Recently I've been going through a folder of old writings filled with snippets, shorts, and half-finished novels -- things I haven't looked at in years. These are mostly from my adolescence. I've been mining for potential short story ideas, but it's been a terrible trip into some painfully bad writing. I just came across this sentence in a short story I wrote when I was 15: "His eyes were closed, his arms had no significant position." His arms had no significant position?! Then why mention them at all? What is the point of this whole sentence? It makes me laugh and cringe all at once. It's embarrassing to admit I ever wrote that way. Yikes. Anyway, so I thought I'd bring it here for a chance of us all to laugh at ourselves and admit our more cringe-worthy moments as writers. We've all got them. We hone our craft, meaning we get better -- meaning there is bad writing in our past. Here's another: "He spoke again, his tenor-bass voice layered with strong, yet weak and timid tones."
Excuse me while I upload all my works The wind blew in gusts, reminding Harry that he should have a hair cut as his fringe smacked his eyes. Holding back his hair, he looked down and out over the fields of ragged gold stumps, the newly harvested fields looking like Harry’s grandpa after a long weekend.- A little gem from a story I had named 'Windy'. Gosh, I'm imaginative on these names. ... However, he was a greedy bastard-" "You can't say that!" "Alright then, he was a normal bastard." Hilarious I.A., write more! (From a very old version of my WIP) That's enough for now. I had to decipher my terrible handwriting and I really don't like doing that.
I could post my entire first novel, but here is a gem where, I shit you not, an eleven year old threatens to cut out another middle schooler's tongue on the playground. “Well look who’s finally grown a tongue,” Harold said darkly. “You know, I think I liked you better without one.” WTF!!! In the context of the story this bit came out of nowhere.
From a short: Sparking up a fresh smoke he stood behind them taking in a healthy lungfull of cancer. “This may sound a little creepy, but I kept the shirt that I cut off of you that one time. It smells of you and I keep it close when I am alone at night and think about what it would be like to be with you”, she said with a small smile on her lips ending it with a low hum. And then Charly thought she was as creepy as when they were at odds, but now she seemed to have gotten somehow a lot more fucking creepy. Only it was almost a sweet creepy, but fucking out there none the less. Try as he might, Charly could not get the vision of her curled up in bed clutching to his shirt and getting off to the thought of him. He shuddered at the thought, and tried to play it off like it didn’t bother him. Best for last : Her tongue was sweet with a hint of whiskey, and her lips soft and plush against his. This was taken from an IP short Rom/Com between a parody version of a comic book type hero and a vixen that wants to jump the heroes bones. I needed something funny and less serious.
"sean jumped as the dark shapes raced on to the road, he retreated clutching his weapon tightly then one looked at him and said baaaa...fuck the relief, sheep. But wait what would make sheep act like that, whats that over there by the eleventh green, timber wolves ... Matt and Sean opened fire." this is an excerpt from the last short story i wrote before taking a 20 year break from writing fiction - you can see why such a break might have been necessary Also at roughly the same time , possibly slightly earlier , I fancied myself as a rock god, and was playing lead guitar in a band called (I kid you not) 'Translucent Aadvark' we would have been the next Bon Jovi (if only we'd had any talent , and most of our compositions hadn't included the 'good bit' out of Clapton's "sunshine of your love") Anyway although demo tapes fortunately don't survive so you'll have to imagine the full 'experience' this is a sample verse from a song I wrote protesting the Major government. "they say they'll make us a tiger economy to compete in this day and age I don't know about you my friend but I won't live inside their cage" I can't imagine why we never got a record deal with hard hitting lyrical genius like that
