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  1. chase42
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    chase42 Member

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    creative brainfart

    Discussion in 'General Writing' started by chase42, May 7, 2007.

    yes, well, its been awhile since Ive posted here, about 3 months.

    I want to start writing a new story, but for the last few months, I haven't come up with a plot that is anything that I would expend effort upon.

    I do have a main character that is well developed through use in other stories, and I want to keep him for this one. But I have no inspiration, or even the faintest clue of a plot.

    Any ideas? Any at all?
     
  2. WhispWillow
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    WhispWillow Contributing Member

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    Take a bit of exercise, perhaps go for a walk, you never know, things can easily form this way, i often get ideas, did do, when on the bus

    For instance:

    Not that I was eavesdropping or as such, but these girls were talking pretty loud. It wasn't boring what they were talking about, but from what I gathered, i figured I could make a pretty good story, on the foundation of the conversation i had just picked up from the girls

    You'd be suprised:)
     
  3. chase42
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    chase42 Member

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    thank you! thankyouthankyouthankyou!!!

    I went for a run, and now I have a fresh, new, ready-to-be-developed plot!
     
  4. WhispWillow
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    WhispWillow Contributing Member

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    lol don't worry,

    You can send the royalties through the post

    XD
     
  5. chase42
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    chase42 Member

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    ok, tell me what you think of the beginning below:


    There are no atheists in a foxhole.

    This was the one thought that had repeatedly surfaced in Captain Danny Steele's mind, especially now as he passed the Baker Line's fourth line of defense. The pairs and squads of infantry huddled in the damp foxholes greatly contrasted the mammoth concrete bunkers of the fifth line that lurked in the forest two hundred yards to the rear of the former.

    The officer had never though of himself as a religious man, but recent events had forced him to reconsider. Iraq had been a cakewalk, or at least for his unit. In the Sandbox, where his enemy's weapons were outdated by forty years, he was invincible: he was a child among ants. But here, in the European Theater, his enemy was on the same level as he, both in technology and discipline. In the Middle East, it had taken the Insurgents a disproportionate amount of planning and resources to seriously endanger any of the twenty tanks under the Captain's command. In the ETO, however, it took merely the squeeze of a trigger by an enemy soldier to threaten his men. The immense stress of not only his own impending fate, but also that of the 75 men directly under him, was nearly driving him crazy.

    Maybe I'm not the commander I thought I was.

    The five ton truck under Steele bumped violently as its left-side wheels dipped into a mud-filled pothole, but the twelve soldiers in the bed had braced themselves in time as not to fly out of the open rear of the cargo bay. He was offered the passenger seat in the heated cab of the “Bigfoot” truck, but he passed it up for the chance to sit with his men in the miserably cold air. The canvas cover over the bed helped to insulate some of the body heat of the men, but it was futile to try to maintain any warmth in the Belgian cold.

    A flight of two Apache helicopters emerged above the tops of the evergreen pines behind the seven-truck convoy, flying at cruising speed to the east and slowing.

    The heavy, pulsing buzz of the rotors passed quickly, but the image of the attack choppers stayed with the Captain. He had heard rumors in the rear echelon that little more than half of the helos that went out returned. This gave Steele pause, but he was not surprised: stories relayed by fellow tankers had conveyed the almost mythically brave exploits of the Apache drivers. Nonetheless, the officer felt a sense of loss that he couldn't express. All grunts were his brothers-in-arms, but the helicopter crews would be who he would depend on should the battle turn against Steele's tanks.

    Steele clapped his gloved hands together and rubbed them against the biceps of his crossed arms. He felt naked, but not due to the cold. He was wearing three layers of government-issue Army Combat Uniform fatigues, a kevlar infantry helmet with cover, and a shoulder holster with a 9mm pistol tucked away in his left armpit, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was horrendously wrong. Indeed, he was missing his tank, and Steele could identify it as the reason for this feeling, but he felt scared simply by the fact that he had become psychologically dependent on a piece of heavy machinery.


    more already written and certainly even more coming!
     
  6. sashas
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    sashas Senior Member

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    I absolutely LOVED the opening sentence...
    that was pretty catchy

    i would wanna remove that line in between though, the Maybe I'm not the commander I thought I was. It just doesnt sound right.
     
  7. Cogito
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    Cogito Former Mod, Retired Supporter Contributor

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    My thoughts are exactly the reverse. The opening line has been used so many times, I feel that Steele should be acknowledging how cliched it is, even though he can't get it out of his head.

    But I liked the self-doubt jumping out on its own between the second and third full paragraphs.

    It practically echoes there.
     

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