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writers_loft2008-06-28 05:06 pm
pirate-mousie.livejournal.com) wrote in writers_loft2008-06-28 05:06 pm
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Greetings shiny new member here and for my inaugural post let me just say that it's very awesome to have found a writing community that also seems to focus on the discussion of writing rather than solely people posting their work. And so in celebration of this I give you one of the most recent things I've written and a query.
First a summary, I suppose.
Art may be food for the soul, but to feed their bodies, a group of artists, writers, and musicians ally themselves with a man named Christophe. Christophe leads them far from the bright innocence they began with, keeping them firmly under his thumb and forcing them to mix their art with hard drugs and shady dealings--and not in the Oscar Wilde way. Four years after first meeting Christophe and falling prey to his wiles, Armand, the hypothetical leader of this group, wakes to rainfall, piano music, and disaster.
This may or may not be an excuse to write purplish-prose in present tense. Warnings include implied drug use, vague m/m relationships, and the afore mentioned purple-tinted writing style. This has been unbeta'd, so if you notice anything that needs fixing from grammar to syntax to style to flow, don't hesitate to let me know. There is a prologue, but I don't think it's necessary to have read it. This is 1,121 words
Rhapsody in Red
Armand wakes to the sound of rain falling on the window and Leopold at the piano. He listens for a moment before discerning from the music that Leopold is feeling particularly testy this morning. The notes and cadences crash together in fits of musical discord and fury. Armand supposes he had better get in there and calm him down before the neighbors come and Leo is threatened with eviction again, but it’s a comfort still to simply lie there.
Leo would not let him return home to his own apartment last night. Armand knows that Christophe will likely be irritated, but still. It is difficult to be remorseful when he is surrounded by the sweet powdery scent of Adele’s perfume and make up. This used to be her room, before she began spending most nights in Leopold’s.
Finally, he slowly pushes himself up. He freezes abruptly and grits his teeth through the blinding pain in his ribs. He cannot wait for Christophe’s gallery to be over tonight. The planning and the waiting makes Christophe agitated. Perhaps once it is finally past, the tender nights might return.
The pain fades and Armand absently smooths his clothes, rumbled from being slept in, and searches out his coat and his shoes. His hair is tangled. He sweeps it back behind one ear. The slowly fading bruise around his eye makes his entire face feel swollen and tender. Yawning makes him wince a little, but he schools that reaction before leaving the bedroom. It would only send Leopold into a temper, and by the sound of the chords he is pounding out of his piano, a dark parody of a church hymn, that is the last thing they need.
Leopold barely looks up as he moves past the piano on his way to the kitchenette to make coffee. The ashtray he has resting beside him on his bench is already filled and looking like a dirty graveyard. The cigarette dangling between his lips lazily adds to the cloud circling around his head like a halo.
“You’ll wake the neighbors,” Armand warns him absently as he sets the machine to brew. A particularly large yawn takes him by surprise and he winces before checking the bruise in the back of a spoon. It will take artful application of make up to keep any of Christophe’s friends from noticing tonight. Not that it wouldn’t just amuse them, but somehow it strikes Armand of being in bad taste.
“They are all lazy fools, anyway,” Leo murmurs around his cigarette. “It never bothers Adele.”
“Adele can sleep through anything,” Armand counters as he brings the other man his coffee, black, no sugar. He will never understand how Leo can drink it like that. “Now, what is the matter? The last time I heard you pound like that you’d just been kicked out of that academy.”
“Marcus has done something monumentally stupid.”
Armand shrugs as he stirs in sugar and creamer until his coffee is almost too sweet. “It must be Tuesday. What is it this time?”
“Theft.”
That makes Armand pause, a shiver of foreboding moving down his spine to coil thickly in his stomach. “…How do you mean?” he asks carefully. Leopold is in the mood for riddles and for making him have a heart attack for nothing. “Stealing? From who?”
“You know who.” Armand wonders if he imagines it, but it seems that the chords Leopold strikes have taken on a sinister note.
“Dear God,” he whispers. “Not even Marcus could possibly be that hopelessly stupid….”
“’Just a little off the top,’ he said,” Leopold explains in a sing-song voice. “’No one will notice,’ he said. I found him yesterday higher than the moon and utterly blissful. Tell me, Armand. Do you think anyone will notice?”
“Of course he’ll notice!” Armand hisses, running agitated fingers through his messy hair. He wants a shower, some distance part of his mind notes, and as soon as the thought is formed it consumes him. His skin crawls with the grime of night-sweat and his hair feels lank and oily. He craves a shower more than he craved the morning cup of coffee when he first woke, but there is no time for that. He’d left those statues in the apartment for Christophe last night—stupid, stupid! He should have seen, should have noticed—and there is no time for anything.
