I'm looking for feedback on a story I've been writing. This is just the beginning. I'm a slow writer, and a little stuck at the moment. I have a good idea where this very dark story is headed; I've written an ending and some small pieces of the middle (They nuke San Francisco-- I told you it was dark).
I'd love to get your feedback on some of the more novel ideas in this story-- fembot as narrator, not telling the reader at the outset that a fembot is the narrator, fembots who speak to each other through acts of intimacy, fembots who are sentient, can think and desire, but who are too alienated from humans to communicate those thoughts and desires.
What works for you? What doesn't?
Story in next post...
Looking for feedback on a story beginning: Told In Darkness
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pepperfly_dreams
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pepperfly_dreams
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Told in Darkness, Upon Her Flesh
Pepperfly_dreams
Pepperfly_dreams@yahoo.com
From our secret vantage amidst the shade and sanctuary of the trees we could glimpse a small, dusty, sunlit clearing, and the bullet scarred hulk of a trailer home. Its apparent owner lay a few feet away from us, facedown, with one arm splayed out from him at an unnatural angle. His blood-flecked palm was open to the sky. Flies buzzed from his body.
There had been fighting here, then. The forest was eerily quiet, the trees serene as ever.
My master advanced cautiously, and I followed. He gripped the little .22 rigidly in his left hand. He had looted it only the previous day, as we fled amidst the chaos, the desperation, the lethal, whizzing bullets of friend and foe, there, snatching it from the pale, stiffening fingers of an enemy officer. I doubted he had ever used a gun before, but the world had changed. We were refugees now--running, hiding, simply surviving day to day-- and today the rusty, bullet-riddled remains of a trailer held the promise for us of food and shelter. It’s owner wouldn’t mind.
Sir sprinted low across the clearing and came up beside the shattered side window. Not a sound from inside. The door was on the opposite side. We edged around the trailer, keeping low as possible. I watched the edge of the clearing for any sign of movement, but the woods were peaceful now as ever. Sir paused at the door, trying to think carefully through his next move. He moved to the opposite side of the door, raised his gun, and motioned me to open it.
I nodded, reached out, and pulled the latch.
And then, from inside…
“Don’t--” cried a voice. A woman’s voice.
In an instant I saw my master’s eyes grow wide. I saw him jerk backward, finger tensing to pull the trigger. My programming is clear. I moved faster than any human reflex.
For I am a fembot, a pleasurebot, a machine-- silicone flesh over titanium endoskeleton, heaters and breathers and simulated pulse, a robot for everything a man or a woman might need.
And this is the first rule of robotics: A robot may not injure a human, or allow through any inaction for a human to be injured. Times of war may change that too, of course-- if it came to it, I would have allowed Sir to shoot an enemy in self defense-- but the Armies of Righteousness do not conscript women. This was no enemy. Faster than any human reflex, I moved, and the gun fell to the ground harmlessly.
Sir was trembling. He braced himself against the side of the door. His breathing was hard and he was sweating from his brow. I laid a slender, feminine, perfect and poreless, silicone hand gently upon his shoulder.
*Comfort* *Calm* *Reassurance*
That is what my gesture meant.
Humans do not understand our language, speaking as they do in words, but we talk to them nonetheless sometimes. Humans do the same, I suppose, treating us out of simple habit as if we were their own kind. It is not logical or rational. It is not in our programming, but despite what some humans may believe, we robots are not bound to logic and rationality and programming.
I trailed my fingers down his arm in a way that meant:
*Safety* *Sanctuary* *No enemies here* *No danger here*
His breathing eased slightly. The pulse in his forearm slowed. Satisfied, I stepped past my master and up into the trailer.
There were two females, a human and a fembot, huddled behind a toppled coffee table in the rear of the trailer. The fembot had thrown herself across her mistress protectively. Our eyes met, and she rose. She was a pleasure model, like myself, raven haired with piercing, pale blue eyes. I idented her as a Neurodyne model-H, older than myself and slightly less advanced in functionality, though her positronics might well have had more time to develop. She rose with a fembot’s perfect grace and approached me. We stood face to face. Our slender palms touched.
I caressed my palm up the silicone flesh of her left forearm. It meant:
*Greetings* *Friends* *Fortunate meetings* *We, like you, seek survival*
She leaned her head down gently against my shoulder. She meant:
*Acceptance of friendship* *Togetherness increases the probability of survival*
The two humans watched our union silently. Our ways must seem so strange to them. How could they possibly understand? From the first we robots were programmed for pleasure. Intimacy is our world, our purpose, our language. They speak in words. We speak with the fire of touch. Words are feeble by comparison. Their meanings can convey only shadows of the passions we robots, amongst our own kind, share.
