More like too curious for my own good lol. I tried to take into account everyone's critique. I know it's not perfect (just a first draft I read through for typos, of which I'm sure there are some lol), but I thought it might help Panda understand that if s/he stops taking critique as criticism, his/her writing could improve.
He kept to fifty-five miles an hour, and everyone else was speeding. The girl sat straight up now, nearly facing him on the seat. For long periods she had been quiet, simply watching him drive. Soon they were going to need gas; they had less than half a tank.
“Look at those people speeding,” she said. “We’re the only ones obeying the speed limit. Look at them.”
“Do you want me to speed up?”
“I think they ought to get tickets for speeding, that’s what I think. Sometimes I wish I were a policeman.”
“Look,” James said, “we’re going to need gas pretty soon.”
“No, let’s just run it until it quits. We can always hitch a ride with somebody.”
“This car’s got a great engine.” James said. “We might have to outrun the police, and I wouldn’t want to do that in any other car.”
“This old thing? It’s got a crack in the windshield. The radio doesn’t even work.”
“Right. But it’s a fast car. It’ll outrun a police car.”
She put one arm over the seat back and looked out the rear window.. “You really think the police are chasing us?”
“They might be,” he said.
She stared at him a momen. “No. There’s no reason. Nobody saw us.”
“But if somebody did--this car, I mean, it’ll go like crazy.”
“I’m afraid of speeding, though,” she said. “Besides, you know what I found out? If you run slow enough, the cops go right past you. Right on past you, looking for somebody who’s in a hurry. No, I think it’s best if we just let it run until it quits and then get out and hitch.”
James thought he knew what might happen when the gas ran out: she would make him push the car to the side of the road, and then she would walk him back into the cactus brush there, and when they were far enough from the road, she would shoot him. He knew this as if she had spelled it all out, and he began again to try for the cunning he would need. “Harleen,” he said. “Why don’t we lay low for a few days in Albuquerque?”
“Is that an obscene gesture?” she asked.
“No!” he said, almost shouted. “No! That’s--it’s outlaw talk. You know. Hide out from the cops--lay low. It’s--it’s jail talk.”
“Well, I’ve never been to jail.”
“That’s all I meant.”
“You want to hide out.”
“Right,” he said.
“You and me?”
“You--you asked if I wanted to join up with you.”
“Did I?” She seemed puzzled by this.
“Yes,” he said, feeling himself press a little.. “Don’t you remember?”
“I guess I do.”
“You did,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“Harleen Quinzel had a gang,” he said.
“She did?”
“I could be the first member of your gang.”
She sat there thinking this over. James’ blood moved at the thought that she was deciding whether or not he would live. “Well,’ she said, “maybe.”
“You’ve got to have a gang, Harleen.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
A moment later she said, “How much money do you have?”
“I have enough to start a gang.”
“It takes money to start a gang?”
“Well--” He was at a loss.
“How much do you have?”
He said, “A few hundred.”
“Really?” she said. “That much?”
“Just enough to--just enough to get to Nevada.”
“Can I have it?”
He said, “Sure.” He was holding the wheel and looking out into the night.
“And we’ll be a gang?”
“Right,” he said.
“I like the idea. Harleen Quinzel and her gang.”
James started talking about what the gang could do, making it up as he went along, trying to sound like the gangster movies he’d seen. He heard himself talking about things like robbery and getaway cars and not getting nabbed and staying out of jail, and then, as she sat there staring at him, he started talking about jail, what it was like. He went on about it, the hours locked up in a cell, the harsh day-to-day routines, the bad food. Before he was through, feeling the necessity of deepening her sense of him as her new accomplice,--and feeling strangely as though in some ways he had indeed become exactly that--he was telling her everything, all the bad times he’d had: his father’s alcoholism, and growing up wanting to hit something for the anger that was in him; the years of getting into trouble; the fighting and the kicking and what it had got him. He embellished it all, made it sound worse than it really was, because she seemed to be going for it and because, telling it to her, he felt oddly sorry for himself; a version of this story of pain and neglect and lonely rage was true. He had been through a lot. And as he finished describing for her the scene at the hospital the last time he saw his father, he was almost certain he had struck a chord in her. He thought he saw it in the rapt expression on her face.
“Anyway,” he said, and smiled at her.
“James?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Can you pull over?”
“Well,” he said, his voice shaking, “why don’t we wait until it runs out of gas?”
She was silent.
“We’ll be that much farther down the road,” he said.
“I don’t really want a gang,” she said. “I don’t like dealing with other people that much. I mean, I don’t think I’m a leader.”
“Oh, yes,” James said. “No--you’re a leader. You’re definitely a leader. I was in a lot of clubs in college and I know leaders, and you are definitely what I’d call a leader.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. You are leadership material all the way.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Definitely.,” he said. “Definitely a leader.”
“But I don’t really like people around, you know.”
“That’s a leadership quality. Not wanting people around. It is definitely a leadership quality.”
“Boy,” she said, “the things you learn.”
He waited. If he could only think himself through to the way out. If he could get her to trust him, get the car stopped--be there when she turned her back.
“You want to be in my gang, huh?”
“I sure do,” he said.
“Well, I guess I have to think think about it.”
“I’m surprised nobody’s mentioned it to you before.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, really.”
