someonecompletelyrandom

Hey guys,

It's been a long time since I've written fiction, but I've finally decided to jump into it again. I've been working on a postmodern story called 6 Strangers, which I've actually written a treatment of as a screenplay in the past, but since making films is so difficult and expensive I've decided to bring it to life in literary form.

Below is a little excerpt, honest comments and criticism valued as I haven't written for a long time.

Speaking here is one of the book's narrators.

-------------

The whole of space and time resound an immutable wailing to the frail. Though lifetimes may be spent oblivious to their grandeur, the last fleeting emotion in every sentient life is awe—whether death comes swiftly or softly. The moments of reflection before oblivion, those final, precious renderings of our dying faculties, most often begin with the recollection of material life. From the moment of our conception we’ve been processed by the natural world, and from the time we became sentient we’ve processed the natural world, both occurring through experience. Experience leads us to form memories, associations, ideas, all of which drown our sensations when the subjective record of our mind begins to erode, as if the archive of all we’ve ever come to be can only be accessed through that last and most irreversible experience—our demise. But this is not the sum of all mortal finality, the culmination of a lifetime of experience does end with the distorted projections of our flawed memory; this is merely the death of the ego. For next, the reflections turn from the material life to the life material. Deep within us, held within the synapses of a highly evolved and elegant machine which fire and arch into our consciousness, we know what we are made of. Perhaps academic study has informed us fully, or perhaps the feeling of being home when we look up at the night sky is enough. We are one and the same with all that is, was, or ever will be. Consciousness is but a fragile bubble formed of the same material which forms the cosmos, and when that bubble bursts, what we are made of returns there. And how inescapable a fact, how inevitable it is that all bubbles must burst. O Muse, what a blessing and a malediction, to be a self-aware bubble.

Stephen

Yeah I liked it. Only thing I would say is I had to re-read some sentences to make sense of them but that could just mean I need a coffee. I have issues processing text sometimes. But as far as concept and execution I look forward to more.

VEGANGELICA

So true!

My main impression, Conan, is that your paragraph sounds more like a philosophical essay than part of a fiction story. I like the concept behind your paragraph and am curious how you will connect it to the action in your story.

When I channel the creative writing instructor I might be in an alternate universe (if there were one), I come up with the following questions and additional comments about your paragraph:

You write, "The whole of space and time resound an immutable wailing to the frail." Do you mean to say "resound with an immutable wailing?" Is the wailing being done to the frail, or about the frail? I am assuming that "the frail" equals living beings or life.

I feel the writing in the paragraph teeters on the edge of sounding grandiose.
I recommend you omit the "O Muse" because it makes the writing seem overly theatrical to me.

I think the paragraph may tell one small untruth, a claim that sounds too good to be true. Your narrator says, "Though lifetimes may be spent oblivious to their grandeur, the last fleeting emotion in every sentient life is awe—whether death comes swiftly or softly." Yet is it really *true* that the last fleeting emotion in every sentient life is awe?

I think that while we are alive and trying to come to terms with our future end, we like to think that the awe of having a chance to live will be our lasting impression before death. In reality, dying people may not have a chance to feel awe. They may be suffering, and pain seems to focus all attention and emotion on the pain, or they may slowly be losing their consciousness and emotions. Some people may die so suddenly that I think they are unaware that they are dying. I'm not sure that people in the moments of dying can appreciate the mystery of having had a chance to live.

The narrator's lecture about awe and the certainty in the narrator's tone made me question whether I can trust the narrator's view of reality, which made me think more deeply about the relationship between narrator and reader. Do you want me to feel sympathethic toward the narrator, or antagonistic, or trusting? What relationship do you want to exist between the reader and the narrator?

Since you have a narrator in your story, I recommend you read John Fowles' The French Lieutenant's Woman (if you haven't read it yet), because he breaks several "narrator conventions" in novel ways. His narrator also offers thought-provoking insights, and since your narrator seems to be commenting in a similar fashion about life and perceptions of it, I felt you might enjoy and gain inspiration from John Fowles' novel.

Your metaphor of consciousness as a bubble is interesting and amusing. Bubbles are such playful, childish delights that I didn't expect the weighty topic of consiousness and its demise to be represented by such a light subject! Yet the more I think about it, the more I like the analogy, because it is true that consciousness disappears as easily and suddenly as a bursting bubble. Also, it is fascinating and wonderful that matter can assume a form (the brain) that has awareness...just like it is fascinating and wonderful that soap and water can transform into a beautiful, iridescent, rainbow-streaked, floating bubble. One wrong poke and the curved film of consciousness shatters back into shards of soapy water. Deprive your brain of oxygen for a mere 5 minutes, and "you" are gone.

Reading your paragraph reminds me of the introduction to a book by Julian Jaynes, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind ( The Problem of Consciousness | The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind | Julian Jaynes Society ). I thought you may want to hear some famous ponderings of others since you are writing about consciousness and so I'll quote the opening of his book here:

My favorite burst bubble introduced me to The French Lieutenant's Woman and the first paragraph of Julian Jaynes' book, so I like to think that sharing about them with you will pass on some of his bubble space to a person who may appreciate it. This reminds me of the way bubbles can stick together and sometimes even merge before one or both pop:

__________________

Stephen

These are actually factors that I liked in the writing. The chance to see life from the narrator's perspective, however grandiose. I guess if the narrator promises the chance to be awed by life the jaded cynic in me would like to hear more.

VEGANGELICA

I agree that the narrator's perspective is interesting to learn, because the narrator becomes another character to consider as one absorbs a story.

In Conan's case, I wasn't sure if he has created the narrator to be a reflection of his own personal beliefs or perspective, or if he is intentionally creating the narrator to have a perspective that differs from his own.

The relationships among the narrator, author, reader, and characters add a layer of complexity in a story, and I suspect that many young writers may not intentionally play with that layer because it hasn't occurred to them to do so. The feeling I got from the paragraph was that it reflected Conan's beliefs, but I wasn't sure. I couldn't tell if Conan had thought about the "voice" of the narrator.

Signed,

A fellow jaded cynic

__________________