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OUT OF NOWHERE, SCHOOL-RELATED POST because fuck, why not.
Okay so I'm taking this one Advanced Fiction Workshop class that's basically us trying to write the first 40 pages to a coherent novel over the course of the semester. I wrote the first four pages, took them in for critique. Took them home, edited them. Took them back for a second critiquing round. Got this incredibly flattering but still frustrating comment from one girl: "Okay, so when I was reading this, I got this shiver down my spine -- and I only feel that for like, my three favorite books, but I felt that for your first draft. But I don't know about for your edited draft."
Tbh I kinda liked my original version too but I can't take a workshop class without working with the critique I get aaaaaaa idk what to do the critique people gives me is so hard to fix while sticking to what I originally have in mind. /throws everything out the window.
Here is the first draft, because why not:
Ken had always liked the atmosphere of the JR Line platform in Shinjuku station. Even at two in the morning, it still carried some of the bustle and noise of the busy city outside. The station itself, of course, was quiet. There were some drunk businessmen milling about, inebriated and incoherent, clinging to each other to keep from toppling over. A young couple was seated on the platform bench hugging each other, barely refraining from being intimate in public.
And Ken stood before the railway tracks, staring down at the gravel. He was glad that they hadn't installed those safety barriers here, yet. Quite a few stations had been fitted with automatic barriers that would only open when the trains came in. Mostly to prevent drunkards and crowds from falling onto the tracks; they were mostly only a meter high or so, and would hardly do anything to stop anyone determined to jump onto the rails.
But still. He wanted this to go without any incident. He hardly wanted to make an undignified leap over the barrier, land face-first on the tracks and die with a broken nose. No, that would never do.
How long had he been standing here?
He wasn't sure. Since he'd arrived at the station, four trains had already come and gone past the platform, and each time Ken had quietly watched the crowd wander on and off the train. Each time, he'd thought, no not this train. This one doesn't feel right. Maybe the next one.
But he wasn't scared. He told himself he wasn't scared.
Somewhere behind him was the babbling chatter of a young girl, and when he turned, he saw a happy couple walking hand-in-hand followed by a little child. So, that meant this train wouldn't do, either. He'd have to wait until this child left. His aim wasn't to traumatize and leave behind psychological issues; his aim was to end a problem.
*
Ken was a twenty-eight year old businessman. His birthday had been two weeks ago. He was an accountant for a company that dealt with toner cartridges. The company would buy used toner cartridges for pennies and sell back the refilled cartridges at exorbitant sums. The company did decently. Ken wasn't sure of the details, because he wasn't of a high enough position to access that information.
His boss had forgotten his name, a week ago.
*
The little girl and her parents got on an incoming train and left. Ken watched as the train groaned and puffed and trundled off. It looked tired.
More people came and went. A fashionable young woman left for the streets, a tipsy man in a suit staggered in. There weren't that many people around the station.
He looked at his watch -- a Chinese counterfeit Rolex given to him by a girl he'd dated three times before she dumped him -- and saw that he didn't have that many trains left before the station closed for the night. Of course, he could always sit on the bench and wait until the trains started up again, but then that would kill the mood. Sitting around amidst sleeping hobos and homeless men had the tendency to do that. That had happened last week. He'd shown up at the station waiting for the right train, and hadn't been able to find it.
It had been disappointing.
But he was used to being disappointed and being disappointing.
*
His brother, on the other hand, was never disappointing. He was a CEO of another company that dealt in artsy T-shirts and designer accessories. He was tall and chiseled and was scheduled to marry a fashion model in two months.
*
The right train was the second-to-last train of the night. He looked up just as the message trilled over the electronic PA system, and he felt a twinge in his chest that told him that this was the right train. The sound of the train approaching carried the perfect combination of pride, mourning and determination.
For a moment, Ken wondered if he should take his tie off. Would it get tangled in the wheels? Should he take his shoes off? Empty his pockets?
