Schrijvers / Journalisten

Discussie in 'Actualiteiten, Sport, Entertainment en Lifestyle' gestart door Willem, 24 dec 2008.

  1. Killamonkey

    Killamonkey Niet zo aanstellen! XBW.nl VIP

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    Ben benieuwd! Dus keep us posted :D Zal zelf ook binnenkort een kort verhaal hier posten. Ben benieuwd naar jullie op en aanmerkingen.
     
  2. Deoxis

    Deoxis Coloris

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    Met plezier doorgelezen, je hebt zeker talent!
    Wat Killamonkey al zei, je weet je eigen foutjes te vinden, alhoewel ik nog één (klein) extra puntje kritiek weet:

    Zoals het nu geschreven is, is het erg duidelijk en leesbaar alhoewel je onbewust een erg opsommende vorm van schrijven gebruikt, in Engels komt het vaak sfeervoller over om dit in een volle zin te schrijven of wat andere bewoording te gebruiken.
    Ter voorbeeld:

    'As Leroy came home from one of his hunting parties, he saw that their old, oaken front door was battered to splinters. He hurried inside to see what happened, only to find his parents, or rather, what remained of them. He had never seen such horror in his life and although he was used to gore from the hunting, he vomited in the sink.'

    Opposed to:

    'Leroy eventually came home from one of his hunting parties, their old, oaken front door violently battered to splinters. Hurrying inside to see what had happened he found his parents, or rather, what remained of them. Never having witnessed such horror in his life before, and although such gore was a common sight to a hunter, he still hurled sickened in the sink.'

    Ik heb een klein deeltje onderstreept om wat dingen aan te duiden in de zin.
    Zonder al te veel te veranderen aan je verhaal en eigen woording kun je bepaalde zinnen toch nét wat vloeiender laten klinken als je de zinsopbouw lichtelijk wijzigt.
    Het onderstreepte deel is aangegeven omdat het naar mijn mening niet geheel lekker vloeit binnen de zin, vooral het deel wat erna komt.
    Wat mij persoonlijk beter lijkt is als zoiets vervangen wordt door een wat sfeervollere zinsopbouw, misschien wat verder in detail gaan:

    'He hurried inside to see what happened, only to find his parents, or rather, what remained of them.'

    Bijvoorbeeld:

    'Baffled and stunned at the once so peaceful place he called home, Leroy stepped over the remains of the old door. Only to witness that which no man ever wishes to see, his parents maimed and butchered.'

    Persoonlijk vind ik zoiets fijner lezen, het beschrijft wat meer detail en emotie, verder bouwt het net iets langzamer de spanning op waardoor je nogmaals meer sfeer creëert.

    Nogmaals, er is erg weinig mis met het verhaal en heb het met plezier gelezen!
    Ik hoop dat je wat terug kunt vinden in mijn tips waar je het mee eens bent.


    ..En om af te sluiten, dan maar wat poëzie van mij, met deze heb ik een half jaartje terug nog een wedstrijd gewonnen:

    As I stood and thought, peered and pondered,
    A distantly remembered sparkle was shining in my eye.
    Was I ever like her, I stopped and wondered,
    A little girl huddled before me so frail and shy.

    Lips trembling, she stands there shivering,
    A true moment to weep, weep and regret.
    A pair of pearls, their lashes still quivering,
    Innocence amiss from sights one cannot forget.

    Familiar tears run down from those mirrors long pale,
    Water turned foul from poverty's crown.
    All changed, if known from where to hail,
    The trail from her cheek, now turned brown.

    In awe she stands before a Champion of Light,
    Naught a word said, for all child does is stumble.
    Yet the idol is consumed by fright,
    Her finery of gold tawdry, all turned humble.

    That little orphan once with her eyes so bright.
    There she stood, wept, and there I thought,
    What would she make of me, had she seen the earlier sight?
     
    Laatst bewerkt: 4 jan 2010
  3. Sliv

    Sliv The One and Only

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    Kritiek is natuurlijk altijd welkom aangezien het mijn verhaal alleen maar kan verbeteren. Gedichten maken vind ik trouwens erg knap altijd, dat heb ik zelf nooit gekund. :D Welke wedstrijd had je ermee gewonnen?
     