“Were you ever married? she asked.
“Married?” he said, and then stammered over the answer. “Ah--uh, no.”
“You ever been in a gang before?”
“A couple times, but--they never had good leadership.”
“You’re giving me a line, huh.”
“No,” he said, “it’s true. No good leadership. It was always a problem.”
“I’m tired, she said, shifting towards him a little. “I’m tired of talking.”
The steering wheel was hurting the inside of his hands. He held tight, looking at the coming-on of the white stripes in the road. There was no other cars now, and not a glimmer of light anywhere beyond the headlights.
“Don’t you ever get tired of talking?”
“I never was much of a talker,” he said.
“”I guess I don’t mind talking as much as I mind listening, she said..
He made a sound in this throat which he hoped she took for agreement.
“That’s just when I’m tired, though.”
“Why don’t you take a nap?” he said.
She leaned back against the door and regarded him. “There's plenty of time for that later.”
I don't get why everyone is making a big deal over this, it's not bad. Sure it's not great but I read a lot worse.
I can't speak for others, but for myself, it's that I took the time to give genuine critique, only to be told that I was being hateful. I also have to admit that it is fun to come to the thread and not only read Red's fan fiction, but the comments attached to it.
Though my critique was genuine, most of this is, at least to my knowledge, just friendly back and forth.
“So, he wanted to say, “you’re not going to kill me--we’re a gang?”
They had gone on for a long time without speaking, an excruciating hour of minutes, during which the gas guage had sunk to just above the empty, and finally she had begun talking about herself, mostly in the third person. It was hard to make sense of most of it, yet he listened as if to instruction concerning how to extricate himself. She talked about growing up in Florida, in the country, and owning a horse; she remembered when she was taught to swim by somebody she called Bill, as if James would know who that was; and then she told him how when her father ran away with her mother’s sister, her mother started having men friends over all the time. “There was a lof of obscene things going on,” she said, and her voice tightened a little.
“Some people don’t care about what happens to their kids,” James said.
“Isn’t that the truth?” she said. Then she took the pistol out of the shawl. “Take this exit.”
He pulled onto the ramp and up an incline to a two-lane road that went off through the desert, toward a glow that burned on the horizon. For perhaps five miles the road was straight as a plumb line, and the it curved into long, low undulations of sand and mesquite and cactus.”
“My mother’s men friends used to do whatever they wanted to me,” she said. “It went on all the time. All sorts of obscene goings-on.”
James said, “I’m sorry that happened to you, Harleen.” And for an instant he was surprised by the sincerity of his feeling: it was as if he couldn’t feel sorry enough. Yet it was genuine: it had to do with his own unhappy story. The whole world seemed very, very sad to him. “I’m really very sorry,” he said.
She was quiet a moment, as if thinking about this. The she said, “Let’s pull over. I’m tired of riding.”
“I’m almost out of gas,” he said.
“I know, but pull it over anyway.”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“See?” she said. “That’s what I mean--I wouldn’t like being told what I should do all the time, or asked if I was sure of what I wanted or not.”
He pulled the car over and slowed to a stop. “You’re right, he said. “See?” Leadership. I’m just not use to somebody with leadership qualities.”
She held the gun a little toward him. He was looking at the small, dark, perfect circle at the end of the barrel. “I guess we should get out,: she said.
“I guess so, “ he said.
“Do you have any relatives left anywhere?”
“No.”
“Your folks are both dead?”
“Right, yes.”
“Which one died first?”
“I told you, he said. “Didn’t I? My mother, mother died first.”
“Do you feel like an orphan?”
He sighed. “Sometimes.” The whole thing was slipping away from him.
“I guess I do too.” She reached back and opened her door. “Let’s get out now.”
And when he reached for the door handle, she aimed the gun at his head. “Get out slow.”
“Aw, shit,” he said. “I’m getting out.” He opened his door, and the ceiling light surprised and frightened him. Some wordless part of him understood that this was it, and all his talk had come to nothing: all the questions she has asked him, and everything he had told her--it was all completely useless. This was going to happen to him, and it wouldn’t mean anything; it would just be what happen.
“Real slow,” she said. “Come on.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You’ve got to tell me that before you do it.”
“Will you please get out of the car now?”
He just stared at her.
“All right, I’ll shoot you where you sit.”
“Okay, he said. “Don’t shoot.”
She said in an irritable voice, as though she were talking to a recalcitrant child. “You’re just putting it off.”
He was backing himself out, keeping his on on the little barrel of the gun, and he could hear something coming, seemed to notice it in the same instant that she said, “Wait.” He stood half in and half out of the car, doing as she said, and a truck came over the hill ahead of them, a tractor trailer, all while light and roaring.
“Stay still” she said, crouching, aiming the gun at him.
The truck came fast, was only fifty yards away, and without having to decide about it, without even knowing that he would do it, James bolted into the road. He was running; he heard the exhausted sound of his own breath, the truck horn blaring, coming on, louder, the thing bearing down on him, were heavy, all the nerves gone out of them. In the light of the oncoming truck he saw his own hands outreached as if to grasp something in the air before him, and then the truck was past him, the blast of air from it propelling him over the side of the road and down an embankment, in high, dry grass, which pricked his skin and crackled like hay.