He did empty his pockets, and deposited the loose change on the floor for some homeless man to pick up. A teenager wearing headphones looked over at him curiously, and Ken gave his usual awkward smile that said, please don't mind me.
He left his bag there, too.
His shoes, he kept.
He could properly hear the train coming in, now, and it just confirmed that this was the right train. It sounded energetic.
Standing at the edge, Ken took in a deep breath. He'd read somewhere that the sound of a train hitting a body was something like the sound of a hammer hitting a pumpkin. Not very glorious. But that was okay.
The train's lights were bright. It was coming in fast, so he let out the breath he'd been holding, and jumped off the edge. Somewhere behind him, the headphoned youth gasped. He thought he heard the sound of a cellphone camera going off, but maybe that was just his imagination.
What wasn't his imagination, though, was when he turned his head to look at the incoming train, and realized that there was something between himself and the train's headlights. Something a bit smaller than him, but not by much. Something clothed in a gray dress and with short brown hair. Something that was actually a woman.
He couldn't make out her face because she was backlit harshly by the train, but he could make out the silhouette of her face.
She had the most perfect nose he'd ever seen.
The train was filling the entirety of his vision, and just before he closed his eyes Ken saw that the obstruction between himself and the train was smiling at him.
He tried to smile back, but then the train hit them.
Yes it's set in Tokyo, as weeaboo as that is -- but I have the characters go to Aokigahara as a plot point later on (and there really aren't many places out there quite like Aokigahara) so it's legit okay. Also neither of them die. I found out that subway-jumping-suicides actually have a surprisingly low death rate (?!) so yeah. :I Although I think I'm too used to writing fanfics/short stories because I keep wanting to use too many section breaks.
Oh yeah I'm also working on a senior thesis which entails writing a post-apocalyptic novel (aw yeh I love it) which means I get to do lots of reading as "research." So I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy and holy shit it is like the most depressing novel I've read in so long what the fuck. But it was good. Recommended! (Considering checking out the movie.)
Now attempting to read The Stand, in all of its 1100+ page glory. (/scream.)
Okay so I'm taking this one Advanced Fiction Workshop class that's basically us trying to write the first 40 pages to a coherent novel over the course of the semester. I wrote the first four pages, took them in for critique. Took them home, edited them. Took them back for a second critiquing round. Got this incredibly flattering but still frustrating comment from one girl: "Okay, so when I was reading this, I got this shiver down my spine -- and I only feel that for like, my three favorite books, but I felt that for your first draft. But I don't know about for your edited draft."
Tbh I kinda liked my original version too but I can't take a workshop class without working with the critique I get aaaaaaa idk what to do the critique people gives me is so hard to fix while sticking to what I originally have in mind. /throws everything out the window.
Here is the first draft, because why not:
Ken had always liked the atmosphere of the JR Line platform in Shinjuku station. Even at two in the morning, it still carried some of the bustle and noise of the busy city outside. The station itself, of course, was quiet. There were some drunk businessmen milling about, inebriated and incoherent, clinging to each other to keep from toppling over. A young couple was seated on the platform bench hugging each other, barely refraining from being intimate in public.
And Ken stood before the railway tracks, staring down at the gravel. He was glad that they hadn't installed those safety barriers here, yet. Quite a few stations had been fitted with automatic barriers that would only open when the trains came in. Mostly to prevent drunkards and crowds from falling onto the tracks; they were mostly only a meter high or so, and would hardly do anything to stop anyone determined to jump onto the rails.
But still. He wanted this to go without any incident. He hardly wanted to make an undignified leap over the barrier, land face-first on the tracks and die with a broken nose. No, that would never do.
How long had he been standing here?
He wasn't sure. Since he'd arrived at the station, four trains had already come and gone past the platform, and each time Ken had quietly watched the crowd wander on and off the train. Each time, he'd thought, no not this train. This one doesn't feel right. Maybe the next one.
But he wasn't scared. He told himself he wasn't scared.
