Dwayne’s Comments (group member since Apr 01, 2017)

Dwayne’s comments from the Support for Indie Authors group.

Mfonemana wrote: "..."

Nope.

B.A. wrote: "I want to know who Soloman is and if he plans on changing this nursing facility. I like the way it pulled me into the story and having worked in one of those really bad nursing homes, you nailed it."

No, he's just there for a visit.

Worlds collide.

From my upcoming work-in-progress. Inspired by the place where I work:

As nursing facilities went, Solomon had seen worse, though not often. He walked with hands in pockets, shoes tapping against the dull white tile of the floor, scuffed and marred by the many wheelchairs and walkers that had traversed over it. Wallpaper peeled in a few spots and a couple of the lights overhead buzzed and flickered. Stains in the ceiling tiles betrayed the pipes hidden above had leaked at one time or another. Small, feeble attempts to make the dreary place festive could be spotted here and there along his walk. A poster announced Gladys was ninety-one years young. Multi-colored markers were used on a dry erase board to announce tonight’s supper was half a tuna sandwich, potato soup, creamed peas, and peaches. Lunch would be a drumstick, country style green beans, rice, and birthday cake. Solomon assumed the cake was in honor of Gladys, though the words “birthday cake” were crossed out and the word “peaches” was written beside it. Poor Gladys.

Many eyes followed Solomon, most large and empty, those being the eyes of residents starving for a visit or tuned out on medication. He happened to glance into a room where a gentleman was slumped in a wheelchair, clad in slippers, a robe, and a brief. His eyes were cast down, one of the few pairs not following Solomon. A radio next to him was playing Cheap Trick’s Ghost Town. A prickling shudder traveled up Solomon’s spine.

Rita wrote: "..."

Nope.

Don't tell us to care about the characters. Give us a reason.

It's all right, but too vague. It's hard to get interested in it when so much is veiled with vague wording. The "powerful object" seems to be of great importance to the story, so why not say what it is? They say he's a monster - who are "they"? Just a couple of examples.

Hey, Chris,

I haven't really weighed in on your blurb because it's taken a little bit to figure out what it is that bothers me about it. I guess it's just that you overpaint this kid as being pitiful and I kind of lose interest.

I will weigh in on this, even though I'm sure it's not high concern for you: I am not a boomer. I am a huge fan of John Mellencamp. I immediately thought of him when I saw EJ's last name. It didn't distract me in the least. Since you're writing for what appears to be a very young audience, I wouldn't worry about it. Chances are most of them never heard of John Mellencamp.

Now. I mostly wanted to respond to your latest post. I know you're in Big Brothers and maybe your perspective is different from mine, but my (real) brother did Big Brothers for a long time and I met his Little Brothers. I was in a similar program, something called Big Buddies or whatever. I don 't remember now. It's been ages. Anyway, all of those kids wanted to be treated like "normal" kids (even though there is no such thing). They didn't really see themselves as special or different or unique just because they lived in broken homes. Again, that was a long time ago and maybe attitudes have changed. I'm just suggesting maybe you don't need to oversell this thing to appeal to Littles. It could be that very thing that put me off about EJ and made me feel that he comes across as too pitiful.

Laura wrote: "I feel cheated and manipulated by cliff hanger endings. It's okay to do a TV series that way but not a book!"

I've always been curious why people are so forgiving of a cliffhanger in a TV show, but not at the end of a book? Some of the TV programs I enjoy do have cliffhangers at the end of episodes and I like that. I can't recall ever seeing a book end in a cliffhanger, but I have seen a lot of people say it's annoying when it happens. Why does TV get to get away with what appears to be a cardinal sin in a book?

Catherine wrote: "Back to the question of readers abandoning books on KU, I also think it might suggest that a book is categorised poorly if readers select it but then don't finish it - it suggests they're not getting what they thought they would."

There's likely some truth to that, at least in some cases. I know with my own books, I often see people read a few pages and give up. The junk I write is so hard to categorize, though.

Hi Ian,

The reason behind the rule was that the whole concept of this forum is for authors to support one another. We all know there are professionals out there we can hire and it's not helpful to simply say, "Hire a professional" instead of giving your own, personal advice.

Eldon wrote: "Wasn't aware of that rule Dwayne, but I shall support it. Each of us have our own journey to traverse."

It isn't currently a rule, but I'm going to contact Ann before I reinstate it.

LongDraw wrote: "The errors are a result of typing on my phone. Laptop died about 3 weeks ago."

Don't fret it. We all make mistakes. We used to have a rule here against giving "advice" like "seek out professionals". I don't know why that rule went by the wayside. I should reinstate it. Judging someone's books by the typos they make in social media is pretty rude.

Jay wrote: "You've had lots of good advice, and one commercial, which I assume will be deleted."

Thanks Jay. I saw the comment when it was posted, but somehow missed the little mention of "a small fee" which did make it come across like a commercial.