He does not bother with shoes as he rushes out of the apartment and up the stairs. Behind him he hears Leopold end his playing on a sour discord and shout after him, but he doesn’t stop. This is why Leopold wouldn’t let him go home last night. Christophe must have been furious. Armand wonders absently if he even has an apartment to go home to or will he have destroyed everything in his ire. He hopes he at least spared the bottles, though he knows those would be the first things Christophe went after. He knows how much Armand loves them.
He does not know why he is rushing. Most of him knows it is too late, far, far too late, but the stubbornly oblivious part of him is somehow louder.
Why is Marcus’s loft on the ninth floor and Leopold’s apartment only on the third?! Why doesn’t this accursed building have an elevator?! Not that he’d take it even if it did. Somehow an elevator does not suit Armand’s state of desperate panic.
The door to the loft is not even closed.
Armand hesitates, then steps inside, only to instant to turn away, nearly running into Leopold who has finally caught up. Leopold allows him to use his body as a blinder for only a second before moving away and beginning to sort through the mess.
Armand’s breath feels heavy in his chest and strangely as if his ribs are loose and tight at the same time.
They have smashed all of Marcus’s sculptures. Not the ugly, evil things he makes (made? Dear God…) for Christophe, but the beautiful plaster, mortar, ceramic pieces he made for himself and his friends and boasted about having on display in some art museum someday (never, never, too many pieces—they even broke the molds). The delicate curves of a woman’s body as captured by a lover, less intimate pieces of Josephine or sometimes Vivian. Fluted, impractical-but-beautiful hand spun vases and twisted shapes that looked back at you when you looked at them. All in pieces and scattered like moon rocks across the floor. Armand must move carefully to avoid cutting his bare feet to ribbons
Armand finds Marcus's chisel, sticky and tacky with blood (blood that lies in splatters across the floor beneath the broken pieces) and picks it up. And no Marcus. No Marcus anywhere.
End
And now the query.
Every time I get to at least the second chapter of something, the doubt starts to set in. Will anyone like it? Is the plot too fantastic? Should I simplify? Would that cheapen it? Will anyone understand if I don't? Will it still be interesting if I do? Does it even make any sense? Is anyone going to call me on my BS?
It's not as bad with this one as with some of my other pieces, but still. My plots tend to be a bit on the wild side. Part of me still hasn't outgrown the phase where you want to put a dragon in EVERYTHING even if it makes absolutely no sense (no, that does not mean there will be a dragon in this).
So, what do you guys think? Is there ever a point where you begin to second guess yourself? What do you do when that happens?
First a summary, I suppose.
Art may be food for the soul, but to feed their bodies, a group of artists, writers, and musicians ally themselves with a man named Christophe. Christophe leads them far from the bright innocence they began with, keeping them firmly under his thumb and forcing them to mix their art with hard drugs and shady dealings--and not in the Oscar Wilde way. Four years after first meeting Christophe and falling prey to his wiles, Armand, the hypothetical leader of this group, wakes to rainfall, piano music, and disaster.
This may or may not be an excuse to write purplish-prose in present tense. Warnings include implied drug use, vague m/m relationships, and the afore mentioned purple-tinted writing style. This has been unbeta'd, so if you notice anything that needs fixing from grammar to syntax to style to flow, don't hesitate to let me know. There is a prologue, but I don't think it's necessary to have read it. This is 1,121 words
Rhapsody in Red
Armand wakes to the sound of rain falling on the window and Leopold at the piano. He listens for a moment before discerning from the music that Leopold is feeling particularly testy this morning. The notes and cadences crash together in fits of musical discord and fury. Armand supposes he had better get in there and calm him down before the neighbors come and Leo is threatened with eviction again, but it’s a comfort still to simply lie there.
Leo would not let him return home to his own apartment last night. Armand knows that Christophe will likely be irritated, but still. It is difficult to be remorseful when he is surrounded by the sweet powdery scent of Adele’s perfume and make up. This used to be her room, before she began spending most nights in Leopold’s.
Finally, he slowly pushes himself up. He freezes abruptly and grits his teeth through the blinding pain in his ribs. He cannot wait for Christophe’s gallery to be over tonight. The planning and the waiting makes Christophe agitated. Perhaps once it is finally past, the tender nights might return.
The pain fades and Armand absently smooths his clothes, rumbled from being slept in, and searches out his coat and his shoes. His hair is tangled. He sweeps it back behind one ear. The slowly fading bruise around his eye makes his entire face feel swollen and tender. Yawning makes him wince a little, but he schools that reaction before leaving the bedroom. It would only send Leopold into a temper, and by the sound of the chords he is pounding out of his piano, a dark parody of a church hymn, that is the last thing they need.