Somewhere behind him was the babbling chatter of a young girl, and when he turned, he saw a happy couple walking hand-in-hand followed by a little child. So, that meant this train wouldn't do, either. He'd have to wait until this child left. His aim wasn't to traumatize and leave behind psychological issues; his aim was to end a problem.
*
Ken was a twenty-eight year old businessman. His birthday had been two weeks ago. He was an accountant for a company that dealt with toner cartridges. The company would buy used toner cartridges for pennies and sell back the refilled cartridges at exorbitant sums. The company did decently. Ken wasn't sure of the details, because he wasn't of a high enough position to access that information.
His boss had forgotten his name, a week ago.
*
The little girl and her parents got on an incoming train and left. Ken watched as the train groaned and puffed and trundled off. It looked tired.
More people came and went. A fashionable young woman left for the streets, a tipsy man in a suit staggered in. There weren't that many people around the station.
He looked at his watch -- a Chinese counterfeit Rolex given to him by a girl he'd dated three times before she dumped him -- and saw that he didn't have that many trains left before the station closed for the night. Of course, he could always sit on the bench and wait until the trains started up again, but then that would kill the mood. Sitting around amidst sleeping hobos and homeless men had the tendency to do that. That had happened last week. He'd shown up at the station waiting for the right train, and hadn't been able to find it.
It had been disappointing.
But he was used to being disappointed and being disappointing.
*
His brother, on the other hand, was never disappointing. He was a CEO of another company that dealt in artsy T-shirts and designer accessories. He was tall and chiseled and was scheduled to marry a fashion model in two months.
*
The right train was the second-to-last train of the night. He looked up just as the message trilled over the electronic PA system, and he felt a twinge in his chest that told him that this was the right train. The sound of the train approaching carried the perfect combination of pride, mourning and determination.
For a moment, Ken wondered if he should take his tie off. Would it get tangled in the wheels? Should he take his shoes off? Empty his pockets?
He did empty his pockets, and deposited the loose change on the floor for some homeless man to pick up. A teenager wearing headphones looked over at him curiously, and Ken gave his usual awkward smile that said, please don't mind me.
He left his bag there, too.
His shoes, he kept.
He could properly hear the train coming in, now, and it just confirmed that this was the right train. It sounded energetic.
Standing at the edge, Ken took in a deep breath. He'd read somewhere that the sound of a train hitting a body was something like the sound of a hammer hitting a pumpkin. Not very glorious. But that was okay.
The train's lights were bright. It was coming in fast, so he let out the breath he'd been holding, and jumped off the edge. Somewhere behind him, the headphoned youth gasped. He thought he heard the sound of a cellphone camera going off, but maybe that was just his imagination.
What wasn't his imagination, though, was when he turned his head to look at the incoming train, and realized that there was something between himself and the train's headlights. Something a bit smaller than him, but not by much. Something clothed in a gray dress and with short brown hair. Something that was actually a woman.
He couldn't make out her face because she was backlit harshly by the train, but he could make out the silhouette of her face.
She had the most perfect nose he'd ever seen.
The train was filling the entirety of his vision, and just before he closed his eyes Ken saw that the obstruction between himself and the train was smiling at him.
He tried to smile back, but then the train hit them.
Yes it's set in Tokyo, as weeaboo as that is -- but I have the characters go to Aokigahara as a plot point later on (and there really aren't many places out there quite like Aokigahara) so it's legit okay. Also neither of them die. I found out that subway-jumping-suicides actually have a surprisingly low death rate (?!) so yeah. :I Although I think I'm too used to writing fanfics/short stories because I keep wanting to use too many section breaks.
Oh yeah I'm also working on a senior thesis which entails writing a post-apocalyptic novel (aw yeh I love it) which means I get to do lots of reading as "research." So I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy and holy shit it is like the most depressing novel I've read in so long what the fuck. But it was good. Recommended! (Considering checking out the movie.)
Now attempting to read The Stand, in all of its 1100+ page glory. (/scream.)