I usually spot and correct the typos as I go, so I can't really say I can remember any embarrassing sentences that well, but let's see if I can try: In an early, early draft of my Colonial mystery, I had Emily Parrish walking around in nothing but her corset. That was because I didn't know exactly what corsets were but suffice to say: she was basically walking around in nothing but her underwear!! When I finally figured out what corsets were, I corrected the sentence so she'd look more decent. I also had Mr. Nathan Maywalker remark to Amos that an elderly slave woman might have had her way with him. Looking back, I realized it could easily be misinterpreted as something else so that had to go. Oh, and here's a cringy moment I don't think I particularly liked: Amos sobbing and acting bitchy around his friend. I frowned and searched my memory. It had been years since we were at the mercy of Madame Cheryl. Then, at last, it came, bubbling up from the recesses of my mind, bringing the old, stinging pain along with it. Lisabeth Greene was a Scottish girl around fourteen-years-old and one of the hired helpers. She had taken pity on me and did everything she could to make me as comfortable as possible. Before Denise, she was the closest thing to a mother I had. She even attempted to learn French to help me ‘form a bond’ with my native land. “I remember her.” I was surprised that my voice was slightly choked. “She cared for you.” Benjamin's voice was low, the joyful screeching now replaced with a more solemn, deaden tone. “She cared for us.” “W-what are you implying?” I asked tersely. My eyes were wetting, good God, I was crying. I rubbed at them. “We should help Mischa because that's what Lisabeth would want? Is that what you're saying?” I swallowed with difficulty, my left fist clenched tightly on my knee. Before I had wanted to hit Benjamin out of annoyance, but now? Now I wanted to him out of pure anger. For bringing back horrible memories just so he could convince me to get us killed rescuing her kidnapped friend. I gritted my teeth; my arms trembled with rage and grief. A tear managed to escape and roll down my cheek. “You're a real piece of shit, you know that?” I croaked, wiping it away. I scoffed bitterly. Blood . . . There was blood on the stairs. So much blood . . . Cold, stiff . . . A shriek, the sound of a violent tumble . . . Glass shattering . . . Her head was twisted . . . Blood. So much blood . . . Benjamin's hands touched my shoulders, startling me. “Sorry, Amos, I didn't mean . . .” I brushed them off irritably. “You really need to think before you talk,” I said as I shot up to my feet. “I know you left a year before I did, you couldn't have known about her death but don't you ever use her memory to get what you want, ever again. Got it?” In my general mystery, I wrote up these strange scenes that I now wonder what possessed me to think they were good: Kevin took the jar in his hand and did a little jig as he sang, Toxic balls of infer-iority! Toxic balls of infer-iority! Toxic balls of infer-iority! Watch out for them balls! “The German on the bus goes, ‘Nein, nein, nein’ ‘Nein, nein, nein’ ‘Nein, nein, nein’ The German on the bus goes, ‘Nein, nein, nein’ all through the town.” The screen cut to the small children mimicking the elderly woman's arm motions, one of them twisting in his wheelchair as he did so. Kevin glanced from the screen to his companions. Adrian's face frozen with astonishment; his cousin glowered and seethed in silence. “The villain on the bus goes, ‘Bwa ha ha’ ‘Bwa ha ha’ ‘Bwa ha ha’ The villain on the bus goes, ‘Bwa ha ha’ all through the town.” Jesus Christ, Kevin thought with dismay. Do they think every kid in school likes that? In my fantasy: “NO!” Akeshia screamed. A painful crunch, followed by a sudden flash of light across my vision sent me into oblivion. It occurred to me that breathing had become difficult, and there was a pair of something soft, but firm, pressing tightly into my nose and eyes, as well as a hand with five fingers digging into the back of my head. A moment later, “Akei, can you get your breasts off of my face, please?” “Oh! Sorry, sorry.” The pressure alleviated. I inhaled the fresh air greedily. “Pistork,” I groaned, rolling over to my chest. The ache in my head was indescribable. “Ow! Ow . . . Fetucking pistork!” That's...There's really no point to that brief scene other for some weird fanservice that came out of nowhere. Oh look, Akeshia's got her boobs on Mishu's face, lolololol. o__O And if that weren't enough, here's something else: “Fetuck both of you!” I roared, a faint ball of an electric spell formed around my hand before thrusting