Small Incerpt of My Writing. (Any Advice?)

[ilspooner]

I don't like first person as much. Its alright, but there isn't really that much character devolopment. Also, I don't like all the descriptions of the clothes. But keep going for it!

 

[Judgement101]

Ahhhh how is this a small incerpt?

OT: Is this some form of fanfiction?

 

[Josh Kurber]

Ahhhh how is this a small incerpt?

OT: Is this some form of fanfiction?

Not at all. Just some random story I threw together. And it's a small incerpt because it is only a small bit of the chapter that I put in.

 

[RewardMe]

I have never like stories from the "I" perspective. I always find them far more difficult to get into, almost like it prevents suspension of disbelief or something. I cant pin down what but, at worst I put these books down after 3 pages. If the story itself is good and compiling I can solider through to the end. But Id never knowing by a second book in the series unless either the writing style had changed or the story was THAT compelling. Which thus far, has never happened.

It's a horrible way to read a book. I can't stand it. I can see why people write like that, though. It's much easier on their part to write from a I perspective then any other form of writing.

 

[Dimitriov]

It's interesting, but too much detail on clothing

Hahah, yeah. I wrote this a few months ago, and in my reboot of my first ever story I stopped with the clothing details xD. Allll about the fight scenes :3

Actually, I disagree - I like the detail, but instead of "I grabbed my sleeveless black long coat, the one that just barely touched the ground and had lightning bolts down the back, and threw it on", maybe something more like "I grabbed my sleeveless black coat, letting the hem brush the ground as the embroidered lightening bolts blazed down my back." It just sounds less like the narrator is talking to someone about "than one coat" they own, and instead gives an image of the coat on the character.

"I could feel the electricity coursing through my body. I lifted my left hand and shot a large bolt out of my palm" - also, in sentences like these, try word variation. We always hear about electricity coursing... what if instead, "I could feel the electricity dancing through my body, lighting up my nerves and sparking my adrenaline". Same with the second sentence - what if instead of a large bolt - "I lifted my left hand and an immense bolt arched out of my palm." In my opinion, using different words adds something, like the difference between a "glistening tear rolling down his cheek" and a "glimmering tear rolling down his cheek." Similar words - synonyms even - but very different image.

Sorry about the long critique. Not awful, though.

I agree with Dorkette's advice, you need to mix up the language and sentence structure more. One thing I would add is that the way it reads now is like a series of bullet point descriptions, rather than a flowing narrative.

Also as hinted at above by Dorkette since it is in first person describe the feelings of the protagonist more, involve the reader in his experience.

Something like "He smirked at me and shoved me against the window, the glass breaking." Could become "The right side of his mouth twitched back in a confident smirk as he shoved me backwards; my back struck the window behind me, I could feel the glass give, then shatter while I was suddenly yanked towards him by the collar."

 

[rockyoumonkeys]

Stop saying "incerpt", it's not a word. Any actual writer would KNOW this.

 

[Kermi]

High on detail, low on substance. You insert a lot of detail for the sake of detail but try to move the story along at the same time and it feels clumsy - if you're going to go to the effort of describing something in that much detail, let that be the focus. Describe the coat before the character puts it on, for instance.

Overall it could use some refining but I think you're doing fairly well. Styles vary from person to person, and I wouldn't say your style is bad - it's just not the style I would enjoy reading for 200+ pages.

It reminds me a little of the Nightside series by Simon R. Green. You a fan by any chance?

 

[NewClassic_v1legacy]

Spoiler: NewClassic Edit

I woke with a start, a crack of lightning came from outside of this little adobe (Adobe is a type of clay used in desert environments. "Abode" might've been the word you were thinking here.) of mine. One of the hundreds in this damned city. (Semi-colons are one of those "Why bother?" usages. If it doesn't need to be a semi-colon, then just don't use it.) I sat up and pulled on my boxers before turning to the whore in my bed. I can't even remember her name... Hell, I don't remember any of the whores' names. I grabbed a black T-shirt from the ground and draped it over my head, reaching next for my jeans, dark and torn down the shins. I slipped my fighting gloves on, which were only fingerless gloves with connecting chains on the back. I clenched my hands to stretch them slightly and walked to the large bow window. (Agreed on the other comments talking about too much clothing detail. This reads like you took a King of Fighters character and and turned him into a cliche. Not to mention is invoking montage imagery.)

Storm clouds were gathering above the city once again, (Why?) meaning my time to leave was coming. (Where?) I slipped on socks and my black sneakers, brand new and freshly stolen from the run-down store on Fifth Street. (Too much detail. You can characterize without going overboard. I could cut both of these paragraphs down to "Thunder woke me, which doesn't happen to me very often. Never woke the whore, though, whatever her name was. I reached for my clothes, mostly stolen, and...") The thunder rumbled more as rain began pelting against the windows. (Yeah yeah, we get it.) Bolts of lightning struck across the sky, illuminating sections of this tattered city. I watched a bolt of lightning strike a nearby building, and at the same time a bullet grazed my right arm. (Oh, that's completely normal. Being this blase about it wouldn't mesh with any readers. You're losing their emotional connection right there. This guy is made to seem "Too cool for school," but he's reading like he overthinks everything, hung up on history. Most cool guys don't hang up on details, because it doesn't matter. He shouldn't care who or where he stole from, or that the whore even has a name. More importantly, snipers bullets get to be supersonic by the time they reach a certain distance. After about two seconds, the crack from that rifle should've woken the hell out of the whore, who seems to have disappeared. And how is his arm not completely torn to shreds? Even a graze with those calibers should do some damage, more than a tiny cut.)

A sniper. In the building where the lightning struck. Bastard. I ducked behind my couch and could hear the faint sound of him reloading and cocking the gun. I loved my great hearing at times like these. (In a thunderstorm? Christ, with hearing like this, the guy would go nuts from hearing the tension in the powerlines throughout both his house and the city. Consistency is key.) I heard another crack of thunder and I dove to the doorway as another flash of lightning lit the sky. (Lightning doesn't follow thunder, it happens the other way around.) I grabbed my sleeveless black long coat, the one that just barely touched the ground and had lightning bolts down the back, and threw it on. Then I reached into the closet and pulled over my father's sword, wrapping it over my shoulder. (With bandage? Is it on a sling?) I moved out the back of the house, where the sniper shouldn't have too good of a look at me. (Actually, if he could graze you from the bed, wouldn't he be able to shoot through the couch after reloading?)

