Critique: my novel writing

[Endorphin]

Hello, please review these first two chapters of my novel. Although I've been working on it for a while I'm aware that the text needs a once-over by a corrector, so little grammar mistakes are less interesting than the content and readability.



The Fourth Reading.

Morning.

He woke up at 6:57AM, as always just three minutes before the alarm clock would ring. ‘I've got things to do today,’ was his thought as he drifted halfway back to sleep.

Hardware to allow placing calls without raising a hand is supposed to be delivered to Replicor on this day. As a matter of fact, the necessity to raise a head would be made obsolete as well; just as it has been the case with two or three other novelty gadgets his present employer got to manage in the acquisition of over the last couple of years while Clark has been listed on the roster of employee staff.

The question of what to have for breakfast was left to the autokitchen. Clark set “random”, and in 20 minutes was seated behind a table with a fresh brew and hot sandwiches. ‘The colleagues, surely, will acquire a nascent habit of pulling phone handles before making calls’. His mind was preoccupied to the question of a half-life period for this little habit to go extinct.

The fresh-baked circuits expectant today had sensors attached designated to interpret patterns of ultraviolet reflections against brains’ alpha particle circles as commands for establishing communications with a sought partner. This barricade of technological banter was assigned a name Alpha Sense in Voice, or ASV. ‘We ought to, at least, put out some baskets of chocolates for the transitional period. Otherwise, the office Neanderthals might just not give even the slight chance of getting any work done at all.’

Softening the turmoil brought by the Parabellum (Pb) - the intellectual property owner of such novelties - system integration was always a bit of a hot spot for Clark. Occasional overhearing of the discussions on the “wow” and the how their systems saved the whales – was like apprehension of having mind and soul polished with fine sandpaper. For him - there was no the right way to go about it in seeking the proper sense of emotion on here.

Every chattering client on the receiving end was sure likely get his own way of looking at how their acquisition nuevau changed the color of the sky over their heads. The chatter could equally sum up as a confabulation of the pleasure principle and pleasurable experience; with a few in-between falls through the cracks exceptions.

Memory repression of the Sisyphean toil from the days of before – was a decay of gratifying bearing; and so were instant demands for far better and far more. These two or three points on the criteria of judging the launch success - were more or less all in the evaluation of self-sustainability in future r&d.

But even at this moment of digging deeper into the consciousness of altruism, Clark couldn’t help but feel a sense of irony when he thought of how he conditioned himself to refer to his employers as clients. It started with an event that took place some ten years ago, with Clark’s short stint as a secretary assistant with a repossession bureau in charge of squeezing out what was left of huge loan sums from a near-bankrupt cement and concrete conglomerate.

Reminiscences of what had happened on that fateful day weren’t entirely unlike a fisherman’s tale: the catch tended to grow larger and heftier as the years went by. It could have gone on forever were it not for the need to put an end to making things up and take a moment to refresh the memory on what had, in reality, taken place.

And what took place, stretching a length to assume it was not too late to instill trust in own reckoning - happened in a packed with smartly dressed folks and a stale smoke meeting room. Or rather a stupendous, ostentatiously decorated hall with malfunctioning air-conditioning on the top floor of a fashionable high-rise AMCA (American Calcium) headquarters.

Head of the joint – who in the likes of many others of his type could be made distinct from god by only one such available measure: the god never thought he was head of AMCA - decided to show the gathered public that he was in the powers to commit a feat of telekinesis and force all present creditors to put their signatures on the loan extension deal typed up by his staff in advance.

Preparation for the trick took some half-hour of fiery talk bent around the high-flying reasoning for organic city growth during the post-depression renaissance. Clark, who at the time was trying himself out on the beginning steps of never-to-be ladder of a banking career, to this day could have sworn in blood that the speech was no more than a voice-over for flashy cartoons rolling through the all’s present inner vision; surreal being in a hazy daydream with sound and video worth five thousand watt of existential mental power; blasting like electric blue light through the speaker’s fingertips. Yea, that guy surely had something in terms of unordinary ability to extravert one’s nervous system into upper degrees of overextension.

