The CI Writing Camp Workzone

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The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by Lamby »

Welcome to CI Writing Camp 2013, a home for young and old writers—a home for good and bad writers—a home for silly and serious writers—and the place you want to be if you seek to hone your writing craft—or maybe just practice it and share your talents with your friends. Why write? I’ll tell you--or rather, Margaret Atwood will:
A word after a word after a word is power.
What does this mean? The more you write, the more readers stay at your mercy. You have the power to make your readers happy, sad, thoughtful, or maybe just relaxed. What I just said is the perfect example: only Atwood knows what she meant by her words, but because I wrote, you either agreed or didn’t. It is inconsequential what a writer means. What is important is what your reader will take from your words. This is important to remember.

Writing is one of the most depended upon modes of communication. Whether you are using a pencil, typing, or texting, your words and how you use them have an impact. How your reader receives your words depends entirely on you. Yes, it is possible for someone to misread your words, but that buck stops here. Taking writing seriously means taking full responsibility for the effects of your words, no matter if you are writing fiction or posting on a forum. I promise you that following that golden rule is your first step towards success.

Remember that writing is not just something that smart people do. Behind every writer is a person with a story and hard work. I can’t teach you flowery words. I can’t teach you to make a Rembrandt painting with words. But I can push you to hone the words you have. Powerful words don’t write stories, powerful writing does.

After this camp has ended, my hope is that you have both learned from and taught each other. So let’s discuss how this works, shall we? First thing is first.

The syllabus follows.
Spoiler:
The Basics:

1. Description, Imagery, and Being Direct
2. Setting: Explicit and Implicit
3. Characterization
4. Dialogue
5. Planning
6. Writer’s Block Issues

The Fun Stuff:

1. Poetry
2. Lyrics
3. Dramas
4. Romance
5. Comedy
6. Children’s Literature

Rhetoric:

1. Opinions
2. Analysis
3. Arguing

Critique:

1. Applying Writing to Art
2. Reviews
This is not something that will take a few weeks, or even one month. It is way too much to ask from all of you to go through all of this in two weeks. It is too much pressure on me to dictate all of this in two weeks. So we will take this slowly. I will work with your personal schedules in the following ways:

1. I’ll have my dictation on the next topic up every Monday, meaning you will have one week to post whatever it is that I ask of you and critique your partner.

2. Most things I ask of you can probably be done with 500 words or less; it seems like a lot, but it isn’t. Compound and complex sentences probably run about 20 words on average. 500 words equal about 25 sentences. Once you master elaboration, 500 words will feel too restrictive to get a point across in fiction. I will never require a minimum word count, but please put some effort into what you write.

3. Longer tasks will be allotted two or three weeks, but there are only three of these.

4. I understand if things come up, but try and be prompt. Other people are waiting on you, and may not have time to answer you later.

You will be assigned a partner to ensure that you are definitely critiqued by one person other than me. You will also critique at least one person that isn’t your partner. Please don’t critique the same alternate person every time. Remember that critiques can have jokes, but critiques aren’t jokes. No reaction images please. If you want to be silly before or after your critique, that’s perfectly fine.

By officially signing up for this, you are stating that you…

-Are willing to finish tasks in the window I give you (I’ll make sure the deadline matches the extent of the task)
-Will not drop out
-Will not flip out over a harsh opinion
-Will not be intentionally rude

As a final note, you may disagree with me. I’m not asking you to mimic me. I’m your peer, not your better.

CRITIQUE TRIOS:

I have changed critique works. For the first handful of tasks, you must critique the other two people grouped with you. After a few segments I will rotate groups. This way I can guarantee no one is overlooked. I think this camp will have three rotations. I will critique each person for each task, but I won’t nitpick, only pull main points. More skilled writers don’t need me to tell them basics. As I said before, I’m not the writing kind. I won’t patronize you. If you feel I’m in the wrong, please express it. I hope to learn from you all, as well!

Critique Trios 1:

Pink/Mana/wicca
Omelet/Triert/Mr. Needlemouse
Choco/Pat/Fox
Ivo/Blasphemy/Ravenyte
Enzo/Corvo/Pastaa

I know that honing rhetoric and critique isn’t something you will jump out of your seat to do, but it will be the first things we do, not because I think you’re dummies—most of you know how to construct an opinion and critique something—but because it is important in breaking the ice and getting you more comfortable with being objective with your friends. These tasks will probably take you no more than ten minutes each, and for that reason you will receive more than one task to do in one week until we reach the meat and potatoes of the camp. We should be done with the boring stuff in three weeks. But if you really love me, you’ll do these ten minute tasks as soon as you see them so we can move on early and get to the good stuff by next week. I will not be officially starting this until Monday, but tomorrow I will post the first task for anyone who’d like a head start. Do not critique anyone until I tell you that everyone has posted their response to a task in the thread. Always check the opening post as I will edit it with new tasks or updates.

Note: You will only use this thread to post your responses to tasks or critique others. I will only use this thread for posting the exercise and critiquing you. Off-topic chatter will be done in Chatter Zone thread. If you have a question pertaining to what a task I’ve given in this thread is asking from you or about what I’ve said, also use the chatter thread.

Why the separation? It’s easier to critique work when there is no middle man to sift through. Critique both your partners in one post. Remember, no critique until the opening post in this thread indicates it is time. This way we’ll have fifteen posts of work, then fifteen posts of critique, and so on.

***

A Quick Word on Rhetoric:
Spoiler:
Opinions:

Opinions are a widely disputed phenomenon. Some people will tell you that a mere statement of your thoughts constitutes an opinion, while other people will tell you that a structured, evidence-backed paragraph may only constitute an opinion. I will tell you neither of these things; that is, I will not consider opinions right or wrong, but good or bad.

But let’s not talk of opinions as if you don’t know what they are, shall we? Bad opinions are easily identifiable: they lack real depth and credibility. You will see them written in all sorts of manners, but here is an example: “Cars are always bad because they emit carbon monoxide, which grossly effects the environment.”

