[Baco Xtath]

Alright, I've been writing.......well, let's leave it at that; I've been writing. My main problem, aside from writing, is that I think I'm going a little heavy on the prose. Now, what I'm submitting below is a little extreme an example but a sample none-the-less. Please, tell me what you think; it's not edited but it's near what I'd intended (there are some obvious blemishes that jump out and those I'll sleep on for a better substitute).


Boats rocked and swayed with arrhythmic agitation, their masts heaving like a forest confused by a confusing wind, the lines and stays whipped by booms and masts became a cacophony of bells and symbols like an army of amateur musicians arbitrarily clanging their tunes. Fishing boat thrown wake marked the hours as readily as the sun and moons, though the last light of the sun was long past its inspiring farewell leaving the two moons to argue for the sky. The harbor's jingle and moan were all that denied silence, minus the soft roll of breaking wake against the rocked and rumbled shore. As many as a third of the docked boats doubled as homes, giving the harbor the spirit of a house, the boats rooms and their occupants, family. The rooms of this house varied from lavish to lazy, titanic to dinghy, the only constant being inconsistency; a visual jumbled jungle of watercraft of every make and model and a few bastards with origins none could name. Sparse and scattered cabin lights betrayed late siblings, their scene one of drink and story, retold and redrunk redundantly though without any depreciation of vigor from the listeners nor the sellers.
A lone swaying figure staggered down the rocking walk between the swelling and falling rooms of the harbor house, familiar with each and every bobbing one, his feet and eyes comfortable and accustomed with the unsteady scene. A late night drink or ten paired with as many stories pushed his sleep later than usual, though eased it with a mother's rocking cradle. Fishing boats leaving for the outer shoals were now departing marking the hour as late, his watch or need of one, a memory barely memorable.
A rising tempo of the line and stay orchestra warned the man of the coming quake and so he stilled himself to await the wake. The harbor's speed zones were low, though the occasional dick still drove well above it, careless of the marinas' inhabitants and their loose possessions and breakables. The increased wakes were fairly frequent though rarely too troublesome with their mild jostling and jouncing. Larger ones that would be chased with curses and threats were rarer still and would be swarmed with combined lawsuits for every imaginable thing the inhabitants could pass as probable ranging from broken plates to stressed cleats and blemished hulls, deterring others from such mindless driving by word of mouth and paper.
The man's blurred gaze locked on the harbor mouth, scanning for moving lights that would betray the offending ship and its heading. Between the dancing lights of the boat forest, he picked out an absence of light, a darkened shadow that moved. The cacophony rose in agitation, boats slamming into docks and cursing yells in the distance as the boat's wake met its first victims.

[JLV]

I think complicated prose can be compelling, but I'm really not a fan of multiple descriptions using and.

But maybe that's just me. Oh, and you REALLY should write some epic poetry. I enjoy the alliteration, but it distracted me a bit.

Your voice was compelling, at least to me. But I was distracted a bit by the alliteration and the use of and frequently.

[Sinisdar Toste]

quite thick... is what i'm looking for. sometimes it approaches a neat flow of effusive verbosity, but it mostly seems clunky. it was interesting and poetic though, as JLV says. you seem to be riding the line between poetry and prose pretty hard, which is interesting, and could be great if you smoothed it out.

[Baco Xtath]

That line between poetry and prose and just plain awkward is usually where I find myself. It's something I'm working on and hopefully, one day, I can find a suitable marriage. I took a creative writing course in college about 15 years ago, so I'm a little rusty. But I have been writing poetry for almost 20 years now so my stuff definitely leans that way.

Here are two more excerpts from my books, different ones, each flowery. I think I can get away with it if I pull a Kruppe and have my character say it (the first except) but it's a little tougher when I have my narrator say it (though it is in the first person - second excerpt).