Sneaking around the building, I had the feeling he could see me again, so I dropped to a crouch and walked slowly toward the surrounding fence. I came to a break in the gate, and I had to wait for the right moment to get through it. Lightning flooded my vision, too white in the black city, and *FLASH.* I dashed through the gate as quick as I could. be and made I somehow made it into the alley not too far. If he had seen me, he didn't shoot.

I weaved my way through the buildings until I got to the skyscraper where the sniper was hiding. He knew I was coming for him, so I had to make sure I didn't do anything to alert him to my presence. My foot grazed a pipe, which dropped with a crash to the floor. It echoed in the alley. CLANG. (You have the full power of point-of-view here. Don't turn it into a comic by introducing sounds before the actions that accompany them. Describe the scenes, let us live them, preferably without the Adam West era clinks and clonks.)

"Shit!" I dove behind a pillar. How could I have been so clumsy as to knock over a stupid lead pipe! Wait . . . I came out of hiding and picked up the pipe. Gripping it tightly, I surged energy through it and watched as the weapon came to life with mini bolts of lightning dancing across the surface. Hell yeah. (Action Hero One Liner. Cliche.) I smirked and continued towards the stairs. He's on the top floor, he's gotta be. In every story and movie they are always on the top floor. (Characterization is overplayed. Show us he's a badass, don't hold our hand with his trite narration.)

I started climbing up the stairs and stopped. Why the hell am I walking up the stairs when there is an elevator nearby? I slapped my forehead and got into the elevator, pressing the top floor button. Nothing happened. "Gah, ****!" I punched the wall and zapped the machine with my index finger, kick starting the elevator into life. It jolted, then moved slowly to the top floor. Too slowly; my foot was tapping out a rhythm as my right hand fingers drummed along the shaft of the pipe.

The elevator dinged and I didn't bother to hide. I watched the lightning outside the large windows flash, and I knew that we were in my element here. I stopped and listened for him . . . there; to the left. I could hear his breathing. It was even and unafraid. (Cue climactic battle... In Chapter 1.)

"You know, I can hear your breathing. You aren't too great of a hider, Mr. Sniper." (Ugh...) I looked up as he came out of his hiding spot. He didn't have the look of a sniper. He wore goggles on a head covered in shaggy black hair. He wore a short sleeved black shirt over a long sleeved red one with dark jeans and boots. What caught my attention were his eyes. They were weird looking: the irises were dark red and the sclera were pitch black, but yet in a flash (Literal or metaphorical flash?) I could see them turn into normal dark blue eyes.

"You shouldn't be alive, Blade. It'll only cause more trouble for yourself and others." His eyes bore into me, as if burning into my soul. This guy was making me twitchy. (All this badass nonsense and he's jumpy already? Character feels inconsistent, and alien. Why is he twitchy? What about the sniper unnerves him?)

"The hell did you say to me? Did you just tell me the world would better off with me dead?" I chuckled as I twirled the steel pipe. "Dude, you must really want me to--" (Wait, where has this nerve come from?)

He dove at me with amazing speed, and it took a lot of effort on my part to block his fist with mine. He swung his leg up and caught me in the side of the head, knocking me back a few steps. My surroundings were swimming, his kicks were really powerful. (Too vague, I'm not feeling like you're immersing us here. Keep in mind, everything he thinks and feels, we should. This includes having his vision dance while someone's standing over him kicking.) I looked up in time to bring my forearm up, blocking another blow to the head. Now I was getting angry. (Show, don't tell.) I gripped his shin tightly and swung him, flinging his body into a nearby pillar. (Really? Assuming the guy wasn't too tall, he's be somewhere in the neighborhood of 180-220. Lighting and throwing someone from their shin requires the kind of strength it would take to lift and carry a heavy wooden table while only grabbing the bottom of one of the legs. Throwing would be completely out of the question, given the physics of a throw. He's not a baseball.) I picked up the steel pipe and sparked it again, charging forward with killing intent. (Tired dialog.)

He spun upward and dark red bolts converged around his right hand, forming a black orb that quickly morphed into a two-handed sword with a black blade. Effortlessly, as if it weighed nothing, he swung the sword upward and sliced the pipe in two, then punched me in the jaw with a left hook. (Why would he punch when he's got a terrible cliche right there in his hands?) I stumbled back and he glared at me with those freaky-ass eyes.

"What is your problem? Why do you want me dead?" I pulled out my father's sword, and zapped it with electricity.

"Because you're an imbalance to this world." His body became engulfed in black flames, something I've never seen before. He couldn't be a flame elemental. He was . . . something different. We clashed swords and were stuck in a lock. (Ugh, you don't get stuck in sword fights. There aren't any blade pins or hilt-bars or anything.)

"What kind of elemental are you?" I pushed down on his sword, only to have him kick me in the chest and push me closer to the windows. Lightning struck and it began down pouring.

"I am no elemental. I am something far worse." ("I. Am. A. Cliche!") He smirked at me and shoved me against the window, the glass breaking. (Then you fell?) He grabbed my collar and spun us around, throwing me into a pillar, breaking clean through it. His strength was immense. I groaned as I struggled to stand up. (Pillars are solid material. They exist that way so that they can bear weight. The spinal column and rib cage have a significantly lower breaking point than a full column, not to mention the squishy organs beneath. If you clipped through a concrete pillar, and you're human, then you're also dead.)

"You're really beginning to piss me off." I took a deep breath and glared at him. I could feel the electricity coursing through my body. I lifted my left hand and shot a large bolt out of my palm. He lifted his sword and it deflected off into the wall on the opposite side of the room. (How? The sword conducts.) He began charging at me, and I continued firing bolt after bolt. He got up close and I gave him an electrically charged kicked to the forearms, knocking the blade from his hands. (How did he kick his forearms? Wouldn't they be raised for a strike?)