  4. Deoxis

    Deoxis Coloris

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    FAULT Magazine publicatie, Engels tijdschrift wat jaarlijks wat schrijftalent van jongeren publiceert.
     
  5. Deoxis

    Deoxis Coloris

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    Toch maar eventjes bumpen.
    Ik ben nu druk bezig een uitgever te zoeken (niet makkelijk voor een Engels schrijvende Nederlander!) en ben ondertussen mijn werk een beetje online aan het zetten als back-up.
    Momenteel probeer ik de blog 2x per dag te blijven updaten, wat niet al te moeilijk is, aangezien ik veel schrijf per dag en nog veel oud materiaal heb om te posten als ik niks heb geschreven.

    Without further ado:

    http://winedrenchedroses.tumblr.com/
     
  6. Sliv

    Sliv The One and Only

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    Heeft de naam Wine Drenched Roses nog een speciale betekenis? En schrijf je alleen gedichten of ook verhalen? Ik ben te moe om nu de hele site af te gaan :+

    Ik heb trouwens op basis van jullie kritiek mijn 'verhaal' herschreven, helemaal opnieuw. Dwz plotveranderingen, andere namen en ik heb geprobeerd om me een wat andere schrijfstijl aan te meten. Ik hoop dat jullie er verbetering in zien.

    Hoofdstuk 1:

    A little boy, no more than five years old, was sitting in a muff old room which smelled of mahogany and old books. The room was filled mostly with ornate wooden bookcases, of which the shelves had accumulated a layer of dust over the past years. Before the boy stood a table filled with scattered pieces of clean parchment, full and empty vials of ink, quills and a small oil lamp. Next to him sat a man with a small black beard, a pair of glasses and early wrinkles which gave his face a nearly constant frown. In the dark, his expression was hard to recognize. Nevertheless, he spoke with obvious authority as he directed the boy in his works. The man took a quill, scribbled a gracious letter on a piece of parchment and pushed it to the boy.

    “This is the letter E. Be sure to remember that one, as it’s very common letter in our language. Using that letter, we should be able to form simple words which you can use to practice your writing and reading. Why don’t you try to form a word with the letters I taught you?”

    The boy was silent for a moment, thinking about which word to form. After a few seconds, he grabbed the quill and wrote ‘Deer’ on the parchment which harbored the E. The letters were crude and wobbly, and he spilled a bit of ink at the R, which was now decorated with an oil stain.

    “Excellent, although the writing may need some work”, the man exclaimed. “Using this letter, you can now –“

    The door suddenly opened, gracing the dusty room with a welcome ray of sunshine. A woman dressed in a white apron, with long, brown locks draping over it, stepped in the doorframe. She was obviously related to the boy, as he had inherited many of her features. They both had the same long, round face and bushy hair. Unlike the boy however, she was more stout in her appearance. With an unexpected loud voice she addressed the man.

    “Harold, what in the name of the Light are you doing with him here! He’s just a kid, he should be playing outside. He might get the lung fever if he’s locked in your dusty old library all day.”

    Although the words were a little harsh, they held no venom. Harold looked up from the scrolls and retorted in an unusually calm voice: “It is important for him to learn how to read.”

    “He’s only FIVE! Besides, I need him to help me fetch Maxwell. I think he’s spotted a hare again and gave it a good chase.”

    Harold sighed and scrambled the parchment on the table. “I guess that’s the end of our lesson, Gareth. I’ll be out of town tomorrow, but try to practice your writing so we can make some good progress next time.” He handed Gareth the parchment they had been writing on and watched him leave the room with his mother as he stayed behind with his precious books and scrolls.

    It seemed to be a good time later now. Gareth was no longer small, but stood nearly as tall as Harold. It was more clear now that Harold was Gareth’s father: Gareth had developed some distinct features of him, such as the powerful jaw, relatively small torso and calm expression his father always carried. They were standing in the same old dusty room, which seemed to have hardly changed in the ten years that had passed. The atmosphere was very much different, however. Gareth had an angry expression on his face. Harold looked the same as ever, not one grey hair streaking his beard yet, as he was calmly assessing the situation.