As soon as the countdown to finger snapping was initiated, following the pronouncement of ‘ladies and gentlemen, let’s pick up your pens’, the chair underneath his behind snapped into pieces; proving assured that the maximum allowable hardness of impact under the immediate circumstances of quiet nascent noise was delivered; “god’s” eyes gazing up into shimmering fluorescent light up on the high ceiling.

Having regained steady breathing after a chorus barrage of raucous laughter, Clark wasn’t about to take the responsibility of having on his mind’s account the accomplishment of this stupendous feat of chair malfunction. But later that evening, when at his company’s near-deserted office he was morphing into a state of mental multitasking in word-processing the pertinent e-paperwork and mulling over - for the n-th time - the memory of the day’s most significant event; announcement of j-e-w-l-e-d (or (j)ob (w)ell (d)one) flashed across the overhead television, startling Clark with the familiar mental noise that’s been buzzing through his head like fresh juice dripping out of a sliced sugar cane.

Just at the moment when Clark raised eyes to the set, a lighthouse icon flickered on the screen: this was to be believed. So, personal messages in broadcast television were not such a rarity in 2033. But then, this particular one struck Clark’s mind like a ball lightning discharging into a barbed wire fence, sending serotonin levels into the high stratosphere for days to come.

It naturally followed from the following days’ events that there was no more need to feel a helpless clerk in the world full of large and hungry sea creatures anymore. Going on forwards, employers - were clients; and clients, more often than he would dare to admit even at the highest of highs - were guinea pigs. Moreover, this irrepressible commemoration of his ability to overpower even the most capable of telekinetic deeds heralded to Clark his initiation into Parabellum - the new-age cloak-and-dagger network of high-tech geeks entrusted with inventing the goodies that made the new economy tick. Enable betterment of people’s lives bearing no concerns for nuances of initial public offerings and meat grinders of patent registration.

For Clark’s mind to have retained this theatrical part of a circus clown-slash-tamer hybrid for so long and still remember well what he was up to doing on this earth - was in itself a kind of performer’s best-known number: loud music and out-of-place remarks – solo tour’s companions; friends and colleagues – the audience.

But he had to concede: this new role in life had cost him a degree of adequateness and, in essence, far from always for the better. When a question of “what time is it?” is followed by “I’m not in your time zone to tell you that much right now”, and further inquiring questions reveal “go **** yourself - I’m not your actor today” - it is inevitable that the herd acquires retentive supply of reservations insofar the nagging ideas of getting the most immediate answers to “who is who?” and “who is in charge?”.

And it was a knee-jerk reaction at that.

Silicone pavement

When this reminiscent flashback faded out into the background of memory, Clark put his mind back on the right train track that would carry his thoughts through the upcoming day’s work. His conscious perception of the fact that the Pb’s decoder of gesticulation and mimicry was accelerated into the year 2067, resumed in giving him the compulsive worry that he would kill another one in the line of his line managers.

There was another bothersome repercussion that added two or so more kilovolts into this whole simmering pot of anger. And it’s undeniable: the Pb always made huge computations as these to a number of years dividend by five. And if today was still 2043, - then this must mean that they had done it a whole one year ago.

This exercise in computing acceleration - a costly process requiring a good amount of human input along with pretty extreme exploitation of Pb’s main supercomputer - was aimed to achieve a usable mathematical diagram depicting a snapshot of the microchip to later be used as a main processor unit in the ASV terminals. The terminals, which were being groomed up for nothing less than a replacement of the desktop telephone sets, crunched data of a transposed infrared image of the user’s face that formed from bouncing ultraviolet ripples sourced out of slight-sized synthetic sunlight fans. Now people in Taiwan had to clear a whole workshop of rubble too; so there was enough work ahead for everyone involved.

The “big machine” was cranking in high steam. But today Clark’s level of latent hysteria was not near the peaking point of getting into a state of being sore with irritation at the powers that be. More like Chiribaya’s little congregant interest in the life before and after deflowering. ‘Did they always have to make them wives in the afterwards? Did they equal their years to 365 days, like we do?’ Some clauses to ponder…

At any rate, today the Pb would either affirm or not, by means hefty sums and pr risks, its involvement in the math model that estimated variants of alteration in gesticulative behavior over time. The model’s tract of intention was in being the feeding medium where algorithmisieren was to be made against the psychosomatic principles at work. Devices with adaptive control circuitry have been on the wet dream list of the s&m people for years. So if the go-ahead was granted - they’d make it look like a record go by insofar easing the concerns pertinent to the acquisition funds for the little office workbenches and other whatnots.