That stunned moment bought me the time I need. I pushed lightning into my fists and began punching him in the stomach, then chest, then face, and different assortments of those kinds. ("And different assortments of those kinds."? That's not what I would think of how to describe it in the middle of a fight. Why would "Blade"?) I finally got a good enough kick to his chest that he was forced up against the broken glass. With a crack of my knuckles I sneered at him. "Not so fucking cocky now, are you?" With a shout I took a running dive at him, my fists slamming into his chest and taking both of us out the window. (Going from rooftop Bleach showdown to DBZ.)

We tumbled hundreds of feet to the ground, punching and kicking one another. Finally, I planted my feet on his chest and kicked, giving myself a slight boost higher into the air. I inhaled deeply and threw my right arm out. I pushed all of my energy into my right arm, little sparks of electricity arcing over my fingertips and palm. I called forth a bolt of lightning from the sky and it struck my back. I guided the energy through my body and out my right arm. The bolt shot through the sky and struck the man directly in the chest. I could hear his pained scream, agonizing pain showing on his face.

I fucking loved it.

His body smashed into the ground, creating a small crater around him, and I'm sure me landing on his chest didn't help him any. ("Shame my legs are broken too.") I grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face up. Lightning in his body made him jolt a few times as he stared daggers at me, blood trailing down his eyes, mouth, and ears.

"I warned you, James . . . now the future is yours to endure." I stared at him in shock. He had called me by name, which nobody but my parents knew. (...Given the falling time, I'd have to say it was at least 10 stories. What.)

"Tell me what you know! How did you learn my name?" I had to shout over the rain, which began pouring harder.

He only smiled weakly and laughed. "It's too late for that." His eyes glanced over to a building. "I'll see you soon." He closed his eyes and just then a bullet embedded itself in his head. What the hell, I thought to myself. I shot my eyes to where the bullet had come from, and standing there was a man not much older or differently shaped than I. He brushed back the hood of his green camo hoodie and stared at me before turning and walking out of sight. (Again, no sounds of gunshots. Where did that amazing, heartbeat-detecting hearing go?)

I looked back down at the body before me, blood covering his figure, and only one thing crossed my mind: What the fuck is going on?

You get too caught up in the action to really let your reader in on anything. Why is Blade where he is? What makes him act like a thug but think like an anime fan? Why does he use his father's sword? Why doesn't he use a gun? Why should we care?

It's important to consider your audience when writing. For lack of anything else to call it, Blade strikes me as a stock character turned into a protagonist. He has little depth outside of what he wants us to think he is and how he dresses. You've given us such an alien that despite the fact that we're in a ride-along in his brain, we hardly feel anything for him at all. We can see he feels anger, and confusion, and more anger, but seeing isn't the same as letting us feel it too. This is first-person, make us ride along in his brain. Don't tell us "I was angry," show us. A perfect scene for it would've been when he was wailing on his chest and face. Really sink us into now just how angry this guy is, but why. Where is his father now? Why even have a whore at the beginning of the story? Tell us about Blade, otherwise we just won't care.

Beyond that, spend more time in the environment. You described clothes and the storm. The city's dirty, but how big? Does it get power, or are there even industries around? Is it like our world? Better? Worse? What kind of world is it where snipers can set up and no one calls the police when shots start firing?

That aside, the composition could use some work. Aside from your overuse of the semi-colon, there's not a lot wrong, grammatically speaking. The basis for the language is there, but its use is too textbook. We don't get a whole lot of feeling from the writing, it's just stating things rather than implying them, or selling us on them. That's a result from what seems like a lack of style, something that doesn't separate your written voice from those of a thousand other writers writing a thousand other cliches thinly veiled as stories.

For that, I can offer little more advice than to read outside of superpower genres, ground us a little more before letting our mind focus on the high-adrenaline world of Blade. At least help us understand that there's a world that goes through the seven days a week before you throw us in. Aside from Blade, sniper, and hoody, we don't see any other characters. We don't know what time of day. We don't know if he lives in a city block, or a suburb. Does he have any neighbors? Show us that there's a living, breathing world around him, and it'll likely stop feeling like a closed set leading up to a climactic battle.

There's a lot here that needs work. Nearly everything I can point out about this is either a cliche, or pulled straight from the playbook of a shonen anime/manga. However, unlike comics like those, you don't have 10,000 volumes to get us sunk into the characters, and their plights, you have 1,200 words, if even that much. Really make us feel and care, or most of us will put it down before we get to page 2.

Hopefully that helped. I was harsh, but that's because I really wanted to illustrate how much of this the audience could've put down at any given point. You're fighting for exposure in a sea of billions of words. If you just show me cliche after cliche, you'll get lost in that sea. Clean it up, make us care a bit more about Blade, and be a little more liberal with your characterization and world-building, and it'll improve by leaps and bounds.

And if there's anything you think I can help with, or clarify, please feel free to ask. I'd love to help. Warmest regards,

 

[Player 2]

Incerpt is not a word. It's excerpt.

 

[LobsterMobster]

Incerpt is not a word. It's excerpt.

Yeah, this is important if you're serious about writing. Use real words, till you're on par with William Shakespeare, Lewis Carroll, or Sarah Palin.

 

[Josh Kurber]

Stop saying "incerpt", it's not a word. Any actual writer would KNOW this.

Sorry, I used to hear it all the time, so it's stuck in my mind.

 

[Josh Kurber]

High on detail, low on substance. You insert a lot of detail for the sake of detail but try to move the story along at the same time and it feels clumsy - if you're going to go to the effort of describing something in that much detail, let that be the focus. Describe the coat before the character puts it on, for instance.

Overall it could use some refining but I think you're doing fairly well. Styles vary from person to person, and I wouldn't say your style is bad - it's just not the style I would enjoy reading for 200+ pages.

It reminds me a little of the Nightside series by Simon R. Green. You a fan by any chance?

Never heard of it, sorry

My favorite series is the Sword of Truth series, though. That and the Percy Jackson books (for I love Greek Mythology with a passion.)

Is the Nightside series good?