What could be wrong with this statement? Isn’t that just their opinion? Well, there isn’t anything wrong about it. Opinions are not facts; therefore right and wrong cannot apply in a factual sense.

But as I said before, we will be thinking in terms of good and bad. So, back to the example we go. This opinion is not going to be well-received because it is short-sighted (lacking depth) and is an overgeneralization (non-credible). Now, let me be clear: the opinion itself isn’t bad, but the way it’s written is. Written as is, the statement indicates that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES do cars have any redeeming qualities because the ENVIRONMENT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT. Well, you’ve just given your conservative friends a heart attack, because even if you didn’t actually mean this, you wrote it that way. As writers, we have to be the ones in control. With opinions, you have to make your best effort to qualify everything you say and ensure it is understood exactly the way you intended to be in a way that makes people reason and think, not polarize. This opinion can still be saved with something like this:

“Some cars are just too harmful to the environment to use safely. Not only does pollution effect animals, but air quality, which is a serious health hazard to people with asthma. I’d prefer it if as many able-bodied people as possible used cleaner alternatives to at least minimize use of those particular models.”

It is not the only way of saving the opinion, nor is it the best, but the point is that the second version has an appropriate qualifier and outlook, and is more likely to cause discussion instead of provoking someone into calling you a fool. Keep in mind that even a structured opinion can be baseless. Stating an opinion where there is massive objective evidence for the contrary is willful ignorance. Your life experiences are not objective evidence. You can attest to an opinion, but it does not make your argument any more sound.

Arguments:

An argument is a structured discussion between two or more opinions in which the goal is to reach a consensus, discover a new idea, or persuade. If you are arguing with someone to prove them wrong or because you have a vendetta again them, you no longer have a productive argument. You will seldom see your opinions go unchallenged, and should expect them to be challenged. A good rule of thumb when arguing is to be proactive instead of reactive. When posting your opinion or response to an argument, anticipate counterpoints and rebut them in the same post so that the opposition feels acknowledged, but don’t be caustic or passive-aggressive. Counterpoints should be addressed to no one in particular unless you have actually engaged in a discussion with someone specific. That said, do not invent arguments from nothing during a discussion—this is an assumption.

Person A: I thought the story was well written, but your character left a little to be desired: you did not accurately portray a Chinese American in 1885.

Person B: Well I have Chinese heritage. Are you saying I don’t know my own people!?

To anyone reading this—don’t let me catch you doing that. I’ll cry. If you catch me doing it—shove me down some steps.

Now because this camp is for fiction and for fiction/media critique, I will leave it at that. The heavier rhetoric stuff is best reserved for a Rhetoric Camp. You’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you to read this loosely related material. It isn’t because any of you don’t know these basics, but we writers tend to break code, so to speak, when we’re comfortable and confident in our skills. Be thinking about what, how, and why you say things—and how you’d explain them when you’re asked. If you aren’t very careful, the person you’re critiquing will completely ignore you. But some people are just bad sports and it’s important to not let yourself be intimidated. There are no emotions in critique: only positive and negative points.
CRITIQUE:
Spoiler:
WRITING:

“This should be easy enough,” you’re probably thinking, “all I have to do is explain a few things I like and a few things I dislike about a writing piece.” Slow your roll there. Like most things involving writing, there is nothing you will learn that can (or should) be explained in a sentence; the art of critique is no different. Your personal preferences are not acceptable criteria in telling someone how they need to improve. We also never critique a person; only their work. In a proper critique, you should never say something like “I didn’t like this word you used; it sounds too depressing for my tastes” because that is in no way helpful. Everything negative you bring up should be attached to a way to improve and an explanation on how to do so. There are many ways to construct a critique, but I will only be presenting two formats to you: one I developed specifically for use on CI, the other I learned from a female English major.

Format 1:

1. Address the big picture with a general opening with something positive e.g. “you put a lot of effort into this” and mention the general issues with the piece e.g. “grammar, imagery, characterization, misuse of adverbs”.

2. Quote everything you are addressing and organize these quotes by what categories you mentioned previously. This will serve as your evidence. Remember that you should only quote as many things as is appropriate for each category. For example, alerting someone they need to work on spelling doesn’t take 10 examples, but discussing imagery mandates elaboration.

3. Explain why each quote reinforces your points and give a suggestion on how to remedy it. Give an example each remedy.

4. Give a few positives.

Format 2:

Analysis - Discuss what is good and bad about the piece (not what you like and dislike). What works and what doesn’t in terms of structure (diction, imagery, characterization) and why it works or doesn’t. Make sure you refer to the piece with quotes to back up your claims.

Feedback - Give suggestions or examples on how to improve on what you mentioned previously. Discuss what you personally liked and didn’t like (keep this brief.

ART (this is just an FYI read, we won't be making art):

As a bonus, I would like to show you how to construct a basic art critique. Artists love positive reinforcement as much as anyone else, but when you use as much time and as many resources as they do, you know what they appreciate more? True feedback.

1. Describe what you see. What are your first impressions? Comment on things like color, texture, saturation and the mood you feel.

2. Analyze the things you mentioned before plus tools of overall unity: contrast, color, shading, medium and discuss how they contribute to the overall piece or take away from it.

3. Depending on the piece, decide value. What does the piece evoke? Was it able to bring a message in mind? What does this piece say about the artist? Ask the artist about anything you’re curious about.