The model, which was now being worked like a Vegas hooker on overtime - was a fruit born out of a communal effort. Clark graffiti-painted a few of his own triangles in the art contest of draw-pissing on corrugated fence walls. This one particular time - it took place some years back at an outside-the-city-limit, out-of-towners only party near San-Jose. Lots were retracted from the memory of this lustrous event. Same as whether beefy-t became lingerie and did the watches swap time.

Clark flipped the cup upside down over the head and waited for three counted last drops to fall into his open mouth. ‘What’s next?’ The train of thoughts was gathering steam for the day ahead.

The negative shadow of what was shaping up to be a bright, albeit not a cloudless day, could be summed up in the idea that the these here and now telephones - were just another stage of the test-and-delay sequence until the s&m signed off on its expenditure budget for the following year. So there was a chance for a round of another one or two of such high expense tests like the one coming up today. But why would it then seem a little much excessive on the r&d side of the spending?

Like in the years past, to keep the semiconductors comfortably floating out of the Southeast Asia, sixty or so percent of their workforce was to be divvied up into other economic activities. Of that – at least half would go into the cheap-o rubber and plastic toy utensil stamping shops. Habitually, they paid minimum wage to the workers and even less in terms of concern for the surrounding environ. So it wasn’t only wasteful on the workforce, but toxic to the Mother Nature as well.

Imposition of measures aimed at timing cross-regional efforts to reduce such side effects were oftentimes infinitely more poorly executed in practice than on paper. Something a little new - like the next generation of desktop telephone technology - promised to put a dent in the mold.

Clark buttoned up the shirt calves and set his mind on the upcoming commute. Quick glance at the tv screen put his signal right over The Hastings. He made a quick swinging motion with his head toward the right shoulder, and shut the door behind his modest digs on the twenty-seventh floor.

Although his building was a few miles from the shoreline, to help ease the burden of the utility bills its load-bearing frame was milked for being used as a Doppler radar for local landing strips. Aside from housing an observation post on the rooftop, its other partial use was in detecting the speed of objects approaching from over the Pacific Ocean.

-------
Thanks!

[Barney]

Did you run this through a translation website?

[Endorphin]

Originally Posted by Barney

Did you run this through a translation website?

excellent guess! their memory stack of vocabular capacity overfilled somewhat, tho. otherwise - you're right on the money, dude!

[buskydudd]

Hello Endorphin. An interesting story you have going here. However, the writing is not very smooth. Your talent is obvious, so there's no need to worry over whether you're any good or not...my issue with your style is just a matter of honing your craft. My suggestion is this: you'd be well-served at this point by learning from the careful study of certain masters of the modern English language narrative. Take a look at James Joyce's short story, The Dead...along with Hemingway's short piece The Killers. This may seem obvious, but take a look at how SMOOTH their individual sentences are. No bumps, no wild careening. Short bursts of perfectly rendered information. They sing the story in your ear. And they sing beautifully. This is what you must strive for. When I read your work, I kept seeing the damn words on the screen, rather than having the situation of the story come alive in my mind...what John Gardner called "the vivid and continuous dream." When we read a great work, we're not aware that we're reading, am I correct? We're only aware of the story, the vivid and continuous dream, which must be rendered in expert prose (or, again, one only sees the damn words on the page). Study the two short stories I recommended above, see how they achieve their effects, and I recommend you read John Gardner's book, The Art of Fiction...probably one of the best books on writing you'll ever come across. And rewrite, rewrite, rewrite! Good luck, my friend!