 

[Josh Kurber]

Spoiler: NewClassic Edit

I woke with a start, a crack of lightning came from outside of this little adobe (Adobe is a type of clay used in desert environments. "Abode" might've been the word you were thinking here.) of mine. One of the hundreds in this damned city. (Semi-colons are one of those "Why bother?" usages. If it doesn't need to be a semi-colon, then just don't use it.) I sat up and pulled on my boxers before turning to the whore in my bed. I can't even remember her name... Hell, I don't remember any of the whores' names. I grabbed a black T-shirt from the ground and draped it over my head, reaching next for my jeans, dark and torn down the shins. I slipped my fighting gloves on, which were only fingerless gloves with connecting chains on the back. I clenched my hands to stretch them slightly and walked to the large bow window. (Agreed on the other comments talking about too much clothing detail. This reads like you took a King of Fighters character and and turned him into a cliche. Not to mention is invoking montage imagery.)

Storm clouds were gathering above the city once again, (Why?) meaning my time to leave was coming. (Where?) I slipped on socks and my black sneakers, brand new and freshly stolen from the run-down store on Fifth Street. (Too much detail. You can characterize without going overboard. I could cut both of these paragraphs down to "Thunder woke me, which doesn't happen to me very often. Never woke the whore, though, whatever her name was. I reached for my clothes, mostly stolen, and...") The thunder rumbled more as rain began pelting against the windows. (Yeah yeah, we get it.) Bolts of lightning struck across the sky, illuminating sections of this tattered city. I watched a bolt of lightning strike a nearby building, and at the same time a bullet grazed my right arm. (Oh, that's completely normal. Being this blase about it wouldn't mesh with any readers. You're losing their emotional connection right there. This guy is made to seem "Too cool for school," but he's reading like he overthinks everything, hung up on history. Most cool guys don't hang up on details, because it doesn't matter. He shouldn't care who or where he stole from, or that the whore even has a name. More importantly, snipers bullets get to be supersonic by the time they reach a certain distance. After about two seconds, the crack from that rifle should've woken the hell out of the whore, who seems to have disappeared. And how is his arm not completely torn to shreds? Even a graze with those calibers should do some damage, more than a tiny cut.)

A sniper. In the building where the lightning struck. Bastard. I ducked behind my couch and could hear the faint sound of him reloading and cocking the gun. I loved my great hearing at times like these. (In a thunderstorm? Christ, with hearing like this, the guy would go nuts from hearing the tension in the powerlines throughout both his house and the city. Consistency is key.) I heard another crack of thunder and I dove to the doorway as another flash of lightning lit the sky. (Lightning doesn't follow thunder, it happens the other way around.) I grabbed my sleeveless black long coat, the one that just barely touched the ground and had lightning bolts down the back, and threw it on. Then I reached into the closet and pulled over my father's sword, wrapping it over my shoulder. (With bandage? Is it on a sling?) I moved out the back of the house, where the sniper shouldn't have too good of a look at me. (Actually, if he could graze you from the bed, wouldn't he be able to shoot through the couch after reloading?)

Sneaking around the building, I had the feeling he could see me again, so I dropped to a crouch and walked slowly toward the surrounding fence. I came to a break in the gate, and I had to wait for the right moment to get through it. Lightning flooded my vision, too white in the black city, and *FLASH.* I dashed through the gate as quick as I could. be and made I somehow made it into the alley not too far. If he had seen me, he didn't shoot.

I weaved my way through the buildings until I got to the skyscraper where the sniper was hiding. He knew I was coming for him, so I had to make sure I didn't do anything to alert him to my presence. My foot grazed a pipe, which dropped with a crash to the floor. It echoed in the alley. CLANG. (You have the full power of point-of-view here. Don't turn it into a comic by introducing sounds before the actions that accompany them. Describe the scenes, let us live them, preferably without the Adam West era clinks and clonks.)

"Shit!" I dove behind a pillar. How could I have been so clumsy as to knock over a stupid lead pipe! Wait . . . I came out of hiding and picked up the pipe. Gripping it tightly, I surged energy through it and watched as the weapon came to life with mini bolts of lightning dancing across the surface. Hell yeah. (Action Hero One Liner. Cliche.) I smirked and continued towards the stairs. He's on the top floor, he's gotta be. In every story and movie they are always on the top floor. (Characterization is overplayed. Show us he's a badass, don't hold our hand with his trite narration.)

I started climbing up the stairs and stopped. Why the hell am I walking up the stairs when there is an elevator nearby? I slapped my forehead and got into the elevator, pressing the top floor button. Nothing happened. "Gah, ****!" I punched the wall and zapped the machine with my index finger, kick starting the elevator into life. It jolted, then moved slowly to the top floor. Too slowly; my foot was tapping out a rhythm as my right hand fingers drummed along the shaft of the pipe.

The elevator dinged and I didn't bother to hide. I watched the lightning outside the large windows flash, and I knew that we were in my element here. I stopped and listened for him . . . there; to the left. I could hear his breathing. It was even and unafraid. (Cue climactic battle... In Chapter 1.)

"You know, I can hear your breathing. You aren't too great of a hider, Mr. Sniper." (Ugh...) I looked up as he came out of his hiding spot. He didn't have the look of a sniper. He wore goggles on a head covered in shaggy black hair. He wore a short sleeved black shirt over a long sleeved red one with dark jeans and boots. What caught my attention were his eyes. They were weird looking: the irises were dark red and the sclera were pitch black, but yet in a flash (Literal or metaphorical flash?) I could see them turn into normal dark blue eyes.

"You shouldn't be alive, Blade. It'll only cause more trouble for yourself and others." His eyes bore into me, as if burning into my soul. This guy was making me twitchy. (All this badass nonsense and he's jumpy already? Character feels inconsistent, and alien. Why is he twitchy? What about the sniper unnerves him?)

"The hell did you say to me? Did you just tell me the world would better off with me dead?" I chuckled as I twirled the steel pipe. "Dude, you must really want me to--" (Wait, where has this nerve come from?)

He dove at me with amazing speed, and it took a lot of effort on my part to block his fist with mine. He swung his leg up and caught me in the side of the head, knocking me back a few steps. My surroundings were swimming, his kicks were really powerful. (Too vague, I'm not feeling like you're immersing us here. Keep in mind, everything he thinks and feels, we should. This includes having his vision dance while someone's standing over him kicking.) I looked up in time to bring my forearm up, blocking another blow to the head. Now I was getting angry. (Show, don't tell.) I gripped his shin tightly and swung him, flinging his body into a nearby pillar. (Really? Assuming the guy wasn't too tall, he's be somewhere in the neighborhood of 180-220. Lighting and throwing someone from their shin requires the kind of strength it would take to lift and carry a heavy wooden table while only grabbing the bottom of one of the legs. Throwing would be completely out of the question, given the physics of a throw. He's not a baseball.) I picked up the steel pipe and sparked it again, charging forward with killing intent. (Tired dialog.)