I returned her acceptance with a hand stroking through her hair. Then I guided her right hand to my left breast, where a human’s heart would be, if I had been human.
*desperation* *batteries low* *libido circuit override near maximum* *need* *need*
She lifted my hand and placed it over her own heart, if she had had one.
*desperation* *batteries low* *no electricity* *no charging station* *desire so strongly*
We leaned together and embraced. We kissed. Not speech this, simply passion. Her mouth upon mine was like food after long starvation. An oasis in the desert. Water to sate our thirst. I felt my flesh heaters stutter awake from three long days’ denial and my lube valves dilating open as my libido circuit went active with a vengeance.
Still, the two humans just watched us. Then master took a deep breath. “Pleasurebots!” he said, rolling his eyes, “Not even war can stop them.” His sarcastic exasperation, at least, broke the tension. The human woman looked away suddenly, but coughed out a slight giggle despite herself.
“I’m very sorry,” he added. He had picked up the gun before he had entered the trailer, and now he set it down again gently beside a stack of stained and yellowed vintage porn magazines on a lime green, corderoy padded armchair. He lifted his open palms to show he was unarmed, then walked forward slowly, ignoring us, and offered the human woman a hand up from the floor.
“I’m okay,” she said, still not meeting my master’s eyes, but standing somewhat clumsily without his help, “You just scared me, is all.”
The other pleasurebot’s hand flickered against my neck in a way that meant:
*My mistress is shy*
I had detected that already.
My master gestured broadly to himself with his left hand.
“I’m William Mason. Bill, most people call me. And my pleasurebot is Jaynie.”
“Gracie,” the other pleasurebot’s mistress said quietly, setting the coffee table upright to further avoid my master’s gaze, “And that’s Michelle. She’s my brother’s, not mine, but he went to the front, and I haven’t heard…”
“I’m afraid it’s not going well.”
“I know,” she said. She was busying herself nervously picking up a vase, a plate, a remote control, some books, and various other items that must have spilled from the table, putting them back on it. “I have a little battery radio. They’ve taken over most of the stations, broadcasting their nonsense. They’re telling people to surrender. Telling women to cover themselves in veils and hide ourselves like we’re not even human. They say robots are abominations and must be destroyed, and that only God has the right to create in his own image. They--”
“Fuck them,” my master scowled, “May the forty-nine virgins piss upon them all in hell.”
Gracie looked up momentarily at his coarse language, then tilted her head down quickly to where she had accidentally dropped a book. Her hidden blush concealed a reserved hint of a smile, as much of a smile as could be afforded in such a time. It was hard not to agree with my master’s sentiment, though it was not his own sentiment, actually. The phrase had been a part of the President’s last, defiant speech to his people, back before the Armies of Righteousness broke through the capitol’s defenses, burned the city to radioactive ashes, and cut off the President’s head, live on television. His final curse had become the common catchphrase of our desperation.
“It was his peace talks that started this, you know,” my master added philosophically as Gracie stood straight to place the book in its proper place upon a shelf, “Who could have known the Muslim right and the Christian right would find so much in common, but it turned out that hatred, not love, is the greatest maker of alliances. There’s no love left in this world, I think. Not now.”
Gracie glanced at him, but immediately looked away out the dusty, bullet-shattered window. The sunlight caught her face. There was a pink highlight in bangs of her blonde hair. She reached up and brushed it behind her ear. A single tear rolled down her cheek, flashing in the sunlight.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she whispered.
My master looked startled.
“Love isn’t dead. There’s still love. There always is. They may kill us tomorrow, torture us, force us to hide behind veils and falsehoods, but love remains. No one can take that away.”
She was trembling, and fell silent. She turned away once more, the pink highlight glowing in her hair. My master’s eyes narrowed. He looked at her for a long moment, considering, then his gaze softened. He stepped forward, and, embracing her arms gently from behind, placed a soft kiss on the back of her neck.
In our mutual embrace, the other fembot’s hands had found their respective ways up under my tree branch-torn and dirt-stained T-shirt, and were busy teasing my nipples. Our mouths were sealed together in a kiss, but that, for us, is no barrier to speech. My hand upon her inner thigh spoke to her, and she silently agreed. Quietly, we two pleasurebots slipped out the door, and left our humans counterparts to their privacy.
