Am I allowed to post bits of writing here?

[RoyalWelsh]

What the title says basically... I have been playing about with a character for a few years and have a few bits and pieces that I have written. Is it bad form to post them here and ask for feedback? Is there somewhere else I should be doing it?

[LadyG]

Please do! Maybe we should start an online critique/feedback thread????

[RoyalWelsh]

Yay! That's a really good idea as long as everyone promises to be nothing but nice about my stuff critical in a constructive way :)

[RoyalWelsh]

Ok.. so the first bit is....

I used to grasp at names like they were pieces of parchment floating through the air. Precious scraps of feather light substance that I would craft together and fashion into my armour. A patchwork quilt of promises: Abigail, Emily, Oliver, Thomas, Evelyn, Elizabeth, Rose, Ella. Each letter in each name a thread I held against my cheek as comfort; a faint whisper of things yet to come.

That started in my mid teens. Drifting off into daydreams about Moses baskets and high chairs. I would get lost in the romance of motherhood, certain that it was my only destiny. Yet here I am. In my thirties and the only thing that has changed is the intensity of my desire. Every waking second is another moment without my child. It starts as I wake up - would you have sneaked into my room, too excited by the day ahead to sleep a minute more? Would you jump on my bed, bursting with impatient energy because the world is still your oyster? Would I get the chance to brush my teeth, wash my hair, smooth in the body lotion I use, before you dragged me into your world? All the tiny, mundane things of every day stick in my side like little pink fingers, a cruel reminder of what I don?t have.

Not for lack of wanting. I want you with enough force that it amazes me all the time that you don?t just Appear. That I haven?t just woken up one morning to find you inside me. A tiny knot of hope, swelling my belly with pride and love and arms and fingers?Even now, writing this, everything inside me reaches for you. I feel the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins pushing against my skin; even the hairs on my arms stand up in the effort to brush against you. How can it be that I don?t even know what you look like and yet my heart beats echo inside me, because I?m empty without you.

I would have sex and during it I would be begging with my partner, silently pleading with him to empty himself inside me. Of course, that never happened. Although that never seemed to matter. Afterwards I would walk around, convinced that this time was the time I would conceive, revelling in this heated secret I carried in the pit of my stomach.
I never was pregnant though. Obviously. Every day in the week leading up to my period I would wake up and walk to the bathroom fearfully. Each day that I wasn?t bleeding was like a reprieve, a day filled with light and colour because Of Course, I was pregnant. Some months, my period would be late by a week or two and I savoured each morning, triumphant. Perhaps this was the month I had done what it took to convince whoever it was in control of these things that I was worthy of this gift.

Inevitably, my period came. A flood bursting through my dam of prayers and need and want. And then I would cry. Great tears of pain that my partner would try to wipe away but I couldn?t let him touch. The hurt I felt inside would manifest itself into something so physical that if he touched me I thought my skin would fall off my bones, chunks of weeping flesh sacrifices to a God that wouldn?t give me a child.

[RoyalWelsh]

Eek... obviously it's a bit... sentimental. Apologies :s

[Punkatheart]

There is a strange mixture of the visceral (silently pleading with him to empty himself inside me) and the sentimental 'chunks of weeping flesh sacrifices to a God that wouldn?t give me a child.'

But you have the raw emotions there - now you need to step away a little and craft it.

You have to be brutal with your own writing - cut anything frilly.

For example:

I used to grasp at names like they were pieces of parchment floating through the air. Precious scraps of feather light substance that I would craft together and fashion into my armour. A patchwork quilt of promises: Abigail, Emily, Oliver, Thomas, Evelyn, Elizabeth, Rose, Ella. Each letter in each name a thread I held against my cheek as comfort; a faint whisper of things yet to come.

'I used to grasp at names' is fine as a first sentence. It's dynamic - gives a sense of mystery and interest. But then there is the parchment floating, then becoming armour. The tactile and visual nature of something light and heavy doesn't work. Metaphors, similes and analogies have to work on every level.

Just be careful of too many soft and sentimental words - drifting, whispering, floating.

There is a story here - now you have to give it some life and movement. Intrigue your reader. Tell them things but not everything.

[BsshBossh]

Your words evoke some haunting, painful feelings and I find myself drawn to learn more about this woman's journey but there are too many words that are too frothy for my liking. I'd prefer more pared down paragraphs. It's lyrical and even magical realist but even Isabella Allende writes more simply.

Hold back, save many of the words and descriptions you use up front for later. Give me just enough now to get me hooked (and you do hook me in) but keep me expectant for much more. Reveal slowly.

Show alot more eg you tell me that "I would have sex and during it I would be begging with my partner, silently pleading with him to empty himself inside me" but can you show me this in an actual sexual scene later on?

My comments, by the way, are assuming this is a novel? Is it? If not, it should be as I'd like to get under the skin of this woman and her struggle.

[LadyG]

Great analysis from PAH and she has so much more writing experience but thought I would give you my tuppence worth.
I don't know anything but here goes:
I like it! Think visceral is good with the intensity of emotion you are conveying. I agree some of the metaphors are a bit wobbly.
Also I wonder if more restraint overall would showcase the visceral elements so that they are not so overwhelming? Is it a short story? Flash fiction? The whole feel of the piece is so intense that it might be difficult to read if you are planning anything longer.
I like the beginning.Could you say '15 and 35' sounds more real than mid-teens and 30s
Not sure about the middle bit which seems to be sort of written in the second person. (To the 'child') Should it all be like this or none IYSWIM.
Didn't quite understand the bit about partner 'not emptying' but still being convinced she was pregnant. Is this important later on? Or have I misunderstood?
Don't like 'chunks of weeping flesh'
'The hurt I felt inside would manifest itself into something so physical that if he touched me I thought my skin would fall off my bones.' Strong enough?
Well done!