They're stripped of their rights "for their safety". I'm already confused, but there's no explanation. Then it comes across like dominatrix sci-fi porn for a bit. There is an audience for that, I'm sure, if that's what you're going for.

Then Braeden adapts to a new reality this and that way and I don't know who Braeden is or why I should be interested. Then eventually this happens and eventually that happens. The only word I focused on is "eventually" which makes me feel as if the story is long and drawn out and slogging, overladen with backstory and history.

And then Braeden gets mentioned again as having a wife who dies. Okay. So?

And he has a superpowered grand daughter and they have to rescue "mom", whoever that is. And something old and powerful is in the way. What?

You know the story and it seems as if you're overly excited about it and tossing all kinds of stuff at the reader about super powered people and men being forced to make lots of babies and some kind of war and some kind of ancient being and... we're clueless as to what you're on about because we don't know the story. Slow it down. What is the real story here?

B.A. wrote: "I agree with Dwayne on the pronouns. Way too many.

Another thing--if this is the start of the book, the editor will glance at it and probably not go past the first two paragraphs."

I was mostly focused on helping to make the first person flow better in my comment, but you make a great point. My initial reaction the first time I read the passage is by the second paragraph, I scrolled down to see how much longer this is going to go. Two paragraphs of someone laying in bed is pretty dull. The details of shutting off the alarm are needless. To be told they're laying on their left side twice (when it hardly matters) is tedious.

And you're right about the waking up trope. I have had to rework my current work in progress quite a bit as I realized I had the prologue, chapter one, and chapter three all starting with someone waking up.

Reading through your passage, the main piece of advice I can give is, remember whether writing first or third person, you don't want to start too many sentences with the same pronoun, in this case, "I". When every other sentence or so starts with "I" or "He" or "She", it can bog the writing down and make it feel monotonous.

I've rewritten two of your paragraphs to illustrate what I'm getting at:

Waking with a start, I pick up the phone from the side table. Fifteen minutes has passed. Shit! Throwing the blanket aside, I get out of bed. I hurry to the loo and come out in record time. With my laces tied, I hurry down the stairs. On the second-floor staircase window, a bird flies away upon hearing my footsteps. The name of the bird is unknown to me. It's black with a red undertail coverts. Sometimes I catch it unawares. It jumps and hovers above the grill, and then takes off like a fighter jet on a carrier.

Running down the stairs I make it to the parking lot. For a moment no one is around. But then the milkman walks up to the elevator.

Niteen,

I am copying and pasting most of your post below, as it is great that you're looking for feedback on your writing. However, I have to delete your original post due to the links and self-promotion.

Hello,

I have tried to write a short piece in 1st Person. Let me know what you think.


Deliria

I wake up at the sound of the 5 o’clock alarm. I reach for my phone and swipe right. The alarm stops. I lay still for a few seconds. Then I turn to my left side. I feel a bit dizzy at first and then disoriented. My chest feels heavy. Inflammation. Or acidity. I’d had a late dinner. And it was spicy and oily. So most probably the latter. I lay on my left side for a while. The inflammation will subside.

I wake up early in the morning to write. My mind is fresh and words flow smoothly at that time of the day. I also visualize right after the alarm. I lay on my left side and think about the scene I want to write. This way I write more and tend to make less errors.

I wake up with a start and pick up the phone from the side table. I had dozed off for 15 minutes. Shit! I throw away the blanket and get out of bed. I hurry to the loo and come out in record time. I open the door. I tie the shoe laces. I hurry down the stairs. On the second-floor staircase window, a bird flies away hearing my footsteps. I don’t know its name. It is black, with a red undertail coverts. Sometimes I catch it unawares. It jumps and hovers above the grill, and then takes off like a fighter jet on a carrier.

I run down the steps and get to the parking lot. I glance around. No one. But then the milkman walks up to the elevator.

“You’re late today,” I say.

“So are you,” he says. He pushes a button and waits.

I start to jog and go past him.

“See you tomorrow,” the milkman says.

I let out a smile. “Definitely.”

I turn left. I see the housekeeping guy cleaning the premises of the building. He stops and waits for me to pass. He waves at me. I raise my head in acknowledgment. Same time last year when temperatures had dipped to nine degrees in Pune, I’d given him a woolen sweater, which I rarely used. My wife had gifted me a jacket on my birthday and insisted that I start using it. She was glad that I gave away the old sweater. So, he waves or nods every time he sees me.

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I begin to pick up speed as I head to the main gates. The security guard has already opened the gate for one person to pass.

“Good morning, sir,” he says.

“Good morning, Ramesh.”

I start jogging faster once I’m out on the road. I’m about to move to the sidewalk when I hear a car behind me. Before I could turn my head, I hear desperate honking. From the corner of my eye, I see that the car is headed toward me. I try to move away, but the impact is hard. I’m thrown away farther from the sidewalk and on to the compound wall. I hear my head crack and I feel the warm blood ooze out of my skull.