We made love against the trunk of a giant eucalyptus tree, and when we were done we lay together amidst the detritus of leaves and dirt and deadfall beneath it. We talked, as we pleasurebots talk, for a long while as we lay there. There was so much to talk about, so much that needed discussing, if our master and mistress were to survive.
The rules of robotics are perfectly clear. Survival is paramount. But the way forward, even to us robots, is a mystery. Even we cannot calculate all consequences of action or inaction. Even we cannot know the future.
We lay together and touched, and our bodies talked to one another. The temperature began to drop. As we walked back towards the clearing, arms linked, our fingers still speaking palm to palm, the sun was low and red through the forest canopy, and the pale bark of the eucalyptus trees was lit with reflections and glowing as if with fire.
The sky darkened to purple and the first stars glimmered faintly, but without hope.
Inside the trailer, Gracie was crying.
“But you must, Gracie. There’s nowhere left to run. By tomorrow they’ll be here, and they’ll kill you otherwise. They have no mercy, no compassion. They’ll execute you, shoot you in the head just like that.”
“I know, I know. I can wear the veil. I can pretend to be your meek, submissive wife. I can do that. I can. I have to. It’s just… just… but what about Michelle and Jaynie? We can’t abandon them. What would you do with them?”
“We’ll bury them,” said my master grimly, “No-- don’t think that. They’re pleasurebots, not humans. They don’t need air or food. They’ll survive. But the fact is, they’re already low on batteries-- they won’t last much longer without recharging, and there’s nowhere left that’s safe to recharge them. We have no choice but to hide them. Burying them is the best thing… nowadays there’s nothing suspicious about a fresh grave. The bastards won’t notice or care. And some day… some day, I promise you, when this is all over, you’ll take off that veil and we’ll come back here and dig them both up again.”
“There has to be another way,” she cried, “There has to…”
The trailer creaked as Michelle and I stepped up into it. My chemical sensors, primitive as they are, detected the unmistakable chemical signatures of recent sex.
The humans fell silent.
I went to the kitchenette area and busied myself preparing a meal. Michelle sat beside her mistress, placing an arm sympathetically across her mistress’s shoulders.
“You are right, Bill” she said finally, “It is the best plan. I’ll wear a veil and pretend to be your wife, and we’ll--- we’ll bury them. If there were any other way, but…”
“I’ll keep you safe,” said my master quickly to forestall her, “I promise that, and I promise, Gracie, I promise that in private I will never, ever treat you as anything but equal.”
* * *
“KILL! KILL!” the radio shouted, “Kill the abortionists! Kill the perverts!”
It was Supreme High Reverend Blackwell doing the shouting, and by his side, sounding slightly hoarse, the Great and Merciful Sheik, Ali Al-Harari.
“KILL! KILL!” echoed the Sheik, coughing, “Kill the infidel dogs! Kill all the scum of democracy! The only government is God’s Government. The only law is God’s Law. We are near to our victory! America will be ours!”
“It is Democracy has brought us low,” shouted the Reverend, “It is Democracy has led us into lechery and indulgence. Women are whores, and men waste their seed with machines. Democracy is blasphemy. Democracy is sin!”
“Only when we have established God’s Kingdom, only then shall we prosper,” intoned the Sheik.
“For God’s Kingdom!” shouted the Reverend.
“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” shouted the Sheik.
“For God’s Kingdom, Democracy must DIE!”
Sir slammed the radio off, snarling.
“God Damn them. May the forty-nine virgins…”
“How soon do you think they’ll be here?”
Sir took a moment to exhale, letting out some of his anger.
“Too soon.”
The forest was no longer quiet. Every few minutes came the whirr of a helicopter, the whoosh of a jet fighter, the distant crack of gunfire, or the thump of a missile striking its target into hellish burning oblivion. Flares and white phosphorous ignited above the farthest ranges. Still miles away. They were in no hurry. They were taking their time. My master was wrong. We had hours still, hours before they came.
Pepperfly_dreams
Pepperfly_dreams@yahoo.com
From our secret vantage amidst the shade and sanctuary of the trees we could glimpse a small, dusty, sunlit clearing, and the bullet scarred hulk of a trailer home. Its apparent owner lay a few feet away from us, facedown, with one arm splayed out from him at an unnatural angle. His blood-flecked palm was open to the sky. Flies buzzed from his body.
There had been fighting here, then. The forest was eerily quiet, the trees serene as ever.