    “I don’t care about your precious law books and ancient languages. You’ve always been pushing me so I might fulfill your legacy one day. But I’m not made of the same stuff as you are. I don’t revel in finding gaps in the law, writing an inspiring speech or translating an ancient text.” Furiously, he tossed the book he was holding to the ground. Harold saw the book slide away, it’s cover battered by the fall, but he made no movement to pick it up. Under his breath he said: “Seems you do have some talent for the inspiring speech part”. That seemed to anger Gareth all the more.

    Harold then took him by the shoulders. “You may not be interested in the same things as me, but that doesn’t diminish their value in your life. If you ever get in real trouble, only your guile will save you, not the mindless brawl you always admire. You will find out that some of the skills I taught you will be invaluable.

    Still, I guess you’re right about one point. We should find you a suitable profession. I’m afraid I failed to push you into a political career.” Chuckling, he picked up the battered book and returned it to its bookcase. He walked restlessly for a few seconds, then set his eyes on Gareth.

    “Where lie your true interests, son?”

    Surprised by this sudden question, Gareth stumbled upon his words until he had finally decided:

    “I’ve always dreamed of adventure. I spoke Evan a few days ago and he said they wouldn’t mind another trapper in their company. I could go there and learn from them. They would make me a good hunter in no time!” Filled with enthusiasm, Gareth looked expectantly to his father.

    “How would you fit between the hunters? You can hardly lift a bow with your arm. Still, if Evan has given you such a clear invitation and it is what you wish to do, I guess that could be –

    Gareth woke from a playful stomp in his chest. “Get up, you lazy twat, or we’ll be late and some farmer will have stumbled upon our traps.” He groaned, and let his eyes adjust to the light of the lamp the man who woke him had brought in. “Dammit, Gunther! You could’ve at least waked me in the conventional way”, he complained. Annoyed that Gunther had disturbed his pleasant childhood dream, he sat up and began to scramble his things. He crawled out of the four feet high cavern he was in. It was still dark, but the other hunters were ready and waiting for him. He hastily stuffed his possessions in his pack, and grabbed his walking stick. Suppressing a big yawn, he followed the men as they went to check their traps.

    His father had been right: He really was a horrible marksman. Every time he tried to fire an arrow, the bowstring would wobble and the arrow would fly in an undesired direction. People had soon learned to stay away from the practicing Gareth, lest they lose an eye to the uncontrolled projectiles flying in all directions. Luckily, you didn’t need to be good with a bow to become a hunter. Although all of them except Gareth wielded a bow, it wasn’t altogether necessary to catch your prey. Most of the catch came from the traps they put down in various locations, and he could easily keep wild animals at bay with his walking stick, should they come close.

    “Little boy needs his sleep, aye?”, Gunther nagged. The rest of the hunters laughed, including Gareth. He liked Gunther. He always brought a merry atmosphere into the group, and Gareth liked to play cards with him during their little spare time. “Maybe if you didn’t keep me awake with your deafening snore, I might actually get a night’s sleep in this godforsaken cave” he answered. Gunther laughed, then slapped him on the back. “I’ll put your shirt in my nose then to stop the snore next time. You’ll have a warm shirt the next morning as well.” A grin widened on both Gunther and Gareth’s face. Then Evan’s trembling voice shouted them to attention: “Gunther, Perkins, you go and fetch the traps in the basin, the others come with me for the rest of the traps.” Disappointed they were separated, Gareth and Gunther gave each other a friendly shove and departed in different directions.

    Gareth was following Evan, the leader of the hunting party. Evan was a tough, lean man near his fifties, but still had as much vigor as a twenty years old. Although he was ruthless in his approach, Gareth knew him to be a fair, reliable, and conscious man. After a few hours, they split up again to find the various traps that they had set up. After they collected all the traps, they met with all the other hunters at a giant oak tree facing the only road to Alberich, their hometown.

    “The catch is bountiful this time, Evan said content. I guess you can buy yourself an extra ale tonight. The men cheered. When they reached the crossing near Alberich, every hunter received his share and departed in different directions, to their homes. Gareth received three hares, a duck and a piece of boar flank, which had been the lucky catch this hunt. Before he could leave for his home, Gunther stopped him.

