Ok. Here goes. I'm thinking about writing a full length novel. It has always been one of my dreams. I have the premise, the conflict, the resolution..
So far. That may be subject to change.
I've just started writing a little bit of it and I'm curious to what people have to think about it. So I am going to post what little I have of it on
To set it up all I have to say is it is classic good vs. evil. Common man vs elites. Bla bla bla. I feel this would be the forum to test the waters,
so to speak. The glimpse I offer gives nothing away about the true nature of my story, I am just merely curious about others opinions on my writing
style and possibly some notes. Please be brutal, in an at least semi-constructive way. And thanks in advance to the people who take the time to read
this. Btw I can not add italics on my iPad, but for avid fiction readers, you can surmise where they should be.
Here's how it starts:
"Gentleman, we are now at the final stages of our"-- he searched for the right word, "coup."
All the men in the room did not so much as smile, but their satisfaction was apparent. Many, many years it had been leading up to this moment.
The leader was a stout man, oozing with complacency, and brought fear yet admiration into the others. He continued, "together we will start a new
world, a world in which our power and might can never be challenged." At this, he did smile, albeit maniacally.
Albert Branson was a tycoon, a dabbler, wetting his beak in anything that seemed worth his attention. But, as all powerful men do, he yearned to have
more. More money, more control, more obedience. Many years of intricate planning and machinations had led to this moment. Him and his carefully
selected group of others alike, yet easily manipulated, band of followers, would finally own the world.
No, he corrected himself, he would own the the world, the others being lucky enough to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He set it all into motion,
gaining the trust and willingness of his well-off "partners" to help him achieve his goal.
Corporatize, as he would often call it--this was a downplaying of the enormity of his scheme. Everything would be his, and anyone who dared stand in
his way would be crushed. His word was god.
And that, thinking back as far as he could remember, is nothing less than what I deserve.
Charles Reese awoke with a start. Not an unusual thing, he often did so after a long night of binge drinking. Which was becoming more and more
frequent, he realized. He struggled to fall back asleep, failing that, he went to the icebox and poured himself a nice glass of rum. The television
was on. He hated the tv, spewing endlessly propaganda after propaganda after propaganda. It made him literally nauseated.
Ah, beautiful Jamaica.
He had went there, hoping for a fresh start. How dumb, he thought, swigging away at the nearly empty bottle. Damn, I should have gotten more rum.
Why didn't he realize? The world was the world was THE WORLD, wherever he went. New places were different, cultures were different, but invariably,
people were inherently the same. They would all trade their mothers for a new car, or a new sporting yacht, or the chance to make their meaningless
lives, just.. Better.
Every time he dreamed of the chance of starting over, of reaching a new, untainted place, free from the troubles and the drama of which... EVERY OTHER
PLACE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD! manifested, he was wrought with disappointment in what followed.
He was a cynic, yes? But did that make him wrong?
He sat there for a while, contemplating life and this and that for some time.
There was a soft call from his bedroom, "Babe, what are you doing?"
Damn, I forgot she was here.
Cheryl was an old colleague who decided to drop by when he drunkenly called her and asked her to pay him a visit from the states. She had no
assignments at the time, at least any that were time sensitive and requiring travel. Sex was all that was on his mind at the time, could you blame
him? Good, intelligent, disease free women were hard to come by in his god forsaken hell-hole. But she had mistaken his one-night horny-ness to be
more than it really was. She had overstayed her welcome as far as he was concerned, so much that he wished for the solitude he had before she
"I'll be in in a minute." He replied. The disdain in his voice was hard to conceal, but she seemingly bought it nonetheless.
She closed the door, he took one last swig of the now tasteless rum, and stumbled towards the bedroom. The last thing he remembered thinking was,
shouldn't there be more?
God dammit! he hated being called chuck. It was his boss, Eric Rotterdam, or mr. Rotterdam, as everyone in the office called him, but everyone,
inevitably, knew him as Mr. [snip]head. Perhaps not so eloquent, but it sure did get the point across. In Charles' mind he was below the food chain,
scum, if you would even be so kind.
Chuck-- Charles-- was a journalist. He had taken the job here at the Jamaica times as soon as he saw the posting on the web. The lure of exotic
beaches and pristine beauty had hooked him, not to mention he fact of just getting away from where he was at the time.
[snip] THAT, he thought. It's all the same everywhere. And, ever so self-aware, that's the cynic inside me talking. To which he responded, [snip] YOU!
While never doubting the fact that he was still... Right.
He marched into Rotterdam's office, head down, hopefully concealing the incurable hangover symptoms.
"Sit," Rotterdam barked, adding an uncharacteristic "please" when he noticed Charles had hesitated.
That's all so far. Most importantly, please tell me if you would like to keep reading.
edit on 8/10/12 by masqua because: Edited out profanities