4. Look at the big picture. Does it work or not? Any suggestions? What is your personal opinion?

Remember that I’m not asking you to use my formats, but it is common decency to elaborate just as much!
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by Lamby »

Description, Imagery, and Being Direct:

The most important aspect of writing is imagery. Imagery is the direct link between the reader, the story, and the narrator. It is the most effective method of communicating characterizations, sights, sounds, tastes, textures, smells, sensations, mood, and setting. It is important to distinguish description from imagery in the following way: description is merely the expression of detail, and while lines of description compose imagery, there is a difference between the unity of imagery and bombarding your reader with details. I will explain to you what this means. Many adolescent writers in the information age tend to rely on role-playing as the foundation for their imagery skills. This is not always a good idea. Role-playing is intended to tantalize its players with interesting details in order to encourage participation and make characters feel larger than life. Cohesion is something very skilled role-players can achieve, but this is because writing improves role-playing, not the other way around. Your ability to role-play is not an accurate measurement of your writing ability because it is one thing to amuse your friends with vocabulary and how well you portray and describe your characters, but entirely another to feel you can reach out and touch what is happening because your sentences are vivid, clear, and transition smoothly without abrupt shifts. Some of you may think I’m a good writer, but my words do not come easy. Do not feel like you have to describe every minute detail or write the most endearing phrases you can think of. As long as you have clarity, the amount of detail and the level of vocabulary take second fiddle. Keep in mind though that there’s a difference between writing smart and being lazy. You don’t get to say, “The landscape was pretty as I walked through it,” and expect that will interest anyone. What I’m saying is something like this:

“I walked through the stellar landscape full of cool-color-like leaves that as they swayed mirrored the tapering of my superfluous soul at the profound effect of this majestic and heavenly marvel bounding with green hills like the smooth valleys of a woman’s bosom”

is not necessarily clear or good writing. In fact, that’s terrible. Leave the Call of Cthulu vocabulary to Lovecraft or you come across as pretentious without actually saying anything that makes sense. I’m saying that sometimes something simpler and more direct is more vivid:

I walked through a stunning landscape of hills of crisp, green grass and mighty trunked deciduous trees with emerald leaves.

You can still be flowery and direct, but if you’re not a walking thesaurus, I want you to be your own person. I can’t get to know your writing voice if you’re trying to be Thoreau.

So let’s run through some tips shall we?

You’re trying to paint a picture of the setting. What should you do?

-Decide what you want that setting to be. What are the main explicit setting details and main implicit details you want to get across to the reader? Explicit setting details physical details and is commonly what your high school teacher would harp on most. Implicit, or implied setting, is implying the culture or time period through the way characters talk, behave, or dress, or what architecture, devices, philosophies or beliefs are apparent.
-Think about how you will supplement each type of setting with elaboration.
-Focus on a mood and atmosphere. Seek to convey that and leave small details that don’t support your goal. Unless your character’s boots express something about them or support implicit setting or serve as a plot device, you probably needn’t elaborate on them.

You’re trying to describe a character. What do you do?

-Treat your character’s appearance as an expression of them. If there’s no story behind what you’re talking about or no importance to mood, tone or characterization, do not waste time mentioning everything you could possibly mention.

You’re trying to describe actions.

-ADVERBS. No whimpered in sadness. Sadly, please.

Note: vary verbs, adjectives, and adverbs… not nouns. Don’t go from teacup to mug to crucible when talking about a specific item. Also, avoid vague imagery when there’s another option. “Rough jacket” is better than “somewhat uncomfortable jacket”.

***

I want you to demonstrate imagery by writing about a complete setting with both implicit and explicit details. You can invent characters to help you do this if you wish. I don’t want a story, but a few paragraphs detailing a complete setting. Any setting you want. Remember that you all post separately, you just critique the people in your group once I announce that it’s critique time. Try to do this before next Thursday, guys.
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by PinkIceFox »

Agh this was difficult. I wanted to write a description of a place that isn't in the story I'm writing. I accomplished that at least! I hope this is good enough. >>; Here goes... I'm not sure how well I am at 'setting' descriptions. I'll separate the paragraphs with spaces so it's easier to pick them out and read. |:< The forum won't let me indent!

~~~


The air was crisp and damp. The forest floor seemed to glow a bright green as the early morning sun peeked through the canopy overhead. A young woman followed an easy to miss path through the trees and shrubs. The birds sang a pleasant melody, though they flew away even before she came close.

No one ventured this far into the forest. They would say it wasn't safe. They would say to stay away. This far into the forest, things were not 'normal'. There was a feeling of power in the air. Some saw things they could not explain; small women dancing among the flowers, groups of well dressed nobles riding horses and then vanishing behind a line of trees without a sound, and even beautiful white horses casually grazing along the riverbanks.

Our young friend did not heed such warnings, however. She wanted to learn more. She wanted to understand. There was a house deep in the forest. Today was the day she would make it to the front door. Today she would visit the one who lives inside; the one who visits her village in the dark of night and steals from the market, leaving the appropriate payment at each stall.

The young woman had seen the residence only once before, and even then only from a distance. She told herself she wasn't scared. She had merely wanted to test the waters before diving in. She made her way up a hill, using the protruding roots of mighty trees as a ladder. The further she traveled the larger and more impressive the forest life became. It would take four of her to wrap around some of the trees she passed. She came to an ancient elder tree. It was massive, and towered over her and the other trees of the forest. It wouldn't be much further now, though she was not sure how much further she would have to go. Sunlight is a much different guide than the light of an oil lamp, and the forest itself didn't feel the same as it had before.

To her surprise, after merely sliding down another hill, a small cottage appeared past a wild berry bush. She was certain she had walked for much longer the last time she had traveled through the forest. She approached the cottage cautiously. It was nestled at the heart of a small clearing lined with bushes and young trees. Old, weather worn stone marked the lower half of the home's outer walls. Long and strong vines climbed its sides and the chimney. The air smelled of warm hickory.

The lawn was allowed to grow free, but not wild. Old stumps could be seen poking through blades of grass. A light melody called out as the wind blew through the tubes of a wooden wind chime. The breeze seemed to whisper curiously around her.

Her hair tugged roughly, causing her to yelp in surprise. She clamped her hands firmly over her mouth. The trees above rustled as if laughing at her. Her eyes darted around. Nothing. The door to the cottage creaked open and, to the young woman's surprise, a man stepped out. He glanced around sternly before shushing loudly. The breeze stopped and the trees grew silent. He scanned the yard suspiciously.

"Come on out," he said, "They don't like trespassers. I didn't expect you to come back after they chased you off last week."
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by cinnamonstyx »

I originally had hoped to do more but I've been busy lately. If I can finish something else by then I'll update this post!