He was alive. He lay very still. Above him was the long shape of the road, curving off in the distance, the light of the truck going on. The noise faded and was nothing. A little wind stirred. He heard the car door close. Carefully he got to all fours and crawled a few yards away from where he had fallen. He couldn't be sure of which direction--he only knew he couldn't stay where he was. Then he heard what he thought were her footsteps in the road, and he froze. He lay on his side, facing the embankment, when she appeared there he almost cried out.
“James?” she said. “Did I get you?” She was looking right at where he was in the dark, and he stopped breathing. “James?”
He watched her move along the edge of the embankment.
“James?” She put on hand over her eyes and stared at a place a few feet away from him, and then she turned and went back out of sight. He heard the car door again, and again he began to crawl farther away. The ground was cold and tough, sandy.
He heard her put the key in the trunk He stood up, tried to run, but something went wrong in his leg, something sent him sprawling, and a sound came out of him that seemed to echo, to stay on the air, as if to call her to him. He tried to be perfectly still, tried not to breathe, hearing not the small pop of the gun. He counted the reports: one, two, three. She was standing there at the edge of the road, firing into the dark, toward where she must have thought she heard the sound. Then she was rattling the paper bag. She was reloading--he could hear the click of the gun. He tried to get up and couldn't. He had sprained his ankle, had done something very bad to it. Now he was crawling wildly, blindly, through the tall grass, hearing again the small report of the pistol. At last he rolled into a shallow gully. He lay there with his face down, breathing the dust, his own voice leaving him in a whimpering, animal-like sound that he couldn't stop, even sa he held both shaking hands over his mouth.
“James?” She sounded so close. “Hey,” she said. “James?”
He didn't move. He lay there perfectly still, trying to stop himself from crying. He was sorry for everything he had ever done. He didn't care about the money, or the car, or going to L.A., or anything. When he lifted his head to peer over the lip of the gully and saw that she had started down the embankment with his flashlight, moving like someone with time and the patience to use it, he lost his sense of himself as James; he was just something crippled and breathing in the dark, lying flat in a little winding gully of weed and sand. James was gone, was someone far, far away, from ages ago--a man fresh out of jail, with the whole country to wander in and insurance money in his pocket, who had headed to L.A. with the idea that maybe his luck, at long last, had changed.
He wondered if offering her a ride would be any kinder than letting her walk. After all, he was driving a beat up Toyota Camry with a slew of internal problems, including a broken AC and no radio. Plus the crack in the windshield didn’t help much with the view.
When I read this I thought about what I would do and I was totally stuck. I wasn't sure what was right. Great tension right off the bat. It really got me thinking.
She was wearing jeans and a shawl-styled shirt. Seemed practical enough. Dumb kid was probably running away because she had a fight with her parents and thought that she’d just pull the sleeves up when she got too hot. James didn’t miss being a teenager at all.
Seriously. Does she really think she can just roll her sleeves up when it gets hot? Kids are so dumb...
“You gay? I thought real men didn’t care about that sort of thing?”
James hit the brakes. What he wanted to say was, ‘You ungrateful little shit, you have some nerve to talk shit to someone doing you a favor!’ What he did say was, “Excuse me?” His voice was pure venom.
The drama here was just... Wow! I thought he was going to kick her out for a second there! He showed that 14 year old girl who is boss!
If they say it's great, what do you need to hear from me from? These guys are totally pro. Like you. You get paid to do this, after all.
Nothing really, I thought I made it quite clear I was curious lol If you couldn't handle critique and thought it was just me being hateful, I was honestly curious how you would handle reading your story, only with it being well written. :P
But if you really want to know, there was so much I enjoyed. Here are a few lines:
When I read this I thought about what I would do and I was totally stuck. I wasn't sure what was right. Great tension right off the bat. It really got me thinking.
Seriously. Does she really think she can just roll her sleeves up when it gets hot? Kids are so dumb...
Fucking deep.
This is so true. I don't think I could. His kindness touched me.
The drama here was just... Wow! I thought he was going to kick her out for a second there! He showed that 14 year old girl who is boss!
It's about how I expected you to feel. lol :P But I am glad you finally got back to me. For someone who's got something to prove, you sure did keep me waiting!
I'm sorry to disappoint you, though. In fairness, I only had the material you gave me to work with.
I look forward to the thrilling epilogue.
Nothing really, I thought I made it quite clear I was curious lol If you couldn't handle critique and thought it was just me being hateful, I was honestly curious how you would handle reading your story, only with it being well written. :P
It's about how I expected you to feel. lol :P But I am glad you finally got back to me. For someone who's got something to prove, you sure did keep me waiting!
I'm sorry to disappoint you, though. In fairness, I only had the material you gave me to work with.
I look forward to the thrilling epilogue.
I hear ya. Let me ask you question, what is a good fiction, besides your brilliant work? Do you think The New Yorker publishes good work?
I hear ya. Let me ask you question, what is a good fiction, besides your brilliant work? Do you think The New Yorker publishes good work?
Not really. I think The New Yorker publishes whatever will earn it and its buddies money. Also, I find it very dry and boring and avoid reading it at all costs. It's too writing-at-starbucks-driving-a-prius for me. You know?
Besides, having a big name doesn't mean you have talent.