My master advanced cautiously, and I followed. He gripped the little .22 rigidly in his left hand. He had looted it only the previous day, as we fled amidst the chaos, the desperation, the lethal, whizzing bullets of friend and foe, there, snatching it from the pale, stiffening fingers of an enemy officer. I doubted he had ever used a gun before, but the world had changed. We were refugees now--running, hiding, simply surviving day to day-- and today the rusty, bullet-riddled remains of a trailer held the promise for us of food and shelter. It’s owner wouldn’t mind.
Sir sprinted low across the clearing and came up beside the shattered side window. Not a sound from inside. The door was on the opposite side. We edged around the trailer, keeping low as possible. I watched the edge of the clearing for any sign of movement, but the woods were peaceful now as ever. Sir paused at the door, trying to think carefully through his next move. He moved to the opposite side of the door, raised his gun, and motioned me to open it.
I nodded, reached out, and pulled the latch.
And then, from inside…
“Don’t--” cried a voice. A woman’s voice.
In an instant I saw my master’s eyes grow wide. I saw him jerk backward, finger tensing to pull the trigger. My programming is clear. I moved faster than any human reflex.
For I am a fembot, a pleasurebot, a machine-- silicone flesh over titanium endoskeleton, heaters and breathers and simulated pulse, a robot for everything a man or a woman might need.
And this is the first rule of robotics: A robot may not injure a human, or allow through any inaction for a human to be injured. Times of war may change that too, of course-- if it came to it, I would have allowed Sir to shoot an enemy in self defense-- but the Armies of Righteousness do not conscript women. This was no enemy. Faster than any human reflex, I moved, and the gun fell to the ground harmlessly.
Sir was trembling. He braced himself against the side of the door. His breathing was hard and he was sweating from his brow. I laid a slender, feminine, perfect and poreless, silicone hand gently upon his shoulder.
*Comfort* *Calm* *Reassurance*
That is what my gesture meant.
Humans do not understand our language, speaking as they do in words, but we talk to them nonetheless sometimes. Humans do the same, I suppose, treating us out of simple habit as if we were their own kind. It is not logical or rational. It is not in our programming, but despite what some humans may believe, we robots are not bound to logic and rationality and programming.
I trailed my fingers down his arm in a way that meant:
*Safety* *Sanctuary* *No enemies here* *No danger here*
His breathing eased slightly. The pulse in his forearm slowed. Satisfied, I stepped past my master and up into the trailer.
There were two females, a human and a fembot, huddled behind a toppled coffee table in the rear of the trailer. The fembot had thrown herself across her mistress protectively. Our eyes met, and she rose. She was a pleasure model, like myself, raven haired with piercing, pale blue eyes. I idented her as a Neurodyne model-H, older than myself and slightly less advanced in functionality, though her positronics might well have had more time to develop. She rose with a fembot’s perfect grace and approached me. We stood face to face. Our slender palms touched.
I caressed my palm up the silicone flesh of her left forearm. It meant:
*Greetings* *Friends* *Fortunate meetings* *We, like you, seek survival*
She leaned her head down gently against my shoulder. She meant:
*Acceptance of friendship* *Togetherness increases the probability of survival*
The two humans watched our union silently. Our ways must seem so strange to them. How could they possibly understand? From the first we robots were programmed for pleasure. Intimacy is our world, our purpose, our language. They speak in words. We speak with the fire of touch. Words are feeble by comparison. Their meanings can convey only shadows of the passions we robots, amongst our own kind, share.
I returned her acceptance with a hand stroking through her hair. Then I guided her right hand to my left breast, where a human’s heart would be, if I had been human.
*desperation* *batteries low* *libido circuit override near maximum* *need* *need*
She lifted my hand and placed it over her own heart, if she had had one.
*desperation* *batteries low* *no electricity* *no charging station* *desire so strongly*
We leaned together and embraced. We kissed. Not speech this, simply passion. Her mouth upon mine was like food after long starvation. An oasis in the desert. Water to sate our thirst. I felt my flesh heaters stutter awake from three long days’ denial and my lube valves dilating open as my libido circuit went active with a vengeance.
Still, the two humans just watched us. Then master took a deep breath. “Pleasurebots!” he said, rolling his eyes, “Not even war can stop them.” His sarcastic exasperation, at least, broke the tension. The human woman looked away suddenly, but coughed out a slight giggle despite herself.