~~~~~~

I was in the park again. I’ve been coming here at three am every day for the past month. The insomnia finally hit again. I’ve gotten really familiar with it now, the park and the insomnia. I want to talk about the park though. The best way to describe my relationship with the park would be like looking into a support group for your disease that you don’t want to join. There’s a maudlin sobriety to it; it’s intoxicating and completely grounding at the same time, a cacophony of heartbreaking and inspiring.

I’d like to say I know the park like I know the back of my hand, but it’s always changing in subtle ways. Take, for example, the grass, which promptly at seven am every Tuesday was met by the dull blades of John Deer. Yes, once a week an illegal immigrant named Hernandez mows the entire fifty-seven acres for pennies. Hernandez just goes on his merry way, chopping the weekly progression of nature, not taking a second glance as to how he’s just destroyed the individuality of each blade, all so some ungrateful tourists and nuclear families can frolic and soak in the environment, trying to prove their lack of a technological reliance.

At night, however, the grass is beautiful, undisturbed, and natural. Individual blades fight for dominance in size over one another, preparing themselves to get the most sunlight, while underneath the soil a molecular war between the roots rages on. They suck in our breath to continue the fight, as the chilly, damp air the munitions for their war. It’s a beautiful, chaotic mess, one that always keeps my mind on edge.

Or maybe the sleep deprivation is really getting to me, and I’m just hallucinating.

My favorite place to rest is the stone bench pressed against the dormant fountain. It’s dedicated to some ‘father, carpenter, philanthropist, and friend’ named Irving ‘Irv’ Tyson. A brass plaque painted gold says so. He must have helped with the landscaping or construction of the brightly colored, obnoxiously present children’s playground, thus the whole carpenter and philanthropist title. The implications of ‘father’ are pretty obvious, but ‘friend’ is so utterly vague I can’t even begin to understand why it’s there. Was he the friend of the dedicator, the constructor of the bench, the people who funded the park, the county, the state, the local high school, the other local high school, what? Unnecessary, man-made mysteries are my least favorite thing.

There’s a lot of flora here, but they all come in one of seven colors from the same autumnal pallet; red, orange, pink, brown, green, yellow, and hints of white for the oncoming winter. Chrysanthemum, pine, witch-hazel, red maple, and persimmons dot the landscape, maintained but not arranged, bastardized by Americano sensibilities. In the night, the breeds and colors matter not, because all colors are usurped and forfeited to evening skies. Pumpkins harvested from two towns over are candle-struck and strategically placed to give the impression of Halloween spirit, but ring hollow without the flickering of flames in the dead silence of evening. I hate the fact that they put out the flames at night; who’s going to protect me from the boogiemen now, as I sit alone in the dark, seeking something that I will never find?

And while I hate the people, I’d be lying if I said they weren’t the best part of the afterhours. Every evening some new lost souls seemed to join me. Night shrouds all kinds. One evening, a senile, old woman in a red silk night gown with a brown bag pack with bread crumbs joined me on the bench, fed some owls that had made their home in the trees, and remained silent the entire time. On yet another, a car rolled up to the parking lot, with two classmates inside. John Taylor and Cindy Fry, I think? It was kind of funny, because it was John’s first time, and it ended up with him crying for thirty minutes afterwards and Cindy driving away with his car. Oh, and on another night, I saw two men in black hoodies shake hands and exchange money and Ziplocs. The many sights of an insomniac are priceless, unlike weed apparently. A night or two afterwards, the same two men met each other, but one pulled out a gun, badge, and handcuffs. I was asked the next day to provide testimony, and afterwards, silence.

Other favorites include the divorcee mailman and the clown in a bathrobe. Let’s talk about the mailman first. His name was Martin Smith and his wife, after sleeping with their neighbor, decided to leave him. Martin was thrown into a downward spiral of debauchery and depression, frequenting bars after hours and getting into fistfights, at least according to him. But then his ultimate punishm1ent came in the form of a package he picked up during his daily routine; the sticker had his name and address, and upon opening it, included his divorce papers. He told all this to me one Wednesday while he was drunkenly stumbling through the park looking for a place to sit down.

And then there was Sherman, the clown in a bathrobe. He came in with an oversized red afro and white face paint, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe, and starting discussing the sociopolitical climate of the season, especially considering voting week was just around the corner. Then he played on the playground equipment for a hot flash before he puked and doubtlessly returned home.

On that, the simple presence of a parking lot and playground annoy me vomit stains aside. The fluorescent primary colors of cheap plastic Fisher Price carpentry, coupled with the eyesore that is asphalt, cheapen the otherworldliness of the witching hour.
They provide the scenery with tackiness and puerility, nothing ever needed. It’s offensive to me, someone who appreciates nature and nature alone. It’s as if someone spit on your muse while you painted your magnum opus. Terrible.

I’ve never seen the fountain running at night and that disappoints me. I frequent the park during the hour of the wolf often enough, but the fact of the matter is that the municipal managerial level will never accept my request to have the fountain running at all times during autumn. It’s perhaps the only man-made thing in this park that I appreciate. I suppose it makes sense, though; wasting water is shameless and offensive to those who can’t access it otherwise, and the pipes do freeze up pretty badly during cold spells. Still, I’d like a companion for my midnight escapades, and water would certainly have some fun stories to share. The sounds of bugs chirping and owls hooting is pleasant enough, and the flora and fauna are a feast for these weary, dulled eyes of mine, but I’d really just like something a bit more tangible for me.