Did you know that best selling rarely means best written? I mean, come on, Twilight? Do you consider that to be great fiction? Of course not, no one does. But I believe it was a New York Times bestseller. Conversely, Wicked was also a New York Times bestseller, but it just also happened to be good. The Great and Secret Show I think was also a NYT bestseller, and I think it's much better than both of those books.
Having said all that, I honestly don't know if I've read a lot of books that haven't won any awards at all, as those are usually up-and-coming authors who end up winning awards later on. But I'm getting way off topic.
Besides, I'm sure I'm boring you because you strike me as the type that doesn't read too much by too many authors, otherwise you wouldn't be making some of the mistakes you've made.
Besides, I'm sure I'm boring you because you strike me as the type that doesn't read too much by too many authors, otherwise you wouldn't be making some of the mistakes you've made.
Interesting. Well, to be honest I don't take anything seriously. Your "genuine critic" is just generic ranting any idiot on the internet can say to try to sound like they know what you're talking. "Everything is bad." I mean, seriously? You're a writer that can't articulate what you're thinking in writing. That's stupid.
I seriously doubt your claims about writing for a living. (Classic troll move, by the way.) You would be laughed out of any writing program or editors office. Your descriptions are terrible and generic, for example. "She wore jeans." Really? Oh, and a "shawl-like shirt." Do you know what a shawl is? I seriously doubt you do.
I'm pretty sure you're just trolling. And you're pretty lame at b/c you're so obvious. You say it's banter, but you're just being rude and harassing.
But I haven't flagged anything b/c this works for me. In your own lame attempts at getting attention, you're drawing attention to the story. And you look like a troll doing it so your rep drops.
But it's so obvious people are trolling I'm sure the mods will put a stop to it eventually. They get pretty upset about any kind of negativity (see the interactive thread) and will shut shit down, permaban people, and all that nasty stuff. And you guys have said some of the worst things I've seen on this forum. But I'm not a mod. We'll see.
I think they might lock the thread, if writing *snip* fan fiction is against forum rules.
Insulting members or even stalking them certainly is.
@all, and I mean @all: Cool it. If you can't offer CONSTRUCTIVE criticism, don't offer any criticism at all. No author was ever helped by having his or her writing called "abysmal" or "stupid". And if you can't TAKE constructive criticism or any criticism, you should not write or at least not show your writing around.
BTW, moderators can read deleted posts AND enjoy a full chronicle of your post edits, just in case you were wondering. Isn't that awfully great?
IV. Don't attempt to destroy a discussion because you don't think it's worth discussing.
This basically covers the times where someone spots a thread they don't think should exist, and then does whatever they can to shut down any kind of constructive discussion that might occur there. This can include (but is not limited to) overtly asking why the thread exists in said thread, being mean to the original thread poster or respondents, deliberately trying to steer discussion towards something unrelated to the original topic, posting super-negative responses without a good reason (i.e., if it doesn't match the tone of the thread), or requesting a lock/deletion publicly while others are still trying to have a discussion. This does not mean you can't get in touch with us if you have a problem with a thread.
The quality of threads on our forums will vary, but please leave it up to the Telltale Team to judge a discussion's ultimate fate, and don't try to artificially make it a bad thread through non-constructive posting. Even if the subject matter is somewhat weak, you're not doing us a favor by making the thread tank. If you don't really have anything positive or relevant to contribute to a discussion, feel free to ignore it.
there's too much he said she said, you occasionally but in a description but when people speak they have feelings!
james said curiously
james whispered softly
james shouted angrily
james spat out with pure venom
james pleaded almost on his knee's begging
so then red panda with in a few posts turns around and claims we all trolls after liking some of the posts and critiques ? almost like two different people are posting....
Well I'm sorry for my part in the trouble. I really did think that we were all just horsing around. If I honestly believed that I was causing Panda distress, of course I wouldn't have posted any sort of critique. And I post in the thread because I enjoy the conversation as well as the story. I thought Panda must have been joking with her responses to the critique because they were so outrageous.
If I misread the situation, I apologize to everyone.
Does this mean I can't post anymore rewrites? Hehe :P
But I do agree that it's nice to have you distracted. I don't post often, but I do read the forums a lot. Seems like you're always in the center of some drama.
For the longest, I did think that you were just a troll, because you turn harmless situations into a whirling shit storm. I see now that the real issue is that you're a tantrum-prone cry baby.
You strike me as the type that doesn't read too much by too many authors.
Here is a critique written in the New York Times by MICHIKO KAKUTAN on J.K. Rowlings new book:
In some respects “The Casual Vacancy” is grappling with many of the same themes as the Harry Potter books: the losses and burdens of responsibility that come with adulthood, and the stubborn fact of mortality. One of the things that made Harry’s story so affecting was Ms. Rowling’s ability to construct a parallel world enlivened by the supernatural, and yet instantly recognizable to us as a place where death and the precariousness of daily life cannot be avoided, a place where identity is as much a product of deliberate choice as it is of fate. What’s missing here is an emotional depth of field. It’s not just because the stakes in this novel are so much smaller. (In “Harry Potter,” the civil war was literally between good and evil; here, it is between petty, gossip-minded liberals and conservatives.) It’s that the characters in “The Casual Vacancy” feel so much less fully imagined than the ones in the Harry Potter epic. http://www.nytimes.com/2012/09/27/books/book-review-the-casual-vacancy-by-j-k-rowling.html?ref=books&_r=0
Here is a critique written in the New York Times by MICHIKO KAKUTAN on J.K. Rowlings new book:
Notice the lack of personal insults?