The voice was music and his words a song.
"Where might I go, oh sir, kind, may be, that to see, I wish the madam of not low but lee? The high of house, thou art of service of one, to see I must, for sayings of trust and mouse nor me may squander the ticks of the clock I wish to speak, to unlock a quandary, a leak of stock. A simple word or many, what pleases I'll pleasure. So, I bid thee good morrow, and pray entrance, unhindered so none shall sorrow."
The voice was melodic, hypnotic. The doorman stared, entranced.
Finally, seeing that the young man was finished talking and had apparently asked a question, the doorman said, "What?" Seeing the hilariously dressed young man's nonplussed expression, he lifted his radio. "Hey Barret, there's some guy down here talking...well, different. You wanna come down and check this out?"
"Do what?" came from the radio.
"Persons of possible interest. Requesting superior examination and ....well, advice on what the hell you want me to do."
"Alright. Be right there."
The doorman turned back to the strangely dressed man. "My boss will be down in a second to talk to you. I can't just let any rhyming fellow waltz in, see. And regardless, your dog won't be allowed in"
"Seeing's sawn, said sight seen. I bend to winds blown and bow to said sight. Might be a slight, a dirk in the dark, an adder in the night. Adders strike unseen, but when seen and allowed said strike, those that might've sighted and stopped, yet dropped, nay fumbled such an omen, are cried at and shied from, regardless of intentions. Understanding is my standing and I'll stand with patience." the man finished with a deep bow.
Barret arrived after a short time, spoke with the man, and called Maia and Daniel down.
"I've searched the guy; he's unarmed." he told them. "But, something about his demeanor tells me he doesn't necessarily need weapons to be harmful. Anyway, his intentions seem harmless enough. It's his speech that's got me curious. It's like old Milson. This guy could come right out'a one of his plays. I mean, all of its there. The same vocabulary, tempo, rhyming, stanza. He's King fuck'n Nemioa."
Daniel, before Maia could say yay or nay, walked forward and spoke. "From whence and how, why and since, now senses say, nay beg a meaning, this meeting of tongue long departed, long dreamed, the seams of moons and seasons are many. Far, far too many to hear this and see thy companion, the lookers, and seers, sees peers long sought long, long forgotten. And missed." Daniel paused, regarding the dog. "Thy friend, your bearer?"
"Ai, cuddled and milked by teats by sides. Tides and moons, my heart stands truer, though I try. For palaver, five times tried and as many missed, missed and fallen, my hopes lay, and lie, and try I try, yet trying's tried, so tired I shied from hoping. This is wondrous, an omen, a caught feather, fairer weather promised from such a find." The boy's face lit up at Daniel's speech and his answer was rushed like a song's crescendo. "To answer, and lay forth, as naked as new, I wear the wear of the lands of high, the misted, the sky'd, the life beyond the monolith. A day and it's night thrice, by flight, as fast as fast can, I've traveled, my heart followed, I marveled, though I knew her worth, to see...oh, to see my beautiful heart beat at its pace, and raced as I, she on land and myself through the sky. I knew, though never saw, so true, the raw power she holds and has held, as holding's must. Both, we are weary, clearly traveled and tried, but, yes, the why."
The young man halted, realizing he'd skirted the question. He thought for a moment before continuing in a much more solemn tone. It was like a sad song, not danced to but grieved for. "My family is gone as gone can go. An adder in the night, with fangs of fire and wrath beyond my senses. Fire caressed the trees, the homes. Leaves and limbs, undressed by flame and tongue. The forbidden, unbidden and unwanted, unwarranted. A bright new day, to bright to bare. And so none bared and have gone."
The young man stopped, seemingly near tears. "Myself and my heart Walked and so were spared, though cursed seems as apt. And now, answers must answer for the question asked. And I must answer the question in similar fashion."
Daniel nodded solemnly when he had finished speaking. "House's shelter shared, no word, nor need of. Questions will likewise be shared, though the answer's unclear. Please, first, rest needs must, and a name, I beg."
"My name is Ben and my heart is Kelin."