This insomnia thing is really screwing things up for me. I’d really like a bit of sleep sometime soon.
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by Nano »

Pretty disappointing on my part to be honest.

~~~~~~~~

I was chained to a pole, the scene around me dark and dreary. There were a few crates around me, smelling of something fowl. I had all the information to take down the cultists and got captured. I now have no way to tell anyone of their evil doings. Perhaps there’d still be hope though…

A lighter was in my pocket, one they had forgot to take while I was knocked out. If I could just… there! It would hurt, but the ropes would be burnt through and I could make it to precinct to warn them of the bomb downtown. It wasn’t until then though that I smelled a peculiar smell, one of gasoline. Quickly I regretted my decision as the floor around me set aflame, the heat burning my jacket in various spots. They had planned this, an easy way to kill me off. I broke free of the weakened ropes and a wall nearby fell to the floor, the fire already moving through these crates like it was a fish through water.

Another wall crumbled at my feet, the bitter smoke filling my lungs as I coughed to spew it out. The fires were licking at my heels and I jumped forward in fear of catching it. Suddenly, the once cold concrete was now burning hot and it was only a matter of time before I’d die. A ceiling crashed in the distance, sending sparks and hot ash everywhere. The metal walls seemed to be peeling off, revealing the outside and introducing cool new air to the flames. I quickly made a run for an exit of any sort, a door, a broken wall, a sewer entrance maybe. Anything to escape fate and live to see another day!

But the door seemed to be blocked! A large metal beam had crashed down and blocked the only exit. My escape, the only way… There was still hope though, the fires hadn’t reached the crates of fish stacked up to the skylight. Perhaps there was hope in an otherwise dreary situation. Climbing the crates one by one, my hand felt the dead meat stain my hand with blood and smells. A beam of moonlight shone through the window, marking my one escape. So close, I could smell that fresh air!

A crack, a smash, I began to fall. The fire below engulfed me in its smoky grasp, hot air filling my lungs. There was nothing I could do but accept fate, this warehouse being my end…

All was not lost though, for a split second the flames scorched my back and pain was sent straight through my body. The rickety warehouse though had a floor of wood though, being on the docks. I slammed through the wood and got pricked by splinters galore from those brittle pieces of wood. The cold ocean wrapped around me, the burning sensation being replaced by a new freezing one. If I had made it through though, plenty of other things were going to make it. First a crate crashed through, water spraying everywhere. The waves washed over me and I made my way towards the way up to the nearby houses.

A pole shot through the wood, steam bursting out of the water from the sudden cooling from the water. Perhaps I’d make it out this time? Perhaps not? The smell was crisp and clear down here, despite the amount of debris raining from the sky. The ladder up was so close to reach now, the building seeming to have its final end.

A brink fell through, hitting my leg, and I screamed in pain. With the last of my effort, I finally climbed the ladder and rolled onto my back. Panting heavily, I looked into the star filled night. A full moon, twinkling stars and a nice breeze…

The building’s fire was radiant, warming my cool body and slowly drying me. Sirens in the distance came from the lonely streets and I gave a sigh of relief. It was over, all of it.
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by Enzo03 »

Hey, uh, College happened, so while I'd like to stick around and such, I probably won't be posting stories anytime soon.

Well, other than Tales From the Jabber but that doesn't count.
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by Blasphemy »

Not my best, but it was still fun to write nonetheless.
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It was surprisingly quiet tonight. There were only a few people on the streets and no sounds except for the occasional bus or car passing by. A young woman was walking down a lonely sidewalk by herself, her teeth chattering from the cold weather. Her hands were so cold that it ached to move her fingers; the tips barely had any feeling in them left. The wind’s harsh breath blew in the woman’s face, making her eyes tear. She couldn’t get wait to get home, the long day had left her weary, and the frigid weather did nothing to help. Orange and white streetlights lit her path, leaving a warm glow on the cement and icy snow. Most of the stores were closed, and the lights from the tenants’ apartments were visible.

Besides being barren, the area was very plain, almost depressing at times. Most of the tall buildings looked the same, having very few variations in color. Almost all of them were grey and a few of them were red or a light orange. Why they picked an icky shade of orange of all colors to give to some of the buildings was beyond the woman’s understanding. The pale color looked garish to her and every time she saw one, she would crinkle her nose in disgust. On the sides of the buildings were some balconies, but not on every floor. There were some townhouses littered in between the buildings, almost like failed experiments that were never properly disposed of. Still, they were nothing to sneeze at because they looked nice but were very expensive. Most of her friends complained that they could barely find their way around the miniature city and that it was confusing. The eerily identical make up of the inside of each building only proved her friends’ claims. Each lobby was the same color and had the same arrangement of elevators, doors, mailboxes, and windows. Sometimes there were small details that were different such as the button to get through the front door of the building or the flyers put up near the elevators. Sometimes even the woman found herself looking up at the small blue plaque above each doorway to make sure she was going to the right building and even then, she doubted herself sometimes. A tiny group of buildings encircled a small, round parking area that looked very similar to a cul-de-sac. Sometimes during warmer weather, adults would stand around in the area and loudly laugh, jeer, and talk into very late hours of the night. It seemed like they forgot that people were trying to get a decent sleep. The woman was surprised that no one called the police to get them out of the area. Sometimes they would sit at the benches in front of the buildings instead. The micro city itself was split into five sections, each section melded into the next, making it difficult to figure out which section was which. It had its own larger and fairly well know mall with five other smaller ones, one for each section. The largest mall was getting yet another one built next to it; this one was possibly going to be open within a year. She never understood why a new one was needed when the money could go towards something that would benefit the tenants, but found no point in questioning it.