[Endorphin]

Originally Posted by buskydudd

Hello Endorphin. An interesting story you have going here. However, the writing is not very smooth. Your talent is obvious, so there's no need to worry over whether you're any good or not...my issue with your style is just a matter of honing your craft. My suggestion is this: you'd be well-served at this point by learning from the careful study of certain masters of the modern English language narrative. Take a look at James Joyce's short story, The Dead...along with Hemingway's short piece The Killers. This may seem obvious, but take a look at how SMOOTH their individual sentences are. No bumps, no wild careening. Short bursts of perfectly rendered information. They sing the story in your ear. And they sing beautifully. This is what you must strive for. When I read your work, I kept seeing the damn words on the screen, rather than having the situation of the story come alive in my mind...what John Gardner called "the vivid and continuous dream." When we read a great work, we're not aware that we're reading, am I correct? We're only aware of the story, the vivid and continuous dream, which must be rendered in expert prose (or, again, one only sees the damn words on the page). Study the two short stories I recommended above, see how they achieve their effects, and I recommend you read John Gardner's book, The Art of Fiction...probably one of the best books on writing you'll ever come across. And rewrite, rewrite, rewrite! Good luck, my friend!

G.F.Y. Am I correct?

[buskydudd]

"G.F.Y."? You lost me there. Initials of another writer?

[Endorphin]

Originally Posted by buskydudd

"G.F.Y."? You lost me there. Initials of another writer?

are you THAT stupit? gfy is initials for go duck yourself

[buskydudd]

On the slightest chance that you weren't in fact inviting me to go **** myself, I thought I'd let you clarify. Now you have. And upon rereading my suggestions for how you might improve your work, I fail to see much that could be construed as offensive. I've been teaching, writing, and publishing science fiction quite successfully for over twenty years, and when someone asks me to take a look at their writing, as you did, I always try to oblidge. I was trying to be helpful, as you requested. You may politely decline my advice, as others have, or you can consider why I might have a point, as more have. Instead, in true pathetic internet dumbshit psycho ******** flamewar-indulgent fashion, you just lashed out. I can only conclude that you are a childish little clown, and a waste of time.

[Peter Graham]

Hi Buskydudd,

When I read Endorphin's first response, I initially thought that he (and I'm assuming "he" here) was summarising what he believed you had said to him - not that he should go do anything unduly erotic or biologically unlikely to himself, but simply that you didn't think his piece was very good. He said "am I correct?", making me think that what he was actually saying was "You don't like it, right?", rather than "Go forth and multiply".

Then I read his/her second post when he called you "stupit" (sic) and I was far less sure. It was rude and offensive and you were right to set him straight. You gave him some good and measured advice and if he can't take a bit of constructive criticism (and he won't get that from anyone else within the industry unless he pays handsomely for it) he should think about giving up writing, or at least think about not coming here and wasting your time with silly little tantrums.

Endorphin - I think you owe BD an apology.

Regards,

Peter

[The Bloated One]

Peter,

Have you seen where Endorphin's from?

I suggest English is his/her second or third language, (he says he used a translator).

I speak Russian and have lived in Eastern Europe for many, many years. the impact of swearing in English won't have the same effect on him/her as it does us. It is totally out of order, but it may explain his cavalier attitude.

TBO

[buskydudd]

Hello Peter and Mister Bloated.

I admit I feel a little stupid about this whole thing. I failed to read all the comments before posting my own. Had I known Endorphin was using a translation program, I would have withheld commentary. After all, those are not his words, but those of a computer.

Perhaps E ran my reply through the same translator, and it rendered my comments in a not-so-flattering way. Maybe this was all a misunderstanding. Hmmm...

Now there's a short story for somebody...a cut-rate translation program between two adversarial entities resulting in rising tempers and warming IPBMs...that's Inter-Planetary Ballistic Missile, of course. And of course, the programs were purchased at Wal-Mart...

[Barney]

Originally Posted by The Bloated One

Peter,

Have you seen where Endorphin's from?

I suggest English is his/her second or third language, (he says he used a translator).


TBO

I have seen where Endorphin claims to be from. And I suspect he/she is having some fun with testing how far our credulity will stretch.

Buskydudd, you must have a heart of gold constructing a reply to that post, and I applaud you for it. You certainly didn't deserve being told to G.F.Y.!

[buskydudd]

Thanks, Barney. Just for the sheer steam of it, I took one of my own paragraphs and ran it through a few translation programs...English to German to Hebrew to Romanian to Italian to Portugese to Finnish...and back to English.

It was utterly unrecognizable. It looked messier than a kitten hit by a truck...squirting kitty endorphins ALL OVER THE PAVEMENT! Hahahahaha!!!!

...sorry, that was cheap...

and, of course, totally irresistable