He spun upward and dark red bolts converged around his right hand, forming a black orb that quickly morphed into a two-handed sword with a black blade. Effortlessly, as if it weighed nothing, he swung the sword upward and sliced the pipe in two, then punched me in the jaw with a left hook. (Why would he punch when he's got a terrible cliche right there in his hands?) I stumbled back and he glared at me with those freaky-ass eyes.

"What is your problem? Why do you want me dead?" I pulled out my father's sword, and zapped it with electricity.

"Because you're an imbalance to this world." His body became engulfed in black flames, something I've never seen before. He couldn't be a flame elemental. He was . . . something different. We clashed swords and were stuck in a lock. (Ugh, you don't get stuck in sword fights. There aren't any blade pins or hilt-bars or anything.)

"What kind of elemental are you?" I pushed down on his sword, only to have him kick me in the chest and push me closer to the windows. Lightning struck and it began down pouring.

"I am no elemental. I am something far worse." ("I. Am. A. Cliche!") He smirked at me and shoved me against the window, the glass breaking. (Then you fell?) He grabbed my collar and spun us around, throwing me into a pillar, breaking clean through it. His strength was immense. I groaned as I struggled to stand up. (Pillars are solid material. They exist that way so that they can bear weight. The spinal column and rib cage have a significantly lower breaking point than a full column, not to mention the squishy organs beneath. If you clipped through a concrete pillar, and you're human, then you're also dead.)

"You're really beginning to piss me off." I took a deep breath and glared at him. I could feel the electricity coursing through my body. I lifted my left hand and shot a large bolt out of my palm. He lifted his sword and it deflected off into the wall on the opposite side of the room. (How? The sword conducts.) He began charging at me, and I continued firing bolt after bolt. He got up close and I gave him an electrically charged kicked to the forearms, knocking the blade from his hands. (How did he kick his forearms? Wouldn't they be raised for a strike?)

That stunned moment bought me the time I need. I pushed lightning into my fists and began punching him in the stomach, then chest, then face, and different assortments of those kinds. ("And different assortments of those kinds."? That's not what I would think of how to describe it in the middle of a fight. Why would "Blade"?) I finally got a good enough kick to his chest that he was forced up against the broken glass. With a crack of my knuckles I sneered at him. "Not so fucking cocky now, are you?" With a shout I took a running dive at him, my fists slamming into his chest and taking both of us out the window. (Going from rooftop Bleach showdown to DBZ.)

We tumbled hundreds of feet to the ground, punching and kicking one another. Finally, I planted my feet on his chest and kicked, giving myself a slight boost higher into the air. I inhaled deeply and threw my right arm out. I pushed all of my energy into my right arm, little sparks of electricity arcing over my fingertips and palm. I called forth a bolt of lightning from the sky and it struck my back. I guided the energy through my body and out my right arm. The bolt shot through the sky and struck the man directly in the chest. I could hear his pained scream, agonizing pain showing on his face.

I fucking loved it.

His body smashed into the ground, creating a small crater around him, and I'm sure me landing on his chest didn't help him any. ("Shame my legs are broken too.") I grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face up. Lightning in his body made him jolt a few times as he stared daggers at me, blood trailing down his eyes, mouth, and ears.

"I warned you, James . . . now the future is yours to endure." I stared at him in shock. He had called me by name, which nobody but my parents knew. (...Given the falling time, I'd have to say it was at least 10 stories. What.)

"Tell me what you know! How did you learn my name?" I had to shout over the rain, which began pouring harder.

He only smiled weakly and laughed. "It's too late for that." His eyes glanced over to a building. "I'll see you soon." He closed his eyes and just then a bullet embedded itself in his head. What the hell, I thought to myself. I shot my eyes to where the bullet had come from, and standing there was a man not much older or differently shaped than I. He brushed back the hood of his green camo hoodie and stared at me before turning and walking out of sight. (Again, no sounds of gunshots. Where did that amazing, heartbeat-detecting hearing go?)

I looked back down at the body before me, blood covering his figure, and only one thing crossed my mind: What the fuck is going on?

You get too caught up in the action to really let your reader in on anything. Why is Blade where he is? What makes him act like a thug but think like an anime fan? Why does he use his father's sword? Why doesn't he use a gun? Why should we care?

It's important to consider your audience when writing. For lack of anything else to call it, Blade strikes me as a stock character turned into a protagonist. He has little depth outside of what he wants us to think he is and how he dresses. You've given us such an alien that despite the fact that we're in a ride-along in his brain, we hardly feel anything for him at all. We can see he feels anger, and confusion, and more anger, but seeing isn't the same as letting us feel it too. This is first-person, make us ride along in his brain. Don't tell us "I was angry," show us. A perfect scene for it would've been when he was wailing on his chest and face. Really sink us into now just how angry this guy is, but why. Where is his father now? Why even have a whore at the beginning of the story? Tell us about Blade, otherwise we just won't care.

Beyond that, spend more time in the environment. You described clothes and the storm. The city's dirty, but how big? Does it get power, or are there even industries around? Is it like our world? Better? Worse? What kind of world is it where snipers can set up and no one calls the police when shots start firing?

That aside, the composition could use some work. Aside from your overuse of the semi-colon, there's not a lot wrong, grammatically speaking. The basis for the language is there, but its use is too textbook. We don't get a whole lot of feeling from the writing, it's just stating things rather than implying them, or selling us on them. That's a result from what seems like a lack of style, something that doesn't separate your written voice from those of a thousand other writers writing a thousand other cliches thinly veiled as stories.

