A handful of days and nights tend to be simply just even better than other days. Today is one of those particular times. I am finally establishing a steady writing itinerary. Today I located some interesting content I wish to turn you on to. This posting about doorknobs caused me to take notice. My personal moment was currently going great for me personally though so we hope this posting gets to you in a nice disposition as well.
Staying healthy during the cold and flu season
It’s cold and flu season again, so it’s time for a refresher course on what you can do to keep your family healthy.
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A young man searches for the truth behind the mysterious disappearances of his best friends. It all began… with a party.
Video Rating: 5 / 5
Q&A:
Question by Gannon Kendrick: Repost… would like some helpful criticism?
I posted this before, but didn’t quite get the criticism I was looking for. As a writer, of course, I’m hesitant to post on Yahoo! Answers, since I, like most writers, am a little paranoid.
Anyway, I want criticism from somebody who know EXACTLY what they’re talking about, and who can give me examples of where my flaws happen. I wrote this a couple days ago, (I try to write everyday,) and it’s not my best, so don’t be too brutal! A little tough criticism is good though, as long as you can back it up with experience and examples. This is a third person limited biased narrative, meaning that I tell the story as a narrative, but it is told based on the perceptions of my main character and how he sees the world.
Earlier today, the sun was hanging brightly over Windvale, but it had retreated and given way to a harsh, wintery chill.
Andy Greer lay beneath a grey elm tree and scrawled out poetry on a messy stack of typing paper. Occasionally, he had to push away a strand of hair out of his eyes when a breeze kicked it into his face.
“Mom wants you.”
A child of about seven or eight appeared and was now hovering over Andy. Unlike his brother, the child wore a bubbly smile and had bright, blond hair.
“Watcha writin’?” the boy asked.
“Nothing, Michael,” Andy said.
“UMM!” Michael said. “You’re using mom’s paper! I’m telling!”
“I don’t care, Michael.”
Andy put his pencil down, crumpled up his poem and shoved it into his jeans pocket.
“Writing’s stupid,” Michael said.
Andy glared up at Michael.
“What does mom want?” Andy asked.
“How should I know? Get off your bottom and ask her yourself!”
Andy sighed, then lifted himself up off the ground. He trudged on through about forty feet of empty field before he reached a small house. Though the off-white paint was chipping off in some places, and several roof tiles lie scattered on the ground, the house still seemed a respectable place to grow up.
A thin, brunette woman in her forties washed dishes in an apron when Andy walked in, and Michael ran off into the living room to watch TV.
“Did you want to talk to me?” Andy asked.
“Yeah, I did,” the woman said. She turned off the faucet, and sat down at an old kitchen table. She gestured to Andy to do the same, so he did.
What did you need to talk to me about?” Andy asked.
“Andy… don’t you have something better to do than hang out under the elm tree all day?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know… you have friends, don’t you?”
“Of course I have friends.”
“Well, why don’t you hang out with them?”
“I don’t know,” Andy said. “They’re cool, I guess, but I’m too busy to hang out much.”
“Doing what?”
“Writing.”
“Writing what?”
“Poetry, mom.”
Andy’s mom was quiet for a moment.
“Andy… I saw some of your poetry,” she said.
“You WHAT?”
“I was emptying your pockets while doing the laundry, and I just sort of found it.”
“Did you read it?”
She didn’t answer.
“Mom! Did you read it?”
“Andy, I’m worried about you. Some of what you’re writing is seriously dark.”
He stood up and slammed his chair back onto the table before walking toward the door.
“Come back here, Andy!” she said. “I’m not done talking to you.”
“You have no right to read my poetry, mom.”
He turned the doorknob.
“At least take a coat, honey,” she said. “It’s nearly forty degrees out.”
Andy stood still for a moment before walking out the door without his jacket.
“Yo, Andy!”
Andy hesitated, then turned to face his speaker. The speaker was a muscular teenager, about 6′5″, with a shaved head.
“What do you want, Craig?”
“What do I want?” Craig asked. “I want my money back.”
“I don’t have it.”
Craig crossed the street, stopped in front of Andy, and stared down at him.
“You wanna say that again?”
“I don’t have you money right now,” Andy said. “If you just give me a week, I-”
Andy felt a searing pain as Craig’s fist collided with his cheek. A bit of blood trickled down to the ground.
“If you don’t get my money to me by Friday, there’s a lot more where that came from.”
Andy heard Craig’s footsteps growing gradually distant, and looked up to see Craig walking into the trailer across the street. Andy opened the door and stepped into his own house. His mother was no longer standing at the sink, but was now lying down on the sofa in the living room.
He collapsed on his bed. His pillow was soft against his sore cheek. The world faded from view as he shut his eyes.
***
“What’s wrong with your cheek?”
The world swirled back into focus, and Michael was gazing down at Andy.
“Mom made eggs and waffles!”
Michael ran out of the room, and Andy covered his head with his pillow.
“Is your brother up yet?” his mother’s voice said from the dining room.
“Yeah,” Michael said. “I woke him up. He should be out.”
“You know, you shouldn’t have woken your brother up, Mikey,” she said.
“Why not? He’s been sleeping in there forever.”
“It’s inconsiderate to wake somebody up when they’re trying to sleep.”
“Incon-inconsiderate?”
“It means not very nice.
“Oh, okay,” Michael said. “Andy needs a band-aid for his face.”
Andy walked into the kitchen.
“What on Earth happened to your cheek?” his mother asked.
He pulled the chair out from the table and sat down. The eggs had been cooked over-easy, and the pancakes were soggy.
“Nothing, mom.”
He picked up his fork and moved some runny egg to his mouth.
“Are you gonna tell me how you got that horrible bruise?” his mother asked.
“I’d rather not.”
The pancakes were hard to pick up and slid off of Andy’s fork.
“You know you can talk to me.”
“Okay.”
The room became silent except for the scraping of forks against plates.
Best answer:
Answer by Meg
I like it, I think your dialogue is really realistic and good, which is what a lot of people (including myself) have trouble with. It’s pretty descriptive, but I think you should limit age, height, and hair color when describing people. Try to think of other creative ways to paint the picture in the reader’s head. Example: “The speaker was a muscular teenager, about 6′5″, inste with a shaved head.” Instead of that you could say something like “Andy looked up to see a shaved head on top of a muscular body, towering over him.” Just throwing the facts out there leaves little room for imagination. I really like the main character, he seems pretty cool. It’s awesome that you write everyday, I’m trying to, too. Keep it up!(:
Read mine?? http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AmNdjzMdE8Y3VGrcRRcx3SHsy6IX;_ylv=3?qid=20091021205310AAePIfv
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