraphs
- but emil.y's otm re plotting; this is really well handled, each paragraph revealing something new and also posing a new question; it keeps the mind working as it unfolds
- there's too much attention paid to the other characters; I felt this diluted the focus; obviously you need their presence, but do we need their names? Initials might have suited better; alternatively, underline 'supply' and 'child in question'; particularly 'supply', as it's odd to see it as a proper noun if you're not from the milieu; I was having to work it out on each of the first few uses, which blunts such a compact piece
- especially when 'child in question' isn't named consistently, or even capitalised, throughout; the eye is drawn away from him/her to the others, which kind of fits the chaos; but on the other hand, it means more work in flicking back to see if it's the same individual being referred to; unlike the questions you're posing, this isn't useful engagement for the reader
- I'd question some of the vocabulary; 'charivari' for example - great word, but does it belong here?

Andreu

- this is a bit flabby; I like the attempt to sketch a character or scene with a few details, but they need to be sharp; 'dark blond hair in a crew cut and thick black glasses' doesn't signify particularly much - the glasses might, but the rest is dead space; 'padded corduroy car coat against the cold' similarly, it could be done with one or two words, if the idea is to set it against the tracky bottoms
- on this note, some of the brand names work - samba is a recognisable thing, again if the idea is setting the outfits apart - but why Fluxus, why Middlesbrough?
- what's the relationship here? Rob's a student clearly, and a bit pretentious, but what is Danny? He seems resistant somehow, but it's not clear - something about the band?
- the restaurant is described well I thought; sketched with a few details, not overdone; you could've done more with the waitress; she's pretty minor, but could've been used more to expose the two main characters
- the dialogue's fine, but could've been stretched more; it's like they're shadow boxing, but no direct hits; maybe throw it into some more personal territory

I never saw this whole project before, just bookmarked thread now. Good idea, keep it up everyone!

there's too much attention paid to the other characters; I felt this diluted the focus; obviously you need their presence, but do we need their names?

I think I disagree with this - the names are well chosen, very indicative of class and relative cultural positioning.

Here's a surprise - an extra contribution that arrived after the deadline. This came with the explanation that it's the first part of a short story, so should be assessed as such, I guess. I don't know whether it's an extract, or the rest remains to be written.

Bullet
by Henry Obasanje

Bedded down in Wranglers, cushioned by the short stiff grass that pricked through the snow. He would have been settled down in the first scooped depressions of the valley, a fat icicle of blood coming from the top of his skull. The icicle would hang like a tusk, as if the air that day had cushioned and frozen it solid in the milliseconds after the bullet pushed its way out of the top of his skull. The withered and cracked .270 Winchester bullet would be embedded in its tip. I imagined the old man’s truck up the rise of the valley, the black F150 with its inverted Flames front plate left on the wrong side of the grid road. He’d leave the door open. Maybe he'd finish his work there, fix himself, brush bloody snow off the back of his head and climb back up into the cab. He’d turn up the radio, staunch the trickle of blood with a handful of blue shop rags, drive back to us and be right again until the next time. But he laid there and an RCMP truck drove by and saw him dead and frozen.

I drove out to the valley that summer, trying to figure it out. I never asked the RCMP shit. I thought I’d figure it out myself. I bought a map and a tin of Cope at a Mohawk outside Saskatoon. Drove west.  

I imagined what the bullet looked like after it traveled through his skull and popped up out of the top of his head. In the fall, we'd go out in the old man’s white Ford, the ‘89 with the rusted brush guard, and patrol those same grid roads and fire the same bullets. The first time I shot a white tail, we gutted it in a ditch and the old man found the bullet trapped between two of the deer’s ribs. There were stiff nearly transparent wires of fur trapped in its wrinkles, glued in with clotted blood. I kept it in the left front pocket of my work jacket, taking it out and leaving it on my bedside table before I did a load of laundry, making sure I put it right back in after. 

