The Room of a Thousand Echoes

[PalePower]

So, Victor asked me to post some of my creative writing - I can only comply!

I'm currently working (in spare scraps of time) on a short story entitled "The Room of a Thousand Echoes." My writing process of this is pretty different from any other method I've used (which involves more preplanning and conscious structuring). It sort of started out as a collection of impressions and descriptions that spewed out of me when I felt I had to write something or DIE; my idea for it has now evolved into an interesting plot that is still growing and shaping itself. It will be an intensely psychological story - I'm loathe to say "stream of consciousness" because each event will contribute to the climax and theme.

However, in a short summary (of what I have so far), the main character (their gender is never revealed - told first person) is hospitalized after collapsing one day, unable to walk anymore. He/she/it remains in the hospital as doctors try to figure out what's causing their partial paralysis, and with each day as the main character associates with people around ..it, and finds nothing but meaninglessness and indifference, their condition grows worse and worse.

The following are two excerpts, both monologues by the main character. The first one is probably going to serve as the opening to the story. I'd love some feedback on writing technique, structure. . . any and everything.

***

“I had always associated that feeling with spring – with soft, kelly-green leaves, petulantly fragile; and with air that lacked both noticeable temperature and movement but seemed electrically charged, wriggling impatiently under the surface of immediate perception; and with the deluges of rain that sobbed joyously down upon late afternoon like an eccentric benefactor, driven ecstatic by his own capacity for generosity – but still meticulous enough to share the sky with a precious few rays of sunlight, just enough to provide that final touch, that edge of glimmering gold amongst clouds of silver: the two would dance together, the sun and the rain, in spring, waiting for the earth to grow. But when spring arrived, I had already forgotten the thoughts of a few months past; when spring arrived, I had always associated that feeling with summer – with flapping, white, billowy shirts as innocent and as clean as the sails of the ocean’s boats plunging daringly into the horizon not too far away; and with the irritated pleasure of the ubiquitous heat, close and intent and inescapable like a guardian angel’s invisible, steady hand – whose only trait that came closest to fault was his untiring enthusiasm; and with deep forests, rich and full like a treasure chest, crashing its whispered life from bow to bush to blade, and green – not tentatively – but brazenly – blaring its matured power into the cool depths below. But when summer arrived, I could not think of a time when I had been different; when summer arrived, I had always associated that feeling with autumn – with the crystal, cloudless clarity of the October sky, burnt free over the months of any impurities; and with the pregnant anticipation hanging, pendulous and intangible, in the air, done with idle afternoons and never-ending vacations, savoring the approach of the perfect moment to leap back into action; and with the unabashed, naked glory of the fall rainbow jumping from tree to towering tree – those figures so in love with beauty that they would like nothing better than to be consumed by it, to be eaten up in a raging fire if only for the majesty of the blaze – if only for the trembling, single moment of their demise, so intense, so replete that no thought of aftermath could dream to adulterate it: so perfectly passionate. But when autumn arrived, those thoughts had never been; when autumn arrived, I had always associated that feeling with winter – with the pumping, pulsing thirst finally quenched when the laden sky burst and shivered down its armies of tiny sculptures; and with nights that only seemed black because of the sharp contrast with its brilliant, speckled sky – nights that never bid farewell to the sun but only dashed it into billions of refracted particles, then gathered them back up again into one, central orb by dawn; and with roaring fires and steaming cocoa and rooms full of shining, laughing faces – of friends, who loved the cold and adored the screaming wind, because it could not touch them inside their proud, placid homes, because it could never be as strong as they.