it at his direction. Finally, it hit the mark: dead center in his chest. I listened with some pleasure at his pained groan as he was thrown backward with a painful looking smack. I turned my blade at Priestess Ikaya, who was now far, far away, at the other side of the office. She appeared fuzzier than usual -- her hair must've all been standing on end. “I'm leaving,” I snarled. “Come after me and . . .” my throat clutched just before I said the damning words. Even in the middle of my rage, something else stopped me. (...) Instead, I spat on the floor, cast a pathfinding spell and hurried out the door, making sure to give the writhing old fool one swift kick into the ribs before I marched down the hallway to a set of doors that would let me out the back end of the Temple. The context here is that Mishu's gotten expelled from the orphanage and she's lashing out....by attacking the Elder and she just...walks off. No one tries to stop her. Not Ikaya, not the Elder. No one. Because that makes so much sense. Again, from a fantasy/novella I'm working on. A scene that makes me cringe. Cold chilling horror gripped her joints and chewed through her stomach. The world seemed distant, overwhelming. Gone. A three-year-old blind toddler was gone. Her hands slipped from both of their collars and fell, limp, at her sides. Gone. All because of her. Her limbs shook with grief. Rage. She gritted her teeth, fighting the howl that tore in her throat. Fetuck! She stormed pass them to a small wooden box lying abandoned next to the cobblestoned walkway and savagely kicked it. Fetuck! She jerked her daggers out and plunged it through the wood, the sickening thunk resonated in her ears. Another kick. Fetuck! Her mind burnt at the image of Lord Randolf. If she were anywhere, it was likely she'd be on his yacht. How cruelly ironic if Mishu had been onboard his yacht all that time, even as she herself was onboard? He was just waiting for Geia to step off. Gone. If he had any sense, he'd be off by now, traveling to his estate, his prize, his victory secured. Geia and her companions left alone in a hostile city to die. Gone. It was over. She fell to her knees, slamming her fists into the dirt. It was all over. The emotions surged inside her, breaking through her attempts at battering it down. She shook; the tears began to leak from her eyes. Then she screamed in anguish, rage. White-hot fires enveloped her fists, blackening the dirt below her. She had failed Mishu. She had failed her parents. No, not failed. She had killed Mishu's parents. She had brought this nightmare on herself the moment she slit Nema's throat seconds after she murdered Emohi. Had she not interfered, she still would've been with them. “I'm . . . I'm so sorry,” she hissed. “I'm so sorry, sweetie. So, so sorry.” I just felt Geia's reaction was a little too overly-dramatic. :/ Even my sci-fi isn't spared. In one initial draft, Helen Chert and the others are going to arrest the space pirate/smuggler and for reasons unknown they brought with them a fourteen-year-old alien kid who wants to find and free his mother. Hope you all enjoyed 'em!
The one about Grandpa wasn't half-bad, providing you changed "stumps" to "stubble" (trees have stumps, grasses don't) and providing the relationship between him and Harry features prominently in the story. (If the relationship is negative, it would also gain impact if "newly-harvested" and "gold" were replaced by terms a bit less cheery.) The only thing that would render this image truly awful would be if you were throwing it in just to be cute.
Um, wow. How much did all that run you in purple ink? (Yeah, yeah, who am I to talk? I should throw in some of mine.) With the Colonial one, it wouldn't be a corset yet, actually. It'd be "stays." And either one would always have been worn over a nightgown-like garment called a shift or chemise, with no underwear underneath of any sort, top or bottom. If you wanted to say a woman had nothing on but her shift, that would be quite period-appropriate.
All of that I posted are in purple prose? D: And yeah, colonial attire is confusing. So basically she would wear a nightgown-like garmet, and on top of that would be the coreset or stays?
Some of that stuff is quite a lot of fun to read, actually. It's certainly original. Particularly these:
Thank ye! I was worried I made Amos and Geia a little too overly dramatic. That was my main concern, but I'm glad you liked it -- especially the Kevin bits.