For that, I can offer little more advice than to read outside of superpower genres, ground us a little more before letting our mind focus on the high-adrenaline world of Blade. At least help us understand that there's a world that goes through the seven days a week before you throw us in. Aside from Blade, sniper, and hoody, we don't see any other characters. We don't know what time of day. We don't know if he lives in a city block, or a suburb. Does he have any neighbors? Show us that there's a living, breathing world around him, and it'll likely stop feeling like a closed set leading up to a climactic battle.

There's a lot here that needs work. Nearly everything I can point out about this is either a cliche, or pulled straight from the playbook of a shonen anime/manga. However, unlike comics like those, you don't have 10,000 volumes to get us sunk into the characters, and their plights, you have 1,200 words, if even that much. Really make us feel and care, or most of us will put it down before we get to page 2.

Hopefully that helped. I was harsh, but that's because I really wanted to illustrate how much of this the audience could've put down at any given point. You're fighting for exposure in a sea of billions of words. If you just show me cliche after cliche, you'll get lost in that sea. Clean it up, make us care a bit more about Blade, and be a little more liberal with your characterization and world-building, and it'll improve by leaps and bounds.

And if there's anything you think I can help with, or clarify, please feel free to ask. I'd love to help. Warmest regards,

Spoiler: NewClassic Edit

I woke with a start, a crack of lightning came from outside of this little adobe (Adobe is a type of clay used in desert environments. "Abode" might've been the word you were thinking here.) of mine. One of the hundreds in this damned city. (Semi-colons are one of those "Why bother?" usages. If it doesn't need to be a semi-colon, then just don't use it.) I sat up and pulled on my boxers before turning to the whore in my bed. I can't even remember her name... Hell, I don't remember any of the whores' names. I grabbed a black T-shirt from the ground and draped it over my head, reaching next for my jeans, dark and torn down the shins. I slipped my fighting gloves on, which were only fingerless gloves with connecting chains on the back. I clenched my hands to stretch them slightly and walked to the large bow window. (Agreed on the other comments talking about too much clothing detail. This reads like you took a King of Fighters character and and turned him into a cliche. Not to mention is invoking montage imagery.)

Storm clouds were gathering above the city once again, (Why?) meaning my time to leave was coming. (Where?) I slipped on socks and my black sneakers, brand new and freshly stolen from the run-down store on Fifth Street. (Too much detail. You can characterize without going overboard. I could cut both of these paragraphs down to "Thunder woke me, which doesn't happen to me very often. Never woke the whore, though, whatever her name was. I reached for my clothes, mostly stolen, and...") The thunder rumbled more as rain began pelting against the windows. (Yeah yeah, we get it.) Bolts of lightning struck across the sky, illuminating sections of this tattered city. I watched a bolt of lightning strike a nearby building, and at the same time a bullet grazed my right arm. (Oh, that's completely normal. Being this blase about it wouldn't mesh with any readers. You're losing their emotional connection right there. This guy is made to seem "Too cool for school," but he's reading like he overthinks everything, hung up on history. Most cool guys don't hang up on details, because it doesn't matter. He shouldn't care who or where he stole from, or that the whore even has a name. More importantly, snipers bullets get to be supersonic by the time they reach a certain distance. After about two seconds, the crack from that rifle should've woken the hell out of the whore, who seems to have disappeared. And how is his arm not completely torn to shreds? Even a graze with those calibers should do some damage, more than a tiny cut.)

A sniper. In the building where the lightning struck. Bastard. I ducked behind my couch and could hear the faint sound of him reloading and cocking the gun. I loved my great hearing at times like these. (In a thunderstorm? Christ, with hearing like this, the guy would go nuts from hearing the tension in the powerlines throughout both his house and the city. Consistency is key.) I heard another crack of thunder and I dove to the doorway as another flash of lightning lit the sky. (Lightning doesn't follow thunder, it happens the other way around.) I grabbed my sleeveless black long coat, the one that just barely touched the ground and had lightning bolts down the back, and threw it on. Then I reached into the closet and pulled over my father's sword, wrapping it over my shoulder. (With bandage? Is it on a sling?) I moved out the back of the house, where the sniper shouldn't have too good of a look at me. (Actually, if he could graze you from the bed, wouldn't he be able to shoot through the couch after reloading?)

Sneaking around the building, I had the feeling he could see me again, so I dropped to a crouch and walked slowly toward the surrounding fence. I came to a break in the gate, and I had to wait for the right moment to get through it. Lightning flooded my vision, too white in the black city, and *FLASH.* I dashed through the gate as quick as I could. be and made I somehow made it into the alley not too far. If he had seen me, he didn't shoot.

I weaved my way through the buildings until I got to the skyscraper where the sniper was hiding. He knew I was coming for him, so I had to make sure I didn't do anything to alert him to my presence. My foot grazed a pipe, which dropped with a crash to the floor. It echoed in the alley. CLANG. (You have the full power of point-of-view here. Don't turn it into a comic by introducing sounds before the actions that accompany them. Describe the scenes, let us live them, preferably without the Adam West era clinks and clonks.)

"Shit!" I dove behind a pillar. How could I have been so clumsy as to knock over a stupid lead pipe! Wait . . . I came out of hiding and picked up the pipe. Gripping it tightly, I surged energy through it and watched as the weapon came to life with mini bolts of lightning dancing across the surface. Hell yeah. (Action Hero One Liner. Cliche.) I smirked and continued towards the stairs. He's on the top floor, he's gotta be. In every story and movie they are always on the top floor. (Characterization is overplayed. Show us he's a badass, don't hold our hand with his trite narration.)

I started climbing up the stairs and stopped. Why the hell am I walking up the stairs when there is an elevator nearby? I slapped my forehead and got into the elevator, pressing the top floor button. Nothing happened. "Gah, ****!" I punched the wall and zapped the machine with my index finger, kick starting the elevator into life. It jolted, then moved slowly to the top floor. Too slowly; my foot was tapping out a rhythm as my right hand fingers drummed along the shaft of the pipe.

The elevator dinged and I didn't bother to hide. I watched the lightning outside the large windows flash, and I knew that we were in my element here. I stopped and listened for him . . . there; to the left. I could hear his breathing. It was even and unafraid. (Cue climactic battle... In Chapter 1.)