“I went on like this for many years, living like a skydiver with one foot out of the plane, neither airborne nor still secure. I went on like this for too many years – with that feeling so complete in its potential, so filling in its tremulous, possible birth – that I did not have room left in my mind to realize that if it was a particular day in the future I was anticipating, I’d been looking forward to it for so long that it must have come along by now, so fresh and welcome had my expectancy always been. But one day, suddenly, one day which was neither warm nor cold, neither bright nor dark, neither clear nor humid – I remembered. I remembered that feeling – no, not as if it had left – it never leaves . . . it was more like I realized that it could be remembered, as a thing that, while still existing currently, had also existed in the past: it was the first time I realized its existence in a plane other than the immediate present. . . I remembered it, and my associations with it, all of them: of spring, summer, autumn, winter – simultaneously, as I never had before. And it did not strike me as odd that the fulfillment of this feeling had always preceded me by a season, and that I had never noticed this, time and time again – what struck me as odd was that with all of my feverish excitement that – you would think – could only arise from certainty that has never even known the possibility of doubt, I had never once experienced that which had given rise to the feeling. I had dreamt about joint rain-and-sun showers, but I have never once witnessed one; I had dwelled on the sea breeze twisting my white shirt around my arms; but I own no such shirt and I have never even seen the ocean; I had sighed at autumn’s suppressed excitement, but there has never been anything in fall that has made me feel excited; and I had grinned at the thought of winter’s laughter-filled living rooms, but that cannot be possible, you see, because I have never had any friends. I thought of this, and I thought it strange. Strange that the feeling – the feeling, that unquestionable thing which has dominated my entire being – could be founded on things which did not exist. Then I realized it was stranger still, for not only was the origin of the feeling unknown, but the feeling itself. I cannot give a name to it, I cannot describe it, beyond enumerating events that have never occurred. I do not know what it is, this feeling, because I have never felt it.”

The room is still. It is silent, save for the steady, melancholy ticking of a clock that I can’t see: my back is turned towards the wall that supports it. After a while, when he realizes that I am finished speaking, a second noise joins the silence. He taps his pen on his clipboard in rapid, irregular intervals. It makes a brash, nasal sound; and I experience a sort of physical pain, only I cannot detect in what part of my body. I wish he would stop. I find that I am frightened of it – either the noise, or the pen, or both. I have never been frightened of anything before.

*** (Second excerpt)***

She clasped her hands together over her head like a shield against anything that might impede this catharsis.

“It’s so difficult to explain. You see, I’ve always considered myself a rather courageous person, but that was when my obstacles were things with names, things with shapes and essence and a power that was real. Now, though – now I don’t know what I’m up against – I only know that I’m up against something and that it fills me with fear – fear! Do you hear me? I’ve never been so afraid in my life. It’s not the healthy sort of fright, the kind that invigorates and strengthens, the kind that serves as a tool. But it’s a blind, wide-eyed sort of terror, like a victim hiding shivering under a table, not knowing when their predator will strike, where it is, what it’s thinking, planning – so that their real enemy becomes their own panic and their own ignorance and their own ineptitude, and they would welcome attack not as a challenge to meet, but as a means to escape their own tattered existence!

“I feel as if I am stranded in a misty zero, spinning around, my feet scraping against a ground I can’t see, searching for my predator – but all I can see is the same, gray, swirling nothing – so that I begin to think less about the danger surrounding me and more about the discomfort of the sweat on my brow, that cold sweat that feels like death’s misty breath beating down around me, and I become so obsessed with the sensation that I wonder if there was ever really anything behind the mist to induce it, or was it just the mist, the sweat itself that drove me there!

“And it’s strange things that have begun to scare me – and I don’t mean ‘scare’ in the sense of an uneasy discomfort creeping through your bloodstream, in full view of your awareness – I mean ‘scare’ in the immediate sense of the word: one second you are fine and normal, the next there you are like a gunshot, heart pumping, fingers shaking, eyes rolling, hair standing up on the back of your neck to avoid being drowned in icy sweat, knees too weak to support your own weight but too unsteady to allow you the smooth motion of collapse! Strange things, strange things cause this. Words, faces, noises. I jump when my radio crackles, cutting off the carefree talk show voices; I shudder when someone trails off in conversation, when their eyes glaze over, and I know they have ceased to see me – it fills me with dread, it makes me cold and weak and nauseous! I have the urge to cry out, but I am always stopped short with the breath of the scream caught between my lungs and my voice, knowing I will be terrified at the sound if I release it – and terrified all the more for having it remain in me. I have taken to walking the streets quite often, driven by the fierce need for human comfort, but this act frightens me most of all! I stare into people’s faces with the vague impression that if they would just exchange a glance with me, then all of this – this terror, this uncertainty, this mad, untraceable senselessness – would disappear; but it is as if my figure has no corners for their sight to grab onto, and we roll on past each other, like indifferent marbles. Senseless, senseless! Oh, that is what I am afraid of! This cold, suffocating senselessness! Tell me, do you think I am mad? Please, I don’t care if you do, only tell me emphatically, tell me with more than the drop of life it takes to tie your shoe! Maybe then I could stand.”