And now you want to re-write a story you hate? I can't stop you but I think that is petty.
If you hate it so much, start from scratch. Don't use a story you hate as an scapegoat for your own writing.
Since you pulled out a list of quotes, I shall, too. It will be a list of all the critique given to you by everyone that has bothered with it. But I'll put that at the end, as it's very long lol.
That wasn't so much a critique as a review. Also, the critique was comparison based with the author's past work. And besides, I don't get paid for reviews.
Never once have I said that I hate your story. In fact, (as the following quotes will show), I've said before that I enjoy it as well as the conversation in this thread.
If it will not hurt your feelings, I don't mind posting up rewrites. :P But I was actually just trying to joke with the mod. (I have to admit, thus far any jokes with the mods have gone either unnoticed or ignored. xP I am starting to suspect that my since of humor goes unappreciated, yet again! lol :P)
Anyway, here goes the list!
right so looking at this you need to work on your flow of words and instead of jumping around the situations and area's people blend them together more because imo saying one thing about a person then using a comma to then move on to place is jarring..
but as an example explain the situation more instead of adding some information at the end like for example
the girls shawl why mention it at the end and she's not wearing it ?
you could of said, on an abandoned road a young girl walks in a westerly direction, carrying a leather purse with a shawl under her arm.. or even leave out the material of the purse and have another character in this case james ask what it's made of, you don't have to be so detailed when narrating when you can use a character to do it, this then gives characters more depth and something to say. over use of comma's also break up the flow they are for a pause or to allow the reader to take a breath.
the story has potential though do you just type it or do you proof read it before submitting it ? i re read mine and usually edit it to make it flow better and roll of the tongue easily.
It's got potential, but you need to work on character development, story development, the pacing of the story, all of that. Also, your characters aren't very likable and are a little confusing.
...
And I do NOT mean it disrespectfully. I would love to hear the whys that you've left out of the story. Maybe give more specifics, too.
...
The only way you'll get better is practice, so don't give up. Just don't be so close minded about critique, either. Smart comments aside, Milo gave you great advice. I wish I could get him/her to critique my stories.
There are plenty of things wrong with this story. First of all, the 'flow' of the narrative feels aimless; there's plenty of back-and-forth pointless banter and it seems like you have no idea where the story is going. The character descriptions are also quite superficial, akin to "This is a beautiful girl" or "This is my ideal concept of what a character from my personal fantasy is like."
As others have mentioned, it's strange that a college graduate aged fellow's first thoughts are to bonk a girl who, as you mentioned yourself, was 'just old enough for high school' (that's like, what, fourteen?). On an abandoned road? I am not against the portrayal of pedophiles, hebephiles or what-have-you in fiction but it seems to me like the narrator (you) was completely oblivious to any age gaps between the character and the reader while attempting to portray her in an attractive/desirable light, or any age related differences for a (possible) ensuing relationship between the two lead characters, for that matter. Which leads me to believe that:
A) This piece of prose was created by a small boy of a similar age to the female lead.
You're a pedophile. In which case I hope the moderators take a look at your posts and alert the local authorities as soon as possible.
I can't speak for others, but for myself, it's that I took the time to give genuine critique, only to be told that I was being hateful. I also have to admit that it is fun to come to the thread and not only read Red's fan fiction, but the comments attached to it.
Though my critique was genuine, most of this is, at least to my knowledge, just friendly back and forth.
there's too much he said she said, you occasionally but in a description but when people speak they have feelings!
james said curiously
james whispered softly
james shouted angrily
james spat out with pure venom
james pleaded almost on his knee's begging
Everything aside, I wish that you could read all of these as critique rather than criticism. There really is a difference. And you can have an alternative story while still following basic protocol.
Comments
“Look at those people speeding,” she said. “We’re the only ones obeying the speed limit. Look at them.”
“Do you want me to speed up?”
“I think they ought to get tickets for speeding, that’s what I think. Sometimes I wish I were a policeman.”
“Look,” James said, “we’re going to need gas pretty soon.”
“No, let’s just run it until it quits. We can always hitch a ride with somebody.”
“This car’s got a great engine.” James said. “We might have to outrun the police, and I wouldn’t want to do that in any other car.”
“This old thing? It’s got a crack in the windshield. The radio doesn’t even work.”
“Right. But it’s a fast car. It’ll outrun a police car.”
She put one arm over the seat back and looked out the rear window.. “You really think the police are chasing us?”
“They might be,” he said.
She stared at him a momen. “No. There’s no reason. Nobody saw us.”
“But if somebody did--this car, I mean, it’ll go like crazy.”
“I’m afraid of speeding, though,” she said. “Besides, you know what I found out? If you run slow enough, the cops go right past you. Right on past you, looking for somebody who’s in a hurry. No, I think it’s best if we just let it run until it quits and then get out and hitch.”