    “You should come an’ have dinner at ours tonight. Elaine’s gonna bake the best liver pie you’ll ever taste. What about it?”

    “That sounds great!”, Gareth responded cheerfully. You’ll see me around then tonight.

    “Oh, and don’t buy yourself too much ale. You know how my wife thinks about spirits.” Gunther gave him a wink.

    They departed, both going home. Gunther needn’t worry that I blow my money on ale, Gareth thought. He was saving up every penny he could get his hands on, for he wanted to buy his own place. He would then be fit to marry somebody, though he had still to meet a girl he really loved. Better to be prepared when it happens.

    It was still a four mile walk, but already Gareth longed to be home. Their home, situated on the edge of Alberich, was a reasonably old building, with stone brick walls and a wooden roof. It had belonged to an old wealthy merchant, and was bought by Gareth’s father after the death of the inhabitant. About five miles from the town’s center, it was seldom bothered by people, which was exactly why Harold Arcanos had chosen this home. “A man needs to bring the hermit in himself up when he encounters people every other minute”, his father would often say. Therefore he secluded himself, entertaining himself with his books and other curiosities he found on his travels.

    Many of these curiosities were gifts to either his wife Marian or Gareth. Being a member of the district council, Harold was often sent to represent their region in the capital city Meledyl of their homeland Arganoth. These travels were long and weary, but he would always bring exotic gifts back to their home: A book, a shiny bauble, a piece of jewelry for his wife. When Gareth was ten years old, his father had brought back a book depicting the scenery and wildlife surrounding Meledyl. Awed by the unknown creatures which seemed to stalk Arganoth, Gareth would look at that book for hours. Now, it was found in one of the many bookcases in their library, where Harold stored many of his gifts. They pleasured him almost as much as Gareth and Marian. Due to this, the house was filled with all sorts of literature and artifacts over the years, littering the various tables, drawers and bookcases. It added to the historic atmosphere of the house. Marian could not keep up with the frantic collector her husband was, so she ultimately resigned to it and only dusted their living rooms.

    Thinking of his home warmed Gareth’s heart. He was eager to arrive, so he could have a warm meal, sleep in his own comfortable bed instead of on the ground and play with his dog Maxwell. Increasing his pace, he soon had his home in sight, on the outskirts of Alberich. However, as he approached the house, he began to get a nasty feeling which made his skin crawl. Normally his dog would have ran up to him to greet him and lick his fingers, or else bark at him until its throat ran dry. It was awfully silent when he opened the wooden gate to the grounds. Something was wrong ..

    Hoofdstuk 2:

    The front gate creaked as Gareth closed it behind him. He approached the house with caution. A nagging feeling in the back of his head told him to run away as fast as possible, but he had to know what was going on. After all, it could just be his imagination. The gravel of the path to his home creaked beneath his shoes, breaking the silence. He started to see something unusual in the distance, much like some sort of giant pole. Closing in on the house, he started to get a better view at it. He stopped abruptly, stunned, tears filling his eyes. He had discovered the fate of his dog.

    What he had mistaken for a pole was actually a spear so large he couldn’t think of anyone able to carry it besides a giant. It was stuck in the ground, through the body of his beloved dog Maxwell, like a skewer. Gareth could still see the expression of fear in the lifeless eyelids of his pet. It was a horrible sight. Who would do something that cruel to an animal? Gareth wondered. Horrified and sick, he pulled his sight off Maxwell and, wiping his tears away, forced himself to take a look inside.

    He tried not to think of what might have befallen his parents as he pushed aside the battered front door, which tumbled to the side as he put force to it. He gripped his walking stick more firmly as he slowly entered the house. He was struck with fear as he saw the insides of their entrance corridor. Drawers lay crashed on the ground, their glass windows shattered in a thousand pieces, littering the floor. Paintings had fallen down from the wall, some having been damaged without repair holding what Gareth thought to be marks of sword cuts and elbow thrusts. The only undamaged object in the room was their priceless mahogany grandfather clock, for which Gareth would normally be glad. At the moment, he couldn’t care less about it though, as he sped through the corridor and entered the living room, where he found an even greater devastation.