The buses ran terribly these days, no thanks to the transit authority who can’t get their heads out of their asses. What’s worse is that the buses now only ran in a few specific sections of the city rather than everywhere. The woman stopped in front of a cul-de-sac of buildings and looked between the three of them, making sure she was going to the right one. She could still barely tell which one was the correct one and the darkness only made matters more difficult. After affirming she found her building, she moved along and entered her building. Standing at the inner door, she fumbled in her bag for her keys, her frozen hands barely able to unzip the pocket she had them in.

Unlocking the inner door, she tiredly pushed her body against it and dragged herself through, making her way to the two sets of elevators. One could barely tell which was the set that led to floors 1 to 18, and which ones led to floors 18 – 33. Those who lived on the 18th floor were lucky, for they didn’t have to worry about choosing the correct set. There were tiny plaques at the top of each elevator to tell the tenants which set was for which floors. The young woman walked over to her set without looking up, already knowing by heart which set led to her floor. Since there was no one in the lobby, she threw her keys up and down, catching them each time while trying to whistle. Hey, she had to amuse herself somehow while she waited. When the elevator came, she sped in and impatiently pressed the button for her floor and the “Doors Close” button so the doors would hurry up and shut. Once they did, a familiar hum filled her ears as the elevator moved up. She swayed back and forth calmly, knowing that in only a few moments she would be in her nice and warm bed. The elevator stopped and opened its door while an automated woman’s voice said “Going up.” The hallways to each floor in every building looked the way this floor did: Clean white walls and ceiling with tiled floors. There was a sign on the wall facing the elevators that said the floor’s number and in which direction were the apartment’s letter. In each sub hall there was a door leading to the stairwell, another leading to the garbage chute, and brown doors with black boarders on them. Those were the apartment entrances and her apartment had a small storage closet next to it. She remembered when she and her grandmother got off on the wrong floor because of how similar each floor’s layout looked. She chuckled while walking to her apartment, a bit more energetic than she was before. Once in front of her door, she effortlessly took out the two keys she would need and unlocked each lock, her hands now warm enough to do basic maneuvers.

When she flung open her door, she smiled at the burst of warm air that greeted her and the delicious smell of dinner that was cooking. Finally, she was home.
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by Ivogoji »

I think this is a little rough for me.

===============

The light that came in from the window fell directly on the sleeping form of the Guardian. His fur was red like blood. Long spines flowed from the top of his head to the base of his tail, which was jagged and bent. The spines covered his ears, but his peach-colored muzzle and black nose parted them to free his face. On the Echidna’s chest was a long, crescent-shaped mark, whiter than the moon it resembled. It hung from his neck like a necklace, the only distinguished marking on his body. He was naked apart from a pair of shoes and a pair of gloves. Both were ridiculously heavy, more so than was necessary. This was for his benefit, for the added weight to his arms and legs built his muscles stronger with every step. The shoes were yellow and red, with green circlets about the ankles. Metal slabs, for added weight, graced the top of each shoe and kept the laces pulled tight. The gloves were white, aside from some dirt, and fingerless, like large boxing gloves. Two spikes erupted from the knuckles of each fist- a testament to their wearer’s heritage. As the cries of the numerous wild birds that nested in the canopies reached his cave, the Echidna awakened, and his violet eyes slowly lifted open.

Knuckles yawned, rising to his feet, shaking off the blankets he slept in. His bed was simply a pile of mats and blankets, a few of them woven from vines, others gifts from the Intruders. It was not very soft, but it did not give him back pains. The nights were cold, and he had to make do with what he had. He walked out of the cave to be greeted by the nipping wind that whisked up the mountain from canyons below. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, keeping his head turned away from the blinding light of the sun. The Echidna did his morning exercises, stretching, bending down to reach his feet thirty times, then throwing punches at the air for twenty minutes. Knuckles inhaled sharply after completing this ritual- the air was thin at these altitudes. Never mind the fact that Angel Island was floating hundreds of feet in the air. Knuckles’ House had been built into the side of Red Mountain, where he could survey all of the island in a single sweeping glance. It was also close to both the Old Altar and the Hidden Palace, so should the Emerald Pillar be threatened while he slept, the Guardian could arrive at either location quickly. However convenient to his duties, living on the highest peak of the most elevated landmass in the world was taxing on his lungs.

The songs of birds were carried by the windy tunnels up to his home, waking him each morning. Their source was down in the jungles, where the nuts and berries grew. Knuckles turned and followed their cries to the west, where the island was consumed by vegetation. The rivers that were the life-blood of Angel Island flowed through that great basin, on the edge of which were built the great cities of the Knuckles, who in ages past built hydroelectric dams to draw power from the rivers. To the east, he knew though he couldn’t really see it, was the sandy desert baking in the morning sun, where the haunted ruins of cities his forefathers had conquered jutted forth like mountains. He sat in-between, the Red and White Mountains forming a barrier of sorts between the polar opposite ecosystems. It was fitting then that Red Mountain was a smoking volcano and White Mountain a snow capped peak.

He favored the western end of the island, but in the end it made no real difference to Knuckles- it was all his home.

His stomach rumbled, telling the Echidna that he was hungry. The red Guardian looked off in the direction of the jungle again, and then took off in a sudden dash. He flung himself down the face of the mountain, hopping from ledge to ledge for a good distance, before curling up into a ball and rolling down the misty slopes. That his people had once commonly employed this means of locomotion to transverse the island was clear. There were, in fact, paths worn out for him that made rolling in Spin Ball form an extremely fast way of getting around. It was no wonder Sonic had navigated the island so easily on his first visit there. The roads could have been made for him.

Once he reached the base of the mountain, he uncurled and skid to a halt. The swift descent had not left him tired in the least- his endurance was leagues beyond the Olympic ideal. Besides, the oxygen content was much richer at the foot of the mountains. Thanks to the miles of gigantic flora Angel Island had a level of atmosphere all to itself, though only discernable in the thickest layer of it, between the opposing peaks of the island’s top and bottom. For that reason, Knuckles could let his breathing become casual and turn his concentration elsewhere.