Leopold barely looks up as he moves past the piano on his way to the kitchenette to make coffee. The ashtray he has resting beside him on his bench is already filled and looking like a dirty graveyard. The cigarette dangling between his lips lazily adds to the cloud circling around his head like a halo.
“You’ll wake the neighbors,” Armand warns him absently as he sets the machine to brew. A particularly large yawn takes him by surprise and he winces before checking the bruise in the back of a spoon. It will take artful application of make up to keep any of Christophe’s friends from noticing tonight. Not that it wouldn’t just amuse them, but somehow it strikes Armand of being in bad taste.
“They are all lazy fools, anyway,” Leo murmurs around his cigarette. “It never bothers Adele.”
“Adele can sleep through anything,” Armand counters as he brings the other man his coffee, black, no sugar. He will never understand how Leo can drink it like that. “Now, what is the matter? The last time I heard you pound like that you’d just been kicked out of that academy.”
“Marcus has done something monumentally stupid.”
Armand shrugs as he stirs in sugar and creamer until his coffee is almost too sweet. “It must be Tuesday. What is it this time?”
“Theft.”
That makes Armand pause, a shiver of foreboding moving down his spine to coil thickly in his stomach. “…How do you mean?” he asks carefully. Leopold is in the mood for riddles and for making him have a heart attack for nothing. “Stealing? From who?”
“You know who.” Armand wonders if he imagines it, but it seems that the chords Leopold strikes have taken on a sinister note.
“Dear God,” he whispers. “Not even Marcus could possibly be that hopelessly stupid….”
“’Just a little off the top,’ he said,” Leopold explains in a sing-song voice. “’No one will notice,’ he said. I found him yesterday higher than the moon and utterly blissful. Tell me, Armand. Do you think anyone will notice?”
“Of course he’ll notice!” Armand hisses, running agitated fingers through his messy hair. He wants a shower, some distance part of his mind notes, and as soon as the thought is formed it consumes him. His skin crawls with the grime of night-sweat and his hair feels lank and oily. He craves a shower more than he craved the morning cup of coffee when he first woke, but there is no time for that. He’d left those statues in the apartment for Christophe last night—stupid, stupid! He should have seen, should have noticed—and there is no time for anything.
He does not bother with shoes as he rushes out of the apartment and up the stairs. Behind him he hears Leopold end his playing on a sour discord and shout after him, but he doesn’t stop. This is why Leopold wouldn’t let him go home last night. Christophe must have been furious. Armand wonders absently if he even has an apartment to go home to or will he have destroyed everything in his ire. He hopes he at least spared the bottles, though he knows those would be the first things Christophe went after. He knows how much Armand loves them.
He does not know why he is rushing. Most of him knows it is too late, far, far too late, but the stubbornly oblivious part of him is somehow louder.
Why is Marcus’s loft on the ninth floor and Leopold’s apartment only on the third?! Why doesn’t this accursed building have an elevator?! Not that he’d take it even if it did. Somehow an elevator does not suit Armand’s state of desperate panic.
The door to the loft is not even closed.
Armand hesitates, then steps inside, only to instant to turn away, nearly running into Leopold who has finally caught up. Leopold allows him to use his body as a blinder for only a second before moving away and beginning to sort through the mess.
Armand’s breath feels heavy in his chest and strangely as if his ribs are loose and tight at the same time.
They have smashed all of Marcus’s sculptures. Not the ugly, evil things he makes (made? Dear God…) for Christophe, but the beautiful plaster, mortar, ceramic pieces he made for himself and his friends and boasted about having on display in some art museum someday (never, never, too many pieces—they even broke the molds). The delicate curves of a woman’s body as captured by a lover, less intimate pieces of Josephine or sometimes Vivian. Fluted, impractical-but-beautiful hand spun vases and twisted shapes that looked back at you when you looked at them. All in pieces and scattered like moon rocks across the floor. Armand must move carefully to avoid cutting his bare feet to ribbons
Armand finds Marcus's chisel, sticky and tacky with blood (blood that lies in splatters across the floor beneath the broken pieces) and picks it up. And no Marcus. No Marcus anywhere.
End
And now the query.
Every time I get to at least the second chapter of something, the doubt starts to set in. Will anyone like it? Is the plot too fantastic? Should I simplify? Would that cheapen it? Will anyone understand if I don't? Will it still be interesting if I do? Does it even make any sense? Is anyone going to call me on my BS?
It's not as bad with this one as with some of my other pieces, but still. My plots tend to be a bit on the wild side. Part of me still hasn't outgrown the phase where you want to put a dragon in EVERYTHING even if it makes absolutely no sense (no, that does not mean there will be a dragon in this).
So, what do you guys think? Is there ever a point where you begin to second guess yourself? What do you do when that happens?