The bullet stayed in my pocket and the old man went into the ground. The trucks went to auction.

His stepson, Evan, drove back home to Estevan in the spring and started telling people he was going to shoot himself, too, and they put him in the hospital. I never bothered to go see him. He seemed fine at Janie's wedding. I made a point of talking to him, taking him aside for a drink, stepping out back of the hall to hack dart and talk some bullshit about the old man. Melinda called to tell me what was happening and I heard the baby crying somewhere in the background. I told her that she had to be strong and I told her, Evan's a good kid. He’ll get his shit sorted out. 

It was early May, when Evan was still breathing dusty air conditioning on a pysch ward, slackjawed on klonazepam. I wanted to see the spot the old man chose. He used to farm there, but, far as I knew, he never took anyone down for a look. This was sacred ground for him, the place the old man lived with his first wife. She died with a crop in the ground and the kids too young for him to know what to do with. He was ruined by it. He took up with the first broad that came over to look after his kids during harvest, and married her. 

I slowed down, put the truck in neutral. I didn't know where he stopped, how long he sat there. All the powder and stone and dust of the road swept back down on me out of the truck’s halted wake when I opened the door. I leaned my forearms against the black hot plastic that ran along the top of the box. I reached into my back pocket, into the inner pouch worn by goldrimmed tins of Cope. I pulled the tin out, the edge of the pocket rolling over cut up knuckles and the tooth puncture on the back of my hand. 

My hands were still fucked up from a few nights ago, the Beer Hunter with Joey and the boys. Some cunt asked us to step outside. My boys are beauties, though. Smitty dummied the guy and put his face on the sidewalk. I grabbed his buddy. Cut up my hands a bit. That’s it. We drank a mickey of Golden Wedding in his truck, smoked a half pack of Next Reds, and went back inside. I think that's what the old man taught me. I don’t know. He told me about getting the shit beat out of him by rockers in Van for wearing Wranglers and cowboy boots back when he was driving truck.   

I twisted the lid off the tin and set it on the roof of the cab. Late morning prairie sun was beating down already, lighting up all the chrome on the old truck. I balanced the tin on the rim of the box and took a four fingered pinch of dip, the sun's heat radiating back at me from the metallic red paint. 

This is where the old man chose. I pulled my lips back in a smile to squeeze out the first press of nicotine and spit in the dust. It was a fucking beautiful spot, though. Nobody was farming it and the land had been reclaimed by tall grass. There was a slough a little ways down the valley, sitting low after a hot summer, ringed by cracked mud, deposed muskrat huts and dried out cattails. The old man's blood was on this land long before that day he laid down in the snow and set the rifle on his belly.

I spit in the dust. There was a van pulling down the gravel road now, easing past me, a Hutterite man in a camouflage Case cap at the wheel. I reached a finger into my lip, moved the plug to the left and squeezed my lips back against it. I took the bullet out of the back pocket of my jeans. I felt it under me the whole way there. The blood in its jagged metal fins and burnt out cracks had long ago been sweated and wiped clean. I walked across the road, into the ditch, stuck my leg over what was left of a barbwire fence. The old man probably put that fence here.

...

After he was gone, the first night, after Janie called me and said, "We found him," Matsuko wanted me to go with her down the hallway to the bathroom when she had to pee. She was worried about his ghost. I started laughing and I cried for the first time. If the old man ended up as a ghost-- that was the funniest fucking thing I could imagine. His brother was a Southern Alberta fire and brimstone Baptist preacher and the old man never had much time for anything he couldn’t put his own two rough hands on. I'd love to see that old bastard as a ghost. 