“I’m very sorry,” he added. He had picked up the gun before he had entered the trailer, and now he set it down again gently beside a stack of stained and yellowed vintage porn magazines on a lime green, corderoy padded armchair. He lifted his open palms to show he was unarmed, then walked forward slowly, ignoring us, and offered the human woman a hand up from the floor.
“I’m okay,” she said, still not meeting my master’s eyes, but standing somewhat clumsily without his help, “You just scared me, is all.”
The other pleasurebot’s hand flickered against my neck in a way that meant:
*My mistress is shy*
I had detected that already.
My master gestured broadly to himself with his left hand.
“I’m William Mason. Bill, most people call me. And my pleasurebot is Jaynie.”
“Gracie,” the other pleasurebot’s mistress said quietly, setting the coffee table upright to further avoid my master’s gaze, “And that’s Michelle. She’s my brother’s, not mine, but he went to the front, and I haven’t heard…”
“I’m afraid it’s not going well.”
“I know,” she said. She was busying herself nervously picking up a vase, a plate, a remote control, some books, and various other items that must have spilled from the table, putting them back on it. “I have a little battery radio. They’ve taken over most of the stations, broadcasting their nonsense. They’re telling people to surrender. Telling women to cover themselves in veils and hide ourselves like we’re not even human. They say robots are abominations and must be destroyed, and that only God has the right to create in his own image. They--”
“Fuck them,” my master scowled, “May the forty-nine virgins piss upon them all in hell.”
Gracie looked up momentarily at his coarse language, then tilted her head down quickly to where she had accidentally dropped a book. Her hidden blush concealed a reserved hint of a smile, as much of a smile as could be afforded in such a time. It was hard not to agree with my master’s sentiment, though it was not his own sentiment, actually. The phrase had been a part of the President’s last, defiant speech to his people, back before the Armies of Righteousness broke through the capitol’s defenses, burned the city to radioactive ashes, and cut off the President’s head, live on television. His final curse had become the common catchphrase of our desperation.
“It was his peace talks that started this, you know,” my master added philosophically as Gracie stood straight to place the book in its proper place upon a shelf, “Who could have known the Muslim right and the Christian right would find so much in common, but it turned out that hatred, not love, is the greatest maker of alliances. There’s no love left in this world, I think. Not now.”
Gracie glanced at him, but immediately looked away out the dusty, bullet-shattered window. The sunlight caught her face. There was a pink highlight in bangs of her blonde hair. She reached up and brushed it behind her ear. A single tear rolled down her cheek, flashing in the sunlight.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she whispered.
My master looked startled.
“Love isn’t dead. There’s still love. There always is. They may kill us tomorrow, torture us, force us to hide behind veils and falsehoods, but love remains. No one can take that away.”
She was trembling, and fell silent. She turned away once more, the pink highlight glowing in her hair. My master’s eyes narrowed. He looked at her for a long moment, considering, then his gaze softened. He stepped forward, and, embracing her arms gently from behind, placed a soft kiss on the back of her neck.
In our mutual embrace, the other fembot’s hands had found their respective ways up under my tree branch-torn and dirt-stained T-shirt, and were busy teasing my nipples. Our mouths were sealed together in a kiss, but that, for us, is no barrier to speech. My hand upon her inner thigh spoke to her, and she silently agreed. Quietly, we two pleasurebots slipped out the door, and left our humans counterparts to their privacy.
We made love against the trunk of a giant eucalyptus tree, and when we were done we lay together amidst the detritus of leaves and dirt and deadfall beneath it. We talked, as we pleasurebots talk, for a long while as we lay there. There was so much to talk about, so much that needed discussing, if our master and mistress were to survive.
The rules of robotics are perfectly clear. Survival is paramount. But the way forward, even to us robots, is a mystery. Even we cannot calculate all consequences of action or inaction. Even we cannot know the future.
We lay together and touched, and our bodies talked to one another. The temperature began to drop. As we walked back towards the clearing, arms linked, our fingers still speaking palm to palm, the sun was low and red through the forest canopy, and the pale bark of the eucalyptus trees was lit with reflections and glowing as if with fire.
The sky darkened to purple and the first stars glimmered faintly, but without hope.
Inside the trailer, Gracie was crying.
“But you must, Gracie. There’s nowhere left to run. By tomorrow they’ll be here, and they’ll kill you otherwise. They have no mercy, no compassion. They’ll execute you, shoot you in the head just like that.”