[RoyalWelsh]

Thank you all for that you have said :) I agree with it - especially where you have all said it is too frilly. I know that and knew it as I was writing it, but it's hard to be 'brutal' with it because it's mine!

I have never heard of Isabella Allende... would it appeal? I don't normally like to read stuff like this, I am much more of a crime/thriller reader, so it was a bit of a surprise when I started with this... the closest I've come to reading something similar is Jodi Picoult and even then I have to be in the mood.

Hum... I get the bit about the similies and metaphors as well... when I read the first few sentences again, like you said there was parchment, feathers, armour and a quilt... eek.

I would say that it would be a bit too... much for a novel. LadyG I feel as though it would, if anything, be a short story... the bit in the middle to the 'child' is supposed to be like that, I think I am writing it as though she is talking to the child she wants but hasn't had yet. The rest of it sort of comes in the form of letters, for want of a better description, and the woman sort of sounds a bit unhinged, not in a dangerous way but in a sad way (or at least I hope not in a dangerous way.)

There is more that I will post, but beware it is more of the same! I will go back over the first bit at the weekend and change it :)

[RoyalWelsh]

Everything I did or learnt to do was ultimately for you. I chose to teach so I could understand how children work and see the world and so I could use the holidays to be with you. I learnt to make fairy cakes and sponge cakes and fudge and banoffee pie so I could make you birthday cakes and after school treats and hopefully teach you to do it too some day. I learnt to knit so that when I found out I was pregnant I could start knitting you a great blanket that you would wear down and love and sew into your wedding dress or tuck the last remaining corner into your suit one day. I researched my family tree so when you were old enough to understand it you could take it with you in your mind, so that if ever you found yourself not knowing where you were going, at least you know where you came from. All these things and a thousand, million more I have done for you; a child that doesn?t even exist yet.

Or do you? I know the science behind your beginning - sperm meets egg and hits it off and then the sperm worms its way into the egg which in turn buries itself in the spongy comfort of the womb. But where does the soul of you come from? I read somewhere once that there is a group of people that believe the souls of all the unborn children are floating around in this special place until they are picked by God or Fate or Mother Nature to go to a couple specially chosen for them. That seems a little hard to swallow, I know. But a child is a concept, and something as magical as you?you have no place in the sterile world of science. Besides. I know you. I am visited by you every day and I feel you around me sometimes, so I know you have already been given to me. I just need the scientific part of it to happen.
I?m not even allowed to talk about you. My beautiful fairy child. Then we, my partner and I, would fall out and argue, and I don?t want that. All I want to do is hold you in my arms and rock you. Smell you.

[RoyalWelsh]

At its worst it feels like a thousand strings are attached to my stomach and are heaving it out towards you. My heart feels raw where it chafes against my rib cage, desperate to hold you. At its most intense, a surge of tears comes with every inhalation, threatening to wash over my head and drag me along with the tide. I didn?t know something emotion based, something not really even based on fact, could hurt so viscerally.

[RoyalWelsh]

I have a whole sheaf of these now, is that strange? I don?t know why I just asked that, how could it not be strange that I am writing letters to my unborn child? It doesn?t feel strange. It feels perfect. You?re the only person I can talk to about you, other people are sick of hearing it. I don?t blame them because I would be to, I just can?t help it. Not that I will ever in a million years let you read these, I don?t want you to see me like this; a wreck of a woman who lives most her life in her head.

[RoyalWelsh]

I have to say though, I haven?t been showing my emotions too well lately. We, him and I, have been arguing a lot recently. He?s always asking me what?s wrong because I seem uptight to him, which isn?t necessarily true. I?m not uptight, I?m just not?here. I don?t give him proper answers because I?m being vague, not because I?m snapping at him. I seem to have retreated even more into my head with you in the last few weeks and it makes it hard for me to concentrate on the things around me. It?s not like I can explain that to him though, so every time he asks me what?s wrong I say nothing when really what I mean is, nothing new. I can?t work out if he knows that and just wants me to say it though. If he needs to hear me beg again or if he truly thinks I have forgotten because I can?t ask him again. Thinking about saying it out loud makes my throat feel raw, as though the words are tears and they?re filling my mouth. Just the thought of having to explain again how empty I feel stokes the fires behind my eyes again, making them smart and tingle and I can?t start it all because in the middle of the night when I?m still awake, aching for you, I need someone to hang on to. How funny that the very rock standing in between me and you is the one that I cling to so the tide of my grief doesn?t sweep me away.

[RoyalWelsh]

It seems to be that time of year again, I don?t know if that?s why I?ve been wanting you more recently. Everywhere I turn, women are finding out that they?re pregnant. It must be the season - that feeling you get when spring finally arrives, bringing air that smells different and feels fresh in your lungs. There seems to be hope in the world when spring comes, don?t you think? The world is shaking off her winter skirts and picking out clothes in pale yellows and deep greens, wrapping her hair in shawls of baby blue and cotton white. No wonder everybody is so damned fertile.

Yet here I am.

Carrying my womb full of decaying leaves and sludge, still filled to the brim with winter.

[RoyalWelsh]

I didn't think of that...

[BsshBossh]

Slightobsession - good luck! I haven't got the time, right this moment, to give you my detailed thoughts on your work but do keep with it as your story is intriguing. Do ask people if you can PM them your work for criticism - they may have work they want critiqued in return. Ask here on MN and also on You Write On, as Rumpel has suggested, also try Absolute Write and Writer's Digest - and there must be other forums you can submit to...

Good luck!