It was still very foggy- and in fact getting foggier by the second. The arrival of the sun only made the water evaporate faster. Knuckles could not make out his muzzle in front of him. Not that he needed sight to get around; for the burrowing Echidna, using the other senses to map out the landscape came naturally. In addition, he knew the land, and knew exactly where he was. What he wanted now was a cold dip to tighten his muscles and keep him alert. He smirked and started north at a steady pace. Everything around the red being was wrapped in gray mist. If a tree was in his way, he would have butted his nose into it before realizing one was there. However, he was on a well-worn trail that branched off from the sliding Spin Ball path he just left, with no trees to slow his progress. Knuckles came this way nearly every day, and unless a landslide had happened in the last thirty-eight hours, he would encounter nothing new. He knew each turn to make without looking down, and even unwittingly trod over his own foot prints from the morning before.

The Guardian was advancing towards a small water fall. It flowed down from the slopes of White Mountain, as the water was the runoff from the beautiful icecap which melted as the sun’s rays graced its summit. This meant it was cold, unlike the artificially managed rivers that ran through much of the wooded portion of the island, which were heated by lava beneath the ground. Those in possession of modern technological conveniences often took what they had for granted, and to Knuckles there was nothing more underappreciated than the luxury of having water whenever you wanted it, at the temperature you wanted it. He had to walk a quarter of a mile just to find a cool bath.

The sound of liquid splashing against stone met the Echidna’s ears, and he grinned as the fog parted to reveal a sparkling pool of crystal clear water. The falls cascaded down the sheer face of the mountain side, sending up a spray of mist that added to the fog and made the air wetter than much of the surrounding highlands. He could see chunks of ice drifting across the surface of the pool, survivors of the long drop down. Not wasting any time, the furry Guardian shed his gloves, letting the heavy mitts fall to the ground. There was an echoing thud as they made contact with the soil, forming shallow hand prints on the edge of the pool. He then pried the metal fastening off his shoes, allowing him to untie them. First shaking the right shoe off his toeless foot, then the other, he carefully placed them next to the gloves, but further from the water. It would be a sad day indeed when Knuckles lost his shoes. There was only one person around to manufacture footwear, the Guardian didn’t enjoy such a tedious distraction from his duties.

Relieved of the weighted garments, Knuckles launched himself high into the air- far higher than he was usually capable of jumping with his gloves and shoes. At the apex of his ascent, he curled into a ball, spines frayed outward like the teeth of a buzz-saw, spinning down into the pool with incredible force. The red wheel shattered the surface of the water, creating a torrent of waves that lapped up to splash trees and frighten birds into the sky. After sinking several feet below the icy stream, the Echidna uncurled, spreading his limbs out wide to feel the chill of the water. The sudden rush drove all sleepiness from his mind and shook his body into total alertness. When he broke through to the surface again, he felt intimately aware of all his surroundings, that he could stretch his senses to very edge of the island. In the quiet that was the complete solitude of his beloved home, he thought he could hear every sound that played upon the wind. The gurgling of every river, the song of every bird, the rumbling of.....

“Grrrrrughhhh....”

...... His stomach. He had better eat breakfast. This pond was favored by the native Chao- though they only showed themselves in the heat of the day and never disturbed the Guardian’s morning-, who were kind enough to plant delectable fruit trees in the area. The red Echidna’s eyes wandered to such a tree within reach of the pool. Bobbing over to the base of the tree, he stretched out his clawed hand and sank its black, hooked nails into the trunk. Careful not to rip the plant out by its roots, he shook it lightly until an orange fruit toppled down from the branches. Knuckles smiled, catching the falling morsel with his other hand and releasing the tree. He bit into the delicious fruit, savoring the sweet taste that he had been nurtured on most of his life.
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by mintdrop »

pssssssh this is probably awful
_________________________________________________

The girl woke up suddenly in an unfamiliar place. A hedgehog, whose fur was a rosy pink, looked around and tried to absorb as much information as she could before getting up. A warm lagoon with a brilliant ocean view stood before her. She stretched her arms and smiled. This wouldn't be too bad. She made sure she had everything on her before stepping barefoot from her cool leafy bed, woven with little care, to golden sands. A quick sizzle of her feet made her retract her step and look for her boots.

After getting her boots on she tried again for the second time. The sand wasn't so hot now and a yellow sun beat down on her through shady palm trees. She carried on walking, refusing to give up. There would be no reason to give up; it was a lovely day, right? Troubled thoughts shouldn't go through someone's mind on a day like this. The girl carried on walking, trying to recall the reason why she was here. A figure of striking blue kept flashing in her mind, and a sudden warm sensation burst in her heart whenever it came up in her thoughts. Ah yes, the hero. She was following him and fell asleep in the forest, tuckered out. Why did he always have such cold feet? He obviously was too scared to tell her his real feelings. She retrieved her hammer from her seemingly limitless supply. Yes, he must be too shy.

The trail of thought of the pink hedgehog had lead her out of the shady palms to the lagoon itself. It was a great ultramarine colour. Bending down on her knees she felt the coolness rush from her fingertips to her elbow. She would've loved to have gone for a quick dip, but alas, she had no bathing suit. It was a shame: the ocean was cool and the sun was starting to get a little bit hotter. She itched her head and shook it off.

Even though she was dragging her feet, the hedgehog girl remained positive. Thinking of her sweet hero gave her a endless determination to keep going. The ongoing beat of the orange sun made her take her headband off. Midday was fast approaching, and she'd have to get shelter. As a slight protest, she took off her boots and started to walk barefoot on the sand. But it was simply too much. She hurriedly put them on and had the extra worry of sand grains in her boots.

The pink hedgehog was turning redder each second with more fury. Even the mental image of the blue blur wasn't doing good anymore, and once more clouds began to swarm in the sky. Soon enough a few salty raindrops fell onto her cheeks and the sand beneath her feet was getting wet. The sky was becoming grey and the blue ocean lost its sheen, turning a dull grey.