"My fucking head hurts from just listening to that."
"Oh, really, Barret. A little class, a little nostalgic swing and sauce. Was it really so bad?" Maia smirked.
"What was that? Why was that kid talking like that?"
"I have a theory," Daniel said.







and 2



My name is Nethen Prudens and I'm a detective.
Yeah, I know, everyone's a detective these days and it's the faker's chestnut, the crowd call, and, basically, just beaten to fuck'n death, but there it is: I'm a detective.
Well, sometimes I'm also a bounty hunter, a hunter of booty and bodies, malcontents and loot, a hider's seeker and a sneaker's bad fortune when fortune gives me reason.
And...and, I'm an aspiring writer (who isn't?), a story spinning, lie laying, tale turning turner; being a detective and a now and then and then again bounty hunter gives me inspiration, a lie's truth and vice versa...well, stories, at least, though that is the least these have afforded, more have I paid; mugged and robbed by my own devising. I regress. Digress? I'm not great with words but I know I do either at least one not neither if not both. With neon speech and dancing affect, I effect effectively and affectionately often. I know, these days it seems like everyone is a writer, a detective, a digger, and now, with the latest photography craze, a photographer. I'm no dress parrot in need of eyes nor a gossip beggar in need of words. Other fad birds migrate with the seasonal song and blow, but I like what I do so you can all go fuck yourselves.
I make my home and walk in the Shine, a better than broke district in Avareed, the largest and most unknowable ever shifting city in Ukrima, the dick in the dark that'll fuck you quicker than a prepaid whore on blast. My own abode isn't much of speaking, just your hop, leap, and jump above average condo, with sights that'll open throats and legs; an exquisite high rise condo overlooking the city, with panoramic glass walls and my own indoor still-water with cascading falling water. Yeah, that's right, I'm fucking loaded, so suck it if you've a mouth against it. I do all this for fun, most and foremost, but I also do it to keep myself razor, on the ledge, where I must preside. I, unlike most of you, do not have to work or worry. No rent nor boss nor depression can nor will dive to the depths of my purse. Did I tell you I own the building my condo's in? Oh, well, there it is; I own the building my condo's in. How do you like that?
I'm just fuck'n with you, though not about being loaded, I am that, but my word face, my thrown image, you know? I'm not such a prick licker as that, I just play and dance as I will, whether you clap or boo. I'm a detective, I've got hundreds of faces I can flip and juggle and switch with the casual grace a soft wind may play with a fallen leaf or with the sharpness and belligerent indifference of lightning and storm. Yeah, that's right, I'm a poet, a smith of words and their adding and coupling. A lyrical mathematician or word whore, with aggravated tongue and zero ambition. A mouse or a muse, I can amuse or arouse, raise brows or abuse, I just don't give a fuck, and that's why I'm me. The many me's, I should correct.

[Fist Gamet]

For me, a little purple prose, used in the right place at the right time will enhance your work; used excessively, it is just exhausting and will have the opposite effect from the one you seek. Generally speaking, if there is a simple way to write something, then do so. For example, in the first part, do the boats in the dock really deserve that much attention from you? I mean, I know what a crowded harbour looks like, sounds like and pretty much smells like so, as a reader, I don't actually need the flowery description. Give me some, yes, but not so much that I am confused. It is just that if you write too richly, try to hard to be clever and brilliant, you will lose the reader, imho, and I think most advice available on writing will tell you that. Use your creative talents and excellent graps of language, by all means, but sparingly, and for effect - less is sometimes more, and sometimes purple prose can just come across as pretentious, like it or not.

You mentioned your poetic skills (which are evident) so use them, but get clear on the difference between prose and poetry (and what that means to you) if you mean to write a story, and not a poem.

I would just add that the alliterations are jarring and the metaphors (forest, musicians, a house) don't really work together.

Just me thoughts