@Lyrical and @big soft moose - yours made me laugh! They're excellent!!! Loving the "no significant position" from Lyrical and "baaaa" from the Moose. I did quite literally laugh out loud. I think I've shared this bit of mine before, but here you go again: Will strolled with his hands in his pockets, whistling his favourite tune. He smiled as he rubbed the stub of candle in his pocket. A little souvenir when his boss wasn’t looking. He figured he could barter for some soup, and maybe an apple at least, with this hard lump of wax. Then he stopped. He could feel the tension. Having spent much of his life with the wrong crowd in all the wrong places had given him a sixth sense to lurking danger. And here's more - because I actually collected some of these gems when I was editing in the past - Darah had begun to chatter on about powers and connections and extensions, but Will wasn’t listening. - He crossed his arms and leaned his cheek against them with a smile, his shock of red hair looking like fine fizzling copper wires on his head. - Will stood beneath the shade of the White Tree. He looked up and saw branches. - Shadow Walker watched his loot roll away across the field, hoots of celebration erupting even before the gates closed. (this last one wouldn't be so bad if only humour had been intended) And I cannot believe I actually have two versions of this below: Will had slipped off his shirt, letting it crumple at his feet. He stretched his shoulders with a yawn, then frowned when he inspected the tub. It was deep and circular. It was obvious that Will would have to cross his legs. A spark came to his eyes. He touched the wooden tub. Shadow Walker watched, wondering what he was doing. The tub began to creak, the water inside rippling. And the second version: Will stripped off the last of his garments and slipped into the water with a rapturous sigh, leaning his head back. Shadow Walker wanted to smile. He looked forward to finally meeting him soon. Oh my gosh teehehehehehe! It would be all right if all this innuendo had actually been intended - but no, they were all accidents!
Here's some from one draft about 16 years old that 'attempted' a Nabokov feel but came off very florid, so purple it was freakin neon.
Lol. Yeah that was pretty heavy on purple prose, but I think most people's high school works were stuffed with purple prose. For whatever reason that's what most teachers push their students to do, even though it's obnoxious.
If memory serves, the first corsets were simply a long piece of rope wrapped tightly about the female torso and tied off. Sounds kinda uncomfortable having such rough material rubbing against the skin and nipples (Ooh, chaffing). Granted it is not any less dangerous than foot binding.
These three are from the same chapter/scene, no more than a few paragraphs apart: In a single stride, he had her against the door on the opposite wall of the hallway, his hand firmly holding her head, his lips firmly pressed against her own. And in a moment, when the voices and footsteps finally receded indistinguishably into the distance, Rhys caught her arm meant to strike at him again by the wrist and pulled her back towards him, kissing her once more. And once more, he enfolds her into his embrace, tilting her head up to cover her mouth with his. Okay, in my own pathetic defense, let me just state that I was under obligation to write my best friend a quite humiliating "otome" based sort of story as recompense (or penance) for invading her privacy in reading something rather intimate of hers. The sort of story & its consequent (quite detailed) requirements were all perfectly formulated to punish me, as well as entertain her. Second part of my defense, it was written 6+ years ago. And for closing statement, I personally have never kissed or made-out with anyone in my short life so I have absolutely no idea how to go about writing it (which turns out a rather important skill in writing any sort of romance, go figure. But as many requirements there were for this project, research actually wasn't one of them so she just had to suffer my lackluster depictions).
We all write things we don't know about...But then we learn how to write them better. Sorry I can't get any of the dirtier ones, so this will have to do. But on a realistic not trying to make a joke. 12 years ago (still exists, and you probably won't ever see it) I wrote a Fet/Ero/Rom and I didn't have the first clue about sex or how to write it (at least not any personal exp. to work with). So believe me when I say it is so bad that it makes me laugh every time I read it. Good times and bad writing.
I'm wondering if I've ever written something that wasn't embarrassing. Something about this make me think of the sloth. They don't do shit, but haven't gone extinct. Anyway... I have severe dyslexia and spelling is not my friend, nor is spellcheck from that matter. I remember describing a scene where my bad-ass antihero was buried in an ancient cemetery, only I wrote "berried", and all the sudden my antihero was no longer a bad-ass, but an eccentric who like to pick berries in an ancient cemetery. This was for an RP, and there was no taking that one back.