"You know, I can hear your breathing. You aren't too great of a hider, Mr. Sniper." (Ugh...) I looked up as he came out of his hiding spot. He didn't have the look of a sniper. He wore goggles on a head covered in shaggy black hair. He wore a short sleeved black shirt over a long sleeved red one with dark jeans and boots. What caught my attention were his eyes. They were weird looking: the irises were dark red and the sclera were pitch black, but yet in a flash (Literal or metaphorical flash?) I could see them turn into normal dark blue eyes.

"You shouldn't be alive, Blade. It'll only cause more trouble for yourself and others." His eyes bore into me, as if burning into my soul. This guy was making me twitchy. (All this badass nonsense and he's jumpy already? Character feels inconsistent, and alien. Why is he twitchy? What about the sniper unnerves him?)

"The hell did you say to me? Did you just tell me the world would better off with me dead?" I chuckled as I twirled the steel pipe. "Dude, you must really want me to--" (Wait, where has this nerve come from?)

He dove at me with amazing speed, and it took a lot of effort on my part to block his fist with mine. He swung his leg up and caught me in the side of the head, knocking me back a few steps. My surroundings were swimming, his kicks were really powerful. (Too vague, I'm not feeling like you're immersing us here. Keep in mind, everything he thinks and feels, we should. This includes having his vision dance while someone's standing over him kicking.) I looked up in time to bring my forearm up, blocking another blow to the head. Now I was getting angry. (Show, don't tell.) I gripped his shin tightly and swung him, flinging his body into a nearby pillar. (Really? Assuming the guy wasn't too tall, he's be somewhere in the neighborhood of 180-220. Lighting and throwing someone from their shin requires the kind of strength it would take to lift and carry a heavy wooden table while only grabbing the bottom of one of the legs. Throwing would be completely out of the question, given the physics of a throw. He's not a baseball.) I picked up the steel pipe and sparked it again, charging forward with killing intent. (Tired dialog.)

He spun upward and dark red bolts converged around his right hand, forming a black orb that quickly morphed into a two-handed sword with a black blade. Effortlessly, as if it weighed nothing, he swung the sword upward and sliced the pipe in two, then punched me in the jaw with a left hook. (Why would he punch when he's got a terrible cliche right there in his hands?) I stumbled back and he glared at me with those freaky-ass eyes.

"What is your problem? Why do you want me dead?" I pulled out my father's sword, and zapped it with electricity.

"Because you're an imbalance to this world." His body became engulfed in black flames, something I've never seen before. He couldn't be a flame elemental. He was . . . something different. We clashed swords and were stuck in a lock. (Ugh, you don't get stuck in sword fights. There aren't any blade pins or hilt-bars or anything.)

"What kind of elemental are you?" I pushed down on his sword, only to have him kick me in the chest and push me closer to the windows. Lightning struck and it began down pouring.

"I am no elemental. I am something far worse." ("I. Am. A. Cliche!") He smirked at me and shoved me against the window, the glass breaking. (Then you fell?) He grabbed my collar and spun us around, throwing me into a pillar, breaking clean through it. His strength was immense. I groaned as I struggled to stand up. (Pillars are solid material. They exist that way so that they can bear weight. The spinal column and rib cage have a significantly lower breaking point than a full column, not to mention the squishy organs beneath. If you clipped through a concrete pillar, and you're human, then you're also dead.)

"You're really beginning to piss me off." I took a deep breath and glared at him. I could feel the electricity coursing through my body. I lifted my left hand and shot a large bolt out of my palm. He lifted his sword and it deflected off into the wall on the opposite side of the room. (How? The sword conducts.) He began charging at me, and I continued firing bolt after bolt. He got up close and I gave him an electrically charged kicked to the forearms, knocking the blade from his hands. (How did he kick his forearms? Wouldn't they be raised for a strike?)

That stunned moment bought me the time I need. I pushed lightning into my fists and began punching him in the stomach, then chest, then face, and different assortments of those kinds. ("And different assortments of those kinds."? That's not what I would think of how to describe it in the middle of a fight. Why would "Blade"?) I finally got a good enough kick to his chest that he was forced up against the broken glass. With a crack of my knuckles I sneered at him. "Not so fucking cocky now, are you?" With a shout I took a running dive at him, my fists slamming into his chest and taking both of us out the window. (Going from rooftop Bleach showdown to DBZ.)

We tumbled hundreds of feet to the ground, punching and kicking one another. Finally, I planted my feet on his chest and kicked, giving myself a slight boost higher into the air. I inhaled deeply and threw my right arm out. I pushed all of my energy into my right arm, little sparks of electricity arcing over my fingertips and palm. I called forth a bolt of lightning from the sky and it struck my back. I guided the energy through my body and out my right arm. The bolt shot through the sky and struck the man directly in the chest. I could hear his pained scream, agonizing pain showing on his face.

I fucking loved it.

His body smashed into the ground, creating a small crater around him, and I'm sure me landing on his chest didn't help him any. ("Shame my legs are broken too.") I grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face up. Lightning in his body made him jolt a few times as he stared daggers at me, blood trailing down his eyes, mouth, and ears.

"I warned you, James . . . now the future is yours to endure." I stared at him in shock. He had called me by name, which nobody but my parents knew. (...Given the falling time, I'd have to say it was at least 10 stories. What.)

"Tell me what you know! How did you learn my name?" I had to shout over the rain, which began pouring harder.

He only smiled weakly and laughed. "It's too late for that." His eyes glanced over to a building. "I'll see you soon." He closed his eyes and just then a bullet embedded itself in his head. What the hell, I thought to myself. I shot my eyes to where the bullet had come from, and standing there was a man not much older or differently shaped than I. He brushed back the hood of his green camo hoodie and stared at me before turning and walking out of sight. (Again, no sounds of gunshots. Where did that amazing, heartbeat-detecting hearing go?)

I looked back down at the body before me, blood covering his figure, and only one thing crossed my mind: What the fuck is going on?

You get too caught up in the action to really let your reader in on anything. Why is Blade where he is? What makes him act like a thug but think like an anime fan? Why does he use his father's sword? Why doesn't he use a gun? Why should we care?