James thought he knew what might happen when the gas ran out: she would make him push the car to the side of the road, and then she would walk him back into the cactus brush there, and when they were far enough from the road, she would shoot him. He knew this as if she had spelled it all out, and he began again to try for the cunning he would need. “Harleen,” he said. “Why don’t we lay low for a few days in Albuquerque?”
“Is that an obscene gesture?” she asked.
“No!” he said, almost shouted. “No! That’s--it’s outlaw talk. You know. Hide out from the cops--lay low. It’s--it’s jail talk.”
“Well, I’ve never been to jail.”
“That’s all I meant.”
“You want to hide out.”
“Right,” he said.
“You and me?”
“You--you asked if I wanted to join up with you.”
“Did I?” She seemed puzzled by this.
“Yes,” he said, feeling himself press a little.. “Don’t you remember?”
“I guess I do.”
“You did,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
“Harleen Quinzel had a gang,” he said.
“She did?”
“I could be the first member of your gang.”
She sat there thinking this over. James’ blood moved at the thought that she was deciding whether or not he would live. “Well,’ she said, “maybe.”
“You’ve got to have a gang, Harleen.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
A moment later she said, “How much money do you have?”
“I have enough to start a gang.”
“It takes money to start a gang?”
“Well--” He was at a loss.
“How much do you have?”
He said, “A few hundred.”
“Really?” she said. “That much?”
“Just enough to--just enough to get to Nevada.”
“Can I have it?”
He said, “Sure.” He was holding the wheel and looking out into the night.
“And we’ll be a gang?”
“Right,” he said.
“I like the idea. Harleen Quinzel and her gang.”
James started talking about what the gang could do, making it up as he went along, trying to sound like the gangster movies he’d seen. He heard himself talking about things like robbery and getaway cars and not getting nabbed and staying out of jail, and then, as she sat there staring at him, he started talking about jail, what it was like. He went on about it, the hours locked up in a cell, the harsh day-to-day routines, the bad food. Before he was through, feeling the necessity of deepening her sense of him as her new accomplice,--and feeling strangely as though in some ways he had indeed become exactly that--he was telling her everything, all the bad times he’d had: his father’s alcoholism, and growing up wanting to hit something for the anger that was in him; the years of getting into trouble; the fighting and the kicking and what it had got him. He embellished it all, made it sound worse than it really was, because she seemed to be going for it and because, telling it to her, he felt oddly sorry for himself; a version of this story of pain and neglect and lonely rage was true. He had been through a lot. And as he finished describing for her the scene at the hospital the last time he saw his father, he was almost certain he had struck a chord in her. He thought he saw it in the rapt expression on her face.
“Anyway,” he said, and smiled at her.
“James?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Can you pull over?”
“Well,” he said, his voice shaking, “why don’t we wait until it runs out of gas?”
She was silent.
“We’ll be that much farther down the road,” he said.
“I don’t really want a gang,” she said. “I don’t like dealing with other people that much. I mean, I don’t think I’m a leader.”
“Oh, yes,” James said. “No--you’re a leader. You’re definitely a leader. I was in a lot of clubs in college and I know leaders, and you are definitely what I’d call a leader.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. You are leadership material all the way.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Definitely.,” he said. “Definitely a leader.”
“But I don’t really like people around, you know.”
“That’s a leadership quality. Not wanting people around. It is definitely a leadership quality.”
“Boy,” she said, “the things you learn.”
He waited. If he could only think himself through to the way out. If he could get her to trust him, get the car stopped--be there when she turned her back.
“You want to be in my gang, huh?”
“I sure do,” he said.
“Well, I guess I have to think think about it.”
“I’m surprised nobody’s mentioned it to you before.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, really.”
“Were you ever married? she asked.
“Married?” he said, and then stammered over the answer. “Ah--uh, no.”
“You ever been in a gang before?”
“A couple times, but--they never had good leadership.”
“You’re giving me a line, huh.”
“No,” he said, “it’s true. No good leadership. It was always a problem.”
“I’m tired, she said, shifting towards him a little. “I’m tired of talking.”
The steering wheel was hurting the inside of his hands. He held tight, looking at the coming-on of the white stripes in the road. There was no other cars now, and not a glimmer of light anywhere beyond the headlights.
“Don’t you ever get tired of talking?”
“I never was much of a talker,” he said.
“”I guess I don’t mind talking as much as I mind listening, she said..
He made a sound in this throat which he hoped she took for agreement.
“That’s just when I’m tired, though.”
“Why don’t you take a nap?” he said.
She leaned back against the door and regarded him. “There's plenty of time for that later.”
I can't speak for others, but for myself, it's that I took the time to give genuine critique, only to be told that I was being hateful. I also have to admit that it is fun to come to the thread and not only read Red's fan fiction, but the comments attached to it.
Though my critique was genuine, most of this is, at least to my knowledge, just friendly back and forth.
They had gone on for a long time without speaking, an excruciating hour of minutes, during which the gas guage had sunk to just above the empty, and finally she had begun talking about herself, mostly in the third person. It was hard to make sense of most of it, yet he listened as if to instruction concerning how to extricate himself. She talked about growing up in Florida, in the country, and owning a horse; she remembered when she was taught to swim by somebody she called Bill, as if James would know who that was; and then she told him how when her father ran away with her mother’s sister, her mother started having men friends over all the time. “There was a lof of obscene things going on,” she said, and her voice tightened a little.