Matsuko fell asleep and I found her crying in the morning. When we lived together, they both got up early. She was jetlagged and would fall asleep on the couch in the living room at around the same time he did. In the morning, they'd sit together in the living room, smoke their first cigarettes on the balcony, watching the sun coming up over the river valley. She said the way the light came through the window in the morning in winter reminded her of him. For the next few months, she spoke of him with sad reverence, quoted things he had said in the last few weeks. When she got a stomach ache, she told me, "He had stomach problems, you know, before he died."
...

i like the last line a lot

it seems to me like this would be better by approximately 66% immediately on being put into the third person. -- that one doesn't, normally, catch oneself reaching into the indentation worn into one's pocket by one's tobacco, or "taking a four-fingered pinch" of same. one just grabs one's tobacco and gums it. -- and so (unless the narrator is meant to be trying very very hard to convince himself he is the type of person that does this sort of thing) it just comes across laid on a little thick.

i feel like there's a very heavy density of incident here but i don't know what the through-line of the narrative is. depending on what the rest of the story does this may or may not be okay.

pushing down the 'concrete detail' pedal a little too hard.

the first paragraph needs fixing. sentence one is a fragment and sentences two and three are conditionals in different tenses. "i imagined the old man's truck" drops us into simple past quite awkwardly when the rest of the paragraph save the last sentence is all conditionals again.

I liked it. There's a strong cormac mccarthy sense to it, in his lighter moods perhaps.

'Cunt' doesnt convince, indeed it jars badly. There's the other odd placement, but i'm not sure i dislike the first person perspective at all.

Btw, reading the rest of the thread, i feel i got off v lightly

What 'Bullet' does better than the others is lock you into its world. It's very sensual - all heat and light and taste. These details are good, they point strongly to repulsion and abrasion, from the short, stiff grass in the first sentence. Too much? I'd say not. Maybe there's the odd unnecessary word - glued in with *clotted* blood - but there're other things to think about than tautology; metre for example. *River* valley, that's unnecessary.

I agree with thomp about the first para, tensewise it's a mess. Which is a distraction from the sharp image you're setting out. For example, it's not clear that you're describing a single scene; my first reaction was that these were three related fragments, a panorama of the setting that was going to be revealed as the action happens.

Maybe there are too many characters introduced all at once. The ones after the break are fine; evidently these are the people your guy's closest to. But Joey, Evan or Melinda - I don't get a sense of who's going to be significant and who's not.

i think ppl are being ?greedy? in their criticism at times, unless it's an agreed standard that each short piece must give you exactly the detail you're looking for. i didn't mind the mention of the names without much further context, done right it adds a richness or depth imo.

admittedly, i dont understand the criticism of mine on the narrator voice or the confusion btwn characters all that thoroughly, i'm happy to put that down to my being there and your not.

this seems as good a place as any to post the long poem I've been working on...

er, here's another link, cuz I might've just broken that one trying to make revisions https://docs.google.com/file/d/0BzQXoTlQlvc5MnhKd3lHRk9PYWc/edit?usp=sharing

... anyone? anyone at all??

this is the thread for criticism of anonymous work

"I LOVE WRITING" MAIDEN VOYAGE appendix: self-appointed and unwieldy meisterwerks

*thx u* too lazy to use search function

PS are there plans for another AWCG at this point?

Lookit not our fault we nailed the podium spots, poor show, poor show

I was wondering. What do you reckon?

I'm trying to have a think about what worked and what didn't. Four pieces was what I'd been hoping for, but it didn't attract as much passing criticism as I'd hoped. I wonder if anonymity might actually be a hindrance to that - if nobody's explaining/defending a piece, maybe the conversation can't really get going.

Fair point. The myles one was perfect, what the fuck are ye on about

hm, i thought i owned up to mine

lg looking for a continuation of this imo

it will be incredibly easy to tell which pieces are by me (and not just due to their general lack of quality...)

but also for their cloying false modesty, ugh

haha... f u

i was taking the open goal away from someone else

Real writers would never squabble like this, but let's give it a go anyway. I'll see if I can remember how it worked and say submissions by the 31st.

have at it: Anonymous Writing Group II: submissions thread, deadline 31 October