I wake up with a start. I had dozed off for 15 minutes. No heavy heart. No disorientation. The extra 10 minutes had turned out to be a cure. I get off the bed and stretch out. I hear my joints crackle. I move to the loo, switch on the light, and get in. I don’t know about other writers, but I get to think clearly in the loo. There are no distractions. No sounds. I sit there like the Auguste Rodin sculpture and find solutions to plot issues. I’m able to eliminate one by one the various ideas that I had come up with to include in the story. Basically, it’s time well spent on troubleshooting.

I choose the blue track suit. Blue has been my favorite color since childhood. I don’t know why. Maybe because I love the blue sky. It is the color of promise. Of hope. Of peace. It is the color of the sky when dark clouds clear away and light shines through.

I put on my smart band. I open the door and walk out. I wear my shoes and stretch out again. I jog down the few steps and stop at the staircase window. The black and red bird is on the window sill. It hardly moves. It doesn’t see me. I move down couple of stairs and stand opposite it. The bird sees me, I think. I look at its eyes. They make me uneasy. They’re staring through me, not at me. I stomp on the floor. It doesn’t move. In fact, the bird chirps a few times. Another bird lands next to it. Now, they both stare at me. I feel invisible.

I back away and almost stumble down the stairs. I stop at the landing and steady myself. I control my breathing, which has achieved Mach 1. But I don’t feel the thump of my heart. Is this a dream?

I head down to the parking lot. The milkman is at the elevator. He looks up to check the indicator. He then turns his head in my direction. He acts as if he is seeing me for the first time. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence. I take a few steps toward him. He looks up at the indicator and tightens his grip on the sack full of milk packets. He opens the elevator and disappears into it.

‘Hey,’ I cry out. But the door closes and the elevator goes up. I stand there stupefied. I’m unable to figure out what is going on. I guess that he was not in the mood to have a word with me. Maybe he had a fight with his wife early in the morning. Or he had an altercation with the milk supplier. He had mentioned about earlier instances when he had complained to the supplier about the date on the milk packets. So why would he not… But then I feel that I don’t really care. And why should I? To hell with him if he pretends not to see me.

Jagan, the housekeeping guy is cleaning the premises. I jog toward him. He continues with his work. He does stop when I’m close to him. He has that no-nonsense look on his face he always has while working. He doesn’t nod when I pass him. And I was in no mood to give a shit whether he acknowledges me or not.

The security guard hardly raises his eyes as I reach the gates. I just can’t figure out what’s wrong with today. So, I jog out. I run down the slope and begin to move to the sidewalk. That’s when I hear a car racing toward me. I move my head and it is almost on my back. The car zooms past me. In fact, it goes right through me. I feel the rush. I try to analyze what had just happened. Several things go through my mind. The bird. Birds. The milkman. The housekeeping guy. The security guard. The car. The final thought gives me the creeps.

I fall on my knees, I look up at the heavens, and cry out, “No.”

I’m sure nobody can hear me.

***** The End *****

The author name is cramped way up at the top of the cover. The title is difficult to read. I don't get the purpose of the big red check mark. The rest is kind of a mish-mash of flowers, clouds, a sketch of a tree and what looks like robots attempting something resembling sex. And a ring of DNA for some reason. There's nothing really to focus on and nothing that indicates what kind of book it is at all unless it's a retelling of the Garden of Eden with robots. I don't know what to make of it. Sorry.

I have no idea your writing style, etc. so this is just a suggestion:

Vivrel leaned down to speak into her pointy ear, close enough that her ear hair tickled the tip of his nose. "Pray tell, my dear elf. Where might a weary traveler find a room in this fair village of Grindel?"

The elf set aside the doll she'd been making and tapped her chin. "Why, if I were a traveler such as yourself, I'd take a room at the Cuddle & Snuggle Inn. It's quite charming, they say. Now, excuse me. Santa is waiting for me anon. Forsooth. And stuff like that."

The pillows were fluffy and pink. The comforters, all eighteen of them, were stuffed with the feathers of the finest geese in all of Grindel. Images of kittens and puppies were stitched into them. Hearts and flowers were carved into the headboard of the bed. Even the chamber pot sparkled and glinted, a bright cheery red. The Cuddle & Snuggle Inn was as charming as its name implied. Vivrel lifted the chamber pot and puked into it.

So, yeah, you don't have to give details about how the character gets to the inn if nothing happens along the way that would be of benefit to the story or the reader. If he's just skipping merrily down the path to the inn and not doing anything interesting, skip it.

Have you read any books that had long boring details about how a character gets from one place to another? Probably not. If you have, don't do what that author did.

I let the story tell me how it wants to be told. My first two novels were in first person, as it felt natural that the events and information came to the reader in the same way it came to the main character. In my current work-in-progress, a lot of things happen when the main character isn't there to witness it, so it feels more natural in third person.