“Some people don’t care about what happens to their kids,” James said.
“Isn’t that the truth?” she said. Then she took the pistol out of the shawl. “Take this exit.”
He pulled onto the ramp and up an incline to a two-lane road that went off through the desert, toward a glow that burned on the horizon. For perhaps five miles the road was straight as a plumb line, and the it curved into long, low undulations of sand and mesquite and cactus.”
“My mother’s men friends used to do whatever they wanted to me,” she said. “It went on all the time. All sorts of obscene goings-on.”
James said, “I’m sorry that happened to you, Harleen.” And for an instant he was surprised by the sincerity of his feeling: it was as if he couldn’t feel sorry enough. Yet it was genuine: it had to do with his own unhappy story. The whole world seemed very, very sad to him. “I’m really very sorry,” he said.
She was quiet a moment, as if thinking about this. The she said, “Let’s pull over. I’m tired of riding.”
“I’m almost out of gas,” he said.
“I know, but pull it over anyway.”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“See?” she said. “That’s what I mean--I wouldn’t like being told what I should do all the time, or asked if I was sure of what I wanted or not.”
He pulled the car over and slowed to a stop. “You’re right, he said. “See?” Leadership. I’m just not use to somebody with leadership qualities.”
She held the gun a little toward him. He was looking at the small, dark, perfect circle at the end of the barrel. “I guess we should get out,: she said.
“I guess so, “ he said.
“Do you have any relatives left anywhere?”
“No.”
“Your folks are both dead?”
“Right, yes.”
“Which one died first?”
“I told you, he said. “Didn’t I? My mother, mother died first.”
“Do you feel like an orphan?”
He sighed. “Sometimes.” The whole thing was slipping away from him.
“I guess I do too.” She reached back and opened her door. “Let’s get out now.”
And when he reached for the door handle, she aimed the gun at his head. “Get out slow.”
“Aw, shit,” he said. “I’m getting out.” He opened his door, and the ceiling light surprised and frightened him. Some wordless part of him understood that this was it, and all his talk had come to nothing: all the questions she has asked him, and everything he had told her--it was all completely useless. This was going to happen to him, and it wouldn’t mean anything; it would just be what happen.
“Real slow,” she said. “Come on.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You’ve got to tell me that before you do it.”
“Will you please get out of the car now?”
He just stared at her.
“All right, I’ll shoot you where you sit.”
“Okay, he said. “Don’t shoot.”
She said in an irritable voice, as though she were talking to a recalcitrant child. “You’re just putting it off.”
“Stay still” she said, crouching, aiming the gun at him.
The truck came fast, was only fifty yards away, and without having to decide about it, without even knowing that he would do it, James bolted into the road. He was running; he heard the exhausted sound of his own breath, the truck horn blaring, coming on, louder, the thing bearing down on him, were heavy, all the nerves gone out of them. In the light of the oncoming truck he saw his own hands outreached as if to grasp something in the air before him, and then the truck was past him, the blast of air from it propelling him over the side of the road and down an embankment, in high, dry grass, which pricked his skin and crackled like hay.
He was alive. He lay very still. Above him was the long shape of the road, curving off in the distance, the light of the truck going on. The noise faded and was nothing. A little wind stirred. He heard the car door close. Carefully he got to all fours and crawled a few yards away from where he had fallen. He couldn't be sure of which direction--he only knew he couldn't stay where he was. Then he heard what he thought were her footsteps in the road, and he froze. He lay on his side, facing the embankment, when she appeared there he almost cried out.
“James?” she said. “Did I get you?” She was looking right at where he was in the dark, and he stopped breathing. “James?”
He watched her move along the edge of the embankment.
“James?” She put on hand over her eyes and stared at a place a few feet away from him, and then she turned and went back out of sight. He heard the car door again, and again he began to crawl farther away. The ground was cold and tough, sandy.
He heard her put the key in the trunk He stood up, tried to run, but something went wrong in his leg, something sent him sprawling, and a sound came out of him that seemed to echo, to stay on the air, as if to call her to him. He tried to be perfectly still, tried not to breathe, hearing not the small pop of the gun. He counted the reports: one, two, three. She was standing there at the edge of the road, firing into the dark, toward where she must have thought she heard the sound. Then she was rattling the paper bag. She was reloading--he could hear the click of the gun. He tried to get up and couldn't. He had sprained his ankle, had done something very bad to it. Now he was crawling wildly, blindly, through the tall grass, hearing again the small report of the pistol. At last he rolled into a shallow gully. He lay there with his face down, breathing the dust, his own voice leaving him in a whimpering, animal-like sound that he couldn't stop, even sa he held both shaking hands over his mouth.
“James?” She sounded so close. “Hey,” she said. “James?”
He didn't move. He lay there perfectly still, trying to stop himself from crying. He was sorry for everything he had ever done. He didn't care about the money, or the car, or going to L.A., or anything. When he lifted his head to peer over the lip of the gully and saw that she had started down the embankment with his flashlight, moving like someone with time and the patience to use it, he lost his sense of himself as James; he was just something crippled and breathing in the dark, lying flat in a little winding gully of weed and sand. James was gone, was someone far, far away, from ages ago--a man fresh out of jail, with the whole country to wander in and insurance money in his pocket, who had headed to L.A. with the idea that maybe his luck, at long last, had changed.