Edited February 26, 2007 by ENonemaker

[Rich Engle]

Hi!

You are working very hard, and that always shows.

Only a few observations that might be of any use...

If you are going to open the story with "how (they) had always associated this feeling..." and then proceed, it seems to me a bit difficult in that the reader does not have anything to work with, meaning you have not given any reference point. To be obvious, right off the rip my brain is going what #%$ feeling? If you had prefaced it with even a one word description, it would have relieved me... I think what I am getting at is that doing it the way you have there, yes, it does produce tension, and tension is very important, but for its own sake maybe not so much.

Maybe it's a technique, but I read through twice and I still felt frustrated almost immediately. So that's one thing, just off the rip. It may sound cheesey, but I do think there's some merit in reading the first and last sentences of novels and short stories. You know... "Howard Roark laughed."

The second thing, aliteration. It's tricky business. To my mind, it's dangerously easy to force and overuse. The only time I'm ever happy with myself when I use it is when it shows up naturally. You're trying to avoid the "hey, look, dudes, I'm doing it!" kind of thing. I'm not saying you engineered any or all of yours, but my gut was telling me you might have. Doing that is for practice sessions, to develop the facility. On the other hand, maybe all of that really did just come out of you in freewrite. That would be unusual.

You have a lot of capability in the imagery area, and that's a huge plus. You might be getting a little too much statistical density that way, though. Throwing down many, many images (be they comparitive imagery or otherwise) runs the risk of dilution. A great image levels the playing field; it's a big gun! But if you put too many side-by-side, overkill can occur. Maybe use your very best, leave out others. One great image will do the work of many. Now, there are authors that can pour 'em on, but generally we're talking super-heavyweight class here... and, they have developed a super strong "long line," a huge momentum, the images cascade, rather than rat-a-tat-tat, I guess I'd say. It's a wave.

I just point out things that I'd want pointed out...

Best,

rde

Edited February 26, 2007 by Rich Engle

[Victor Pross]

Liz,

I don't have time to comment now in any great detail, but just a fast remark and not in terms of characterization or anything like that, but this:

please watch the run-on and on and on sentences and be more cognitive of punctuation. I would read a sentence and wonder when and if the sentence was ever going to end; if you know what I mean, I hope you know what I mean--if you don't you should by now, but I think you get the idea...

Listen, until I can say more, please feel free to read my newly edited Portrait of the Artist as a Young Punk: A ribald rebel with a cause. in the 'Victor Pross' section.

More later,

Victor

[Victor Pross]

Liz, I want to direct this section from OL as you might have missed it, and it is something that you should know about given that you have writing aspirations. I found it very beneficial. MSK took a lot of time to prepare it, and so not to go to waste I bring it to your attention to read and ponder.

20 MASTER PLOTS: http://www.objectivistliving.com/forums/in...p?showtopic=174

-Victor

[PalePower]

Rich,

Thanks so much for the feedback - I really appreciate it. I understand where your coming from with the "WHAT feeling" bit; however, the whole point of the monologue (and consequently the excessive description) is to communicate that last bit:

"...not only was the origin of the feeling unknown, but the feeling itself. . .I do not know what it is. . . because I have never felt it.”

The main character's incapable of giving that satisfying one-descriptive-word lead-in. The only means they have of communicating the essence of the feeling is by comparison to "events that have never occurred." The point of the passage is both to invoke an overall impression and to frustrate - because that impression is still fleeting. However, that said, I still understand where you're coming from. Some of that can probably be solved by cleaner structure - shorter sentences, making it more concise, etc.

The other things you mentioned ring very true, though. I'll definitely keep them in mind.

Victor,

Good advice. I don't know if I mentioned that these are the roughest of rough draft excerpts. I'll definitely revise sentence/paragraph structure later on to get rid of some of those run-ons.

Thanks for the link to the plot article!! I believe I'll love reading it, along with your "Portrait" - probably not until this weekend (SO BUSY!), but I'll definitely get to it.

Thanks!