What was she doing wrong? All she did was be nice by showing her unconditional love. The times of countless adventure, proving herself worthy and not just a burden all for nothing. She had walked into a small hollowed out cliff and sat down, exhausted from the day. She buried her face into her gloved hands, which were soon soaked with tears.

"Why don't you love me...?"

______________________________________

i couldnt think of anything else :<
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by Lamby »

Because this lesson only concerned imagery, I will only be focusing on imagery, setting, and direct language that I discussed in the lesson. I will release more critiques tomorrow. Really only had the time for one today.

RAVENYTE:

This is a pretty good oneshot. You are talented at describing character and you easily get basic points across. I have nothing negative to say; rather, here follows a few instances you could have strengthened your descriptions:
A warm lagoon with a brilliant ocean view stood before her.
I think you could stand to elaborate further. A brilliant ocean view could be a myriad of different things. So while I can see a coastline in my head, that's all I see, a generic coast. How does the water move? What life can be seen? Do waves crash or ebb against the terrain? You've shown me a coast, but I'm not fully there.
She made sure she had everything on her before stepping barefoot from her cool leafy bed, woven with little care, to golden sands.
Something that is woven implies that it was carefully crafted, meaning more than a little care went into it. Because you have two different connotations here I'm unsure if the bed is thrown together or made carefully. Make sure descriptions are not ambivalent by considering the connotations of words.
A quick sizzle of her feet made her retract her step and look for her boots.
I know what you're trying to say, but your image isn't solid because your physical sensation is misplaced. The sand is sizzling, not her feet. Without indicating this directly, you have lost potential elaboration on the environment itself.
A figure of striking blue kept flashing in her mind, and a sudden warm sensation burst in her heart whenever it came up in her thoughts.
This is a great image. People instantly understand a sense of euphoria.
The ongoing beat of the orange sun made her take her headband off.
This sounds like the sun is rocking out. You may want to refer to the sun's heat so the image comes full circle.
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Re: The CI Writing Camp Workzone

Post by Mana »

I'm really sorry for taking so long to post this and I'm really sorry if this happens to be too short.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The shadow of a former existence wandered in the darkness and frosty air alone. It slowly trudged through the thick snow while holding itself tightly. The harsh chill around the shadow stabbed at it repeatedly, making each step become more unbearable. Despite the misery, it continued on in the moonlight, eyeing up the faint glow of a far away city from the middle of the white wasteland.

Little by little, it dragged itself towards the inciting city lights of reds, greens, and blues. It knew this area well, it was its former home and playground. It remembered all of its streets, shady places and hot spots. The familiarity of the city didn't stop the shadow from feeling like a stranger to its dismay. Luckily though, the main avenues were clear of snow, thanks to the moderators of course. The shadow felt relief to finally walk on easier terrain; its legs grew horribly sore from its journey in the hell beyond the city limits. It was banished to that wasteland for sins that it committed. Not evil sins, but crimes nonetheless. The land was lifeless beyond the city except for poor shelters here and there made by others. However, most of those individuals were banned from the city for the sins they committed against it. This shadow didn't do such, but was punished by another power. The life behind this power is a story to be told on another day if we ever get there, what matters now is this poor shadow's return to its home.

More relief fell upon the shadow as the air wasn't as brutal in the city. It tore off its ragged, black cloak, leaving it behind on the damp, concrete sidewalk. Starting from its feet, it wore colorful sneakers, blue jeans, an indigo jacket with the hood up, a green bandanna covering its pale face, and red and cyan 3D glasses on its face, framed by brunette hair. The entity looked rather masculine in appearance and also a bit strange. From now on, the shadow will be called a "he". He wasn't worried about his odd looks, for he knew that others in the city looked even more bizarre and weren't ridiculed at all.

The city itself was rather dream-like, twisted buildings of glass and several colors. Near impossibly if not impossibly built structures were barely supported in the air or completely suspended. Whimsical shapes, and weird color schemes decorated this fantasy land. Even though the city itself spoke loudly with its bold appearance, it was rather quiet at this time of night. Usually everyone at this point would either be asleep or still wake and about in the local club, the Chatbox it goes by. A highly favorited spot of the mysterious boy and by many others as well. He continued to walk along the sidewalk, passing by apartments, art galleries of pieces worth drooling over, some shops, restaurants, and everything else you would expect to find within a few blocks of a metropolis.

The Chatbox he was making his way to, the star of the city, Chaopolis. The club radiated a full spectrum of colors and loud voices and laughter leaked through its thick and obnoxiously colored shell. He nervously opened the heavy metal doors, hoping not to make a scene. He was immediately greeted by a few familiar faces, startling him. He timidly greeted them back, he wished for them not to recognize him. He looked around, not much has changed since he last been here. The walls were still covered in random artwork by the well respected artists of the city, the room was just as spacious and inviting as ever. It was comfortably warm and the aromas of hot beverages and freshly made sweets danced merrily around his nose. Assorted chairs, sofas and loveseats of varying hues were placed strategically throughout the place.

He decided to sit down by a few of his former friends, dropping a few lines here and there, trying not to get too caught up in their conversations. He tried intensely to keep to himself just enough so they wouldn't catch on to whom he was. However, he didn't make an awfully strong barrier around his identity. He overheard some whispers from behind him, already, some were catching on that he wasn't just someone new. He felt anxiety build up in his stomach, he knew he wouldn't be able to keep this up forever. He promised himself that he would muster up the courage to reveal himself when the city's largest clock tower struck midnight on New Year's.

He leaned back more, his head resting on the soft head cushion of the couch. His eyes closed, he began to recall his past memories of being here, not just in Chaopolis but in Chao Island in general. He remembered the colorful utopia he used to rule, the horrors of the dreadful land beyond the Rainbows' arches, the Heaven and the Hell. His mind started to fall into more memories as he body began to fall asleep, slowly, he started to relive these moments in his dreams.

Goodnight, Tabris.
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