Next, The Epilogue...
If they say it's great, what do you need to hear from me from? These guys are totally pro. Like you. You get paid to do this, after all.
But if you really want to know, there was so much I enjoyed. Here are a few lines:
When I read this I thought about what I would do and I was totally stuck. I wasn't sure what was right. Great tension right off the bat. It really got me thinking.
Seriously. Does she really think she can just roll her sleeves up when it gets hot? Kids are so dumb...
Fucking deep.
This is so true. I don't think I could. His kindness touched me.
The drama here was just... Wow! I thought he was going to kick her out for a second there! He showed that 14 year old girl who is boss!
Nothing really, I thought I made it quite clear I was curious
It's about how I expected you to feel. lol :P But I am glad you finally got back to me. For someone who's got something to prove, you sure did keep me waiting!
I'm sorry to disappoint you, though. In fairness, I only had the material you gave me to work with.
I look forward to the thrilling epilogue.
I hear ya. Let me ask you question, what is a good fiction, besides your brilliant work? Do you think The New Yorker publishes good work?
Not really. I think The New Yorker publishes whatever will earn it and its buddies money. Also, I find it very dry and boring and avoid reading it at all costs. It's too writing-at-starbucks-driving-a-prius for me. You know?
Besides, having a big name doesn't mean you have talent.
Did you know that best selling rarely means best written? I mean, come on, Twilight? Do you consider that to be great fiction? Of course not, no one does. But I believe it was a New York Times bestseller. Conversely, Wicked was also a New York Times bestseller, but it just also happened to be good. The Great and Secret Show I think was also a NYT bestseller, and I think it's much better than both of those books.
Having said all that, I honestly don't know if I've read a lot of books that haven't won any awards at all, as those are usually up-and-coming authors who end up winning awards later on. But I'm getting way off topic.
Besides, I'm sure I'm boring you because you strike me as the type that doesn't read too much by too many authors, otherwise you wouldn't be making some of the mistakes you've made.
Interesting. Well, to be honest I don't take anything seriously. Your "genuine critic" is just generic ranting any idiot on the internet can say to try to sound like they know what you're talking. "Everything is bad." I mean, seriously? You're a writer that can't articulate what you're thinking in writing. That's stupid.
I seriously doubt your claims about writing for a living. (Classic troll move, by the way.) You would be laughed out of any writing program or editors office. Your descriptions are terrible and generic, for example. "She wore jeans." Really? Oh, and a "shawl-like shirt." Do you know what a shawl is? I seriously doubt you do.
I'm pretty sure you're just trolling. And you're pretty lame at b/c you're so obvious. You say it's banter, but you're just being rude and harassing.
But I haven't flagged anything b/c this works for me. In your own lame attempts at getting attention, you're drawing attention to the story. And you look like a troll doing it so your rep drops.
But it's so obvious people are trolling I'm sure the mods will put a stop to it eventually. They get pretty upset about any kind of negativity (see the interactive thread) and will shut shit down, permaban people, and all that nasty stuff. And you guys have said some of the worst things I've seen on this forum. But I'm not a mod. We'll see.
Insulting members or even stalking them certainly is.
@all, and I mean @all: Cool it. If you can't offer CONSTRUCTIVE criticism, don't offer any criticism at all. No author was ever helped by having his or her writing called "abysmal" or "stupid". And if you can't TAKE constructive criticism or any criticism, you should not write or at least not show your writing around.
BTW, moderators can read deleted posts AND enjoy a full chronicle of your post edits, just in case you were wondering. Isn't that awfully great?
james said curiously
james whispered softly
james shouted angrily
james spat out with pure venom
james pleaded almost on his knee's begging
so then red panda with in a few posts turns around and claims we all trolls after liking some of the posts and critiques ? almost like two different people are posting....
@Milo: We can leave that troll business behind us now, and I really don't care who's who at the moment.
If I misread the situation, I apologize to everyone.
Does this mean I can't post anymore rewrites? Hehe :P
A just a sample of your "critiques":
Here is a critique written in the New York Times by MICHIKO KAKUTAN on J.K. Rowlings new book:
Notice the lack of personal insults?
You just said this:
And now you want to re-write a story you hate? I can't stop you but I think that is petty.
If you hate it so much, start from scratch. Don't use a story you hate as an scapegoat for your own writing.
Since you pulled out a list of quotes, I shall, too. It will be a list of all the critique given to you by everyone that has bothered with it. But I'll put that at the end, as it's very long lol.
That wasn't so much a critique as a review. Also, the critique was comparison based with the author's past work. And besides, I don't get paid for reviews.
Never once have I said that I hate your story. In fact, (as the following quotes will show), I've said before that I enjoy it as well as the conversation in this thread.
If it will not hurt your feelings, I don't mind posting up rewrites. :P But I was actually just trying to joke with the mod. (I have to admit, thus far any jokes with the mods have gone either unnoticed or ignored. xP I am starting to suspect that my since of humor goes unappreciated, yet again! lol :P)
Anyway, here goes the list!
Everything aside, I wish that you could read all of these as critique rather than criticism. There really is a difference. And you can have an alternative story while still following basic protocol.