It's important to consider your audience when writing. For lack of anything else to call it, Blade strikes me as a stock character turned into a protagonist. He has little depth outside of what he wants us to think he is and how he dresses. You've given us such an alien that despite the fact that we're in a ride-along in his brain, we hardly feel anything for him at all. We can see he feels anger, and confusion, and more anger, but seeing isn't the same as letting us feel it too. This is first-person, make us ride along in his brain. Don't tell us "I was angry," show us. A perfect scene for it would've been when he was wailing on his chest and face. Really sink us into now just how angry this guy is, but why. Where is his father now? Why even have a whore at the beginning of the story? Tell us about Blade, otherwise we just won't care.

Beyond that, spend more time in the environment. You described clothes and the storm. The city's dirty, but how big? Does it get power, or are there even industries around? Is it like our world? Better? Worse? What kind of world is it where snipers can set up and no one calls the police when shots start firing?

That aside, the composition could use some work. Aside from your overuse of the semi-colon, there's not a lot wrong, grammatically speaking. The basis for the language is there, but its use is too textbook. We don't get a whole lot of feeling from the writing, it's just stating things rather than implying them, or selling us on them. That's a result from what seems like a lack of style, something that doesn't separate your written voice from those of a thousand other writers writing a thousand other cliches thinly veiled as stories.

For that, I can offer little more advice than to read outside of superpower genres, ground us a little more before letting our mind focus on the high-adrenaline world of Blade. At least help us understand that there's a world that goes through the seven days a week before you throw us in. Aside from Blade, sniper, and hoody, we don't see any other characters. We don't know what time of day. We don't know if he lives in a city block, or a suburb. Does he have any neighbors? Show us that there's a living, breathing world around him, and it'll likely stop feeling like a closed set leading up to a climactic battle.

There's a lot here that needs work. Nearly everything I can point out about this is either a cliche, or pulled straight from the playbook of a shonen anime/manga. However, unlike comics like those, you don't have 10,000 volumes to get us sunk into the characters, and their plights, you have 1,200 words, if even that much. Really make us feel and care, or most of us will put it down before we get to page 2.

Hopefully that helped. I was harsh, but that's because I really wanted to illustrate how much of this the audience could've put down at any given point. You're fighting for exposure in a sea of billions of words. If you just show me cliche after cliche, you'll get lost in that sea. Clean it up, make us care a bit more about Blade, and be a little more liberal with your characterization and world-building, and it'll improve by leaps and bounds.

And if there's anything you think I can help with, or clarify, please feel free to ask. I'd love to help. Warmest regards,

Meh, I don't think you were harsh, merely honest. And to be truthful, your edit made me chuckle a few times.

I appreciate the editing and the advice on how to fix everything, and I will take it all to heart for my next story, or if I even continue this one. That's as far as I got before moving on to a new story. Besides an intro for two other main characters.

And if I ever need more advice on how to fix my prose or a certain aspect of my writing, I will come to you, if you don't mind. I promise not to become a bother though.

 

[Talshere]

snip

You don't perchance have any books out do you?

 

[NewClassic_v1legacy]

You don't perchance have any books out do you?

Nope, hobbyist. I have stories littering the Escapist, but I'm not a professional writer outside of a single freelance article. Hoping to be one day, though.

 

[Talshere]

You don't perchance have any books out do you?

Nope, hobbyist. I have stories littering the Escapist, but I'm not a professional writer outside of a single freelance article. Hoping to be one day, though.

Shame, I think I would have liked to read one

 

[Kermi]

It reminds me a little of the Nightside series by Simon R. Green. You a fan by any chance?

Never heard of it, sorry

My favorite series is the Sword of Truth series, though. That and the Percy Jackson books (for I love Greek Mythology with a passion.)

Is the Nightside series good?[/quote]The books include some interesting ideas, but the style is a somewhat similar to yours - the combination of mysticism and fantasy mixed everyday film noir (by which I mean film noir cliches are so frequent that you just accept them as an integral part of the world the author has created).

 

[laststandman]

personally, I think the expression of action is a little over the top. There's a drought of character depth besides the fact that he is a badass.
The only piece of advice I could give you is a technique I use when writing in the first person: give your character some lines of existential thought . Have him ask questions, or think in the grand scheme of things. This will simultaneously reveal more about the character and about the setting/universe of your story.
I've not been writing for that long, but this is what I can think of.

 

[Josh Kurber]

It reminds me a little of the Nightside series by Simon R. Green. You a fan by any chance?

Never heard of it, sorry

My favorite series is the Sword of Truth series, though. That and the Percy Jackson books (for I love Greek Mythology with a passion.)

Is the Nightside series good?

The books include some interesting ideas, but the style is a somewhat similar to yours - the combination of mysticism and fantasy mixed everyday film noir (by which I mean film noir cliches are so frequent that you just accept them as an integral part of the world the author has created).

Ahhh, okay. I don't mean the many cliches though xD. I grew up on anime and mangas and old school JRPG stories. Which isn't too good of an excuse, I understand, but that's just what I think.

 

[Ivan Brogstog]

Excuse me? Why is he sleeping with the hooker? He should be fucking her brains out!!!
Please, if you're gonna swear through-out your story, you might as well have a sex scene...
Also - does he pay her - or just run off
Does anyone remember a whore's name anyway? You should make a joke out of it:
"Sorry Cindy, or Candy, or Sugar, I gotta get outta here." Blade yells from down the hall "It's Ruby" she replies, leaning out from the apartment door, wearing nothing more than a bed sheet; hair messed-up
"Whatever - there's cash in my wallet, take what you need" He instructs as he pushes the elevator button non-stop (as if it's going to make the lift go any faster) "Fuck it, I'll take the stairs/fire escape. In full view of the sniper, Blade decides to take this risk... (and then continue your story.)

Sorry to sound harsh, but you had me bored there. Perhaps a better start to the story maybe is he's just started his cigarette (Cliche, I know) and as he puts the butt out, the sniper purposefully shots the ash tray or something?

Maybe the sniper kills the whore by mistake?

This little abode of mine. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Ah, sorry, I had to get that out... I think your setting should be in a rented apartment so that it makes sense that a sniper on level ten of a building can get a straight shot at someone on a similar floor in a near-by building

He wore a short sleeved black shirt over a long sleeved red one

Does Blade have X-Ray vision too?

Anyway, I would love to read what your new draft is like, could you quote/message me if you post it...