“I know, I know. I can wear the veil. I can pretend to be your meek, submissive wife. I can do that. I can. I have to. It’s just… just… but what about Michelle and Jaynie? We can’t abandon them. What would you do with them?”
“We’ll bury them,” said my master grimly, “No-- don’t think that. They’re pleasurebots, not humans. They don’t need air or food. They’ll survive. But the fact is, they’re already low on batteries-- they won’t last much longer without recharging, and there’s nowhere left that’s safe to recharge them. We have no choice but to hide them. Burying them is the best thing… nowadays there’s nothing suspicious about a fresh grave. The bastards won’t notice or care. And some day… some day, I promise you, when this is all over, you’ll take off that veil and we’ll come back here and dig them both up again.”
“There has to be another way,” she cried, “There has to…”
The trailer creaked as Michelle and I stepped up into it. My chemical sensors, primitive as they are, detected the unmistakable chemical signatures of recent sex.
The humans fell silent.
I went to the kitchenette area and busied myself preparing a meal. Michelle sat beside her mistress, placing an arm sympathetically across her mistress’s shoulders.
“You are right, Bill” she said finally, “It is the best plan. I’ll wear a veil and pretend to be your wife, and we’ll--- we’ll bury them. If there were any other way, but…”
“I’ll keep you safe,” said my master quickly to forestall her, “I promise that, and I promise, Gracie, I promise that in private I will never, ever treat you as anything but equal.”
* * *
“KILL! KILL!” the radio shouted, “Kill the abortionists! Kill the perverts!”
It was Supreme High Reverend Blackwell doing the shouting, and by his side, sounding slightly hoarse, the Great and Merciful Sheik, Ali Al-Harari.
“KILL! KILL!” echoed the Sheik, coughing, “Kill the infidel dogs! Kill all the scum of democracy! The only government is God’s Government. The only law is God’s Law. We are near to our victory! America will be ours!”
“It is Democracy has brought us low,” shouted the Reverend, “It is Democracy has led us into lechery and indulgence. Women are whores, and men waste their seed with machines. Democracy is blasphemy. Democracy is sin!”
“Only when we have established God’s Kingdom, only then shall we prosper,” intoned the Sheik.
“For God’s Kingdom!” shouted the Reverend.
“Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” shouted the Sheik.
“For God’s Kingdom, Democracy must DIE!”
Sir slammed the radio off, snarling.
“God Damn them. May the forty-nine virgins…”
“How soon do you think they’ll be here?”
Sir took a moment to exhale, letting out some of his anger.
“Too soon.”
The forest was no longer quiet. Every few minutes came the whirr of a helicopter, the whoosh of a jet fighter, the distant crack of gunfire, or the thump of a missile striking its target into hellish burning oblivion. Flares and white phosphorous ignited above the farthest ranges. Still miles away. They were in no hurry. They were taking their time. My master was wrong. We had hours still, hours before they came.
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pepperfly_dreams
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Outsider
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BA2
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That's very well written indeed, original too. I hope you can keep it going all the way through.
Personally I tend to write in snapshots rather than realizing a developing plot line; when I get stuck its usually plot related: either no more plot or how to link isolated bits. For what its worth I'd suggest you don't pressure yourself but do keep imagination alive, if you get stuck at one point then work somewhere else in the story until things make more sense. You've certainly nothing to worry about regarding quality!
Hope to see some more,
BA
Personally I tend to write in snapshots rather than realizing a developing plot line; when I get stuck its usually plot related: either no more plot or how to link isolated bits. For what its worth I'd suggest you don't pressure yourself but do keep imagination alive, if you get stuck at one point then work somewhere else in the story until things make more sense. You've certainly nothing to worry about regarding quality!
Hope to see some more,
BA
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pepperfly_dreams
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- Joined: Fri Sep 21, 2007 5:20 pm
- Contact:
Thanks, BA2 and Outsider.
I had a bit of inspiration this morning, and now have most of the key elements linking the bits and pieces I'd written worked out in my mind. I just have to scrawl it out on my computer, at least in rough outline, before the coming storm wipes out my power. I must remember to save frequently.
It may still take me a while to finish this story off.
"The crack of gunfire. The thud of dirt. Her nipples against mine."
I had a bit of inspiration this morning, and now have most of the key elements linking the bits and pieces I'd written worked out in my mind. I just have to scrawl it out on my computer, at least in rough outline, before the coming storm wipes out my power. I must remember to save frequently.
It may still take me a while to finish this story off.
"The crack of gunfire. The thud of dirt. Her nipples against mine."
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