    Precious antiquities his father loved to collect lay on the ground in shambles. Their long leather couch, on which Gareth would often lay down with Maxwell on his lap had fallen over, its cushions slashed open to reveal the soft white padding inside. But worst of all, a trail of blood ran throughout the room, and led to the kitchen. It looked like the remainder of a battlefield.

    Sweat ran from Gareth’s brow as he inspected his ransacked home. Even if he intended to, he doubted he could inflict so much damage to the house’s interior. He wanted to follow the blood trail to see where it lead and, more importantly, whose it was, but before he could make a step, he heard the sound of heavy leather boots on the wooden floor of the entrance corridor. Swiftly turning around, he saw a glint of light and an incoming blade as he ducked. The sword missed him by an inch, but immediately a broad shoulder followed crashing into him. Gareth slammed into the stone brick wall, tasting blood in his mouth and a sudden, terrible pain in his left hand. Dazed, he rose just in time to see the man making a second charge.

    As he had more time to anticipate a move now, he jumped to the side, breaking his fall with a roll as he leaped on his feet. And my dad said brawn would never come useful, he thought grimly. He burst through the open kitchen door, slamming it shut and barring it with a chair. He immediately heard a loud thunk as his attacker crashed into the door, obviously expecting it to open up. The man behind the door groaned as he hurt himself, but started hammering the door. Gareth could hear the wood creak. Still, it should hold and keep the intruder outside.

    Feeling temporarily safe, Gareth turned to take a good look at the kitchen. His eyes widened as he lay eyes on a giant puddle of blood, with a body lying in it. He could not recognize who it was because of all the blood and the rent body parts. The person lying there had gone through a terrible torture, as it seemed to Gareth. The legs were stretched in an impossible angle, the knees battered to pieces with the bone coming out of them. The right arm lacked a whole hand, with blood streaming freely out of the open wound, while the other arm missed three fingers, the other two broken and bloodied. Looking up at the neck, the torturer seemed to have severed the main artery as blood was gushing out of there as well, adding to the puddle. Next to the body lay a bloody, awfully familiar sword, which he picked up to inspect further.

    He could not bear so much gore. He averted his eyes but wasn’t able to unsee that which he had seen. Feeling sick, he felt his cornbread breakfast come up, and emptied his stomach in the kitchen sink as he gathered his senses.

    Suddenly, a deafening sound filled the kitchen as the door and chair holding it down splintered and cracked. Though came the man that had assailed Gareth from behind. Gareth was astounded that the man had managed to break through his makeshift barricade.

    He could finally see how the man looked like. He was at least six feet tall, with heavily muscled, scarred arms which still held the splinters from the impact with the door. He wore a chainmail outfit overlaid with leather and a belt, which held various small knives and a warhammer. His long blond hair braided his face, on which Gareth could read his one and only intent. Killing. He held a vicious long sword in his left which, to Gareth, seemed to be made for two hands instead of one. With the other hand he tossed the broken chair aside, making way for his attack.

    The man charged, but Gareth had anticipated the move and sidestepped, ducking past the blade as it whipped through the air. With a burst of speed, he dashed through the living room into the entrance corridor and slammed his back against the wall, waiting. Heavily panting, he didn’t hear the other man yet. Surprised, he found out that he was still holding the bloody sword he found in his good hand.

    Ignoring the pain in his hand and jaw, he forced himself to listen for footsteps. He heard the leather boots making creaking noises on the wooden floor as the planks nearly buckled under the man’s enormous weight. The attacker advanced slowly, checking every corner. He would soon be upon the hiding place. However, Gareth was determined now. This man has devastated my home, killed my dog and maybe my parents and attacked me. He has destroyed everything I love, and I will have his blood for it! Anger was coursing through him and more tears filled his eyes as he thought of the fate of the people he cared about. Gripping the sword hilt tighter, he heard the assailant come ever closer. When the man set foot in the doorframe Gareth let out a scream of rage, releasing all his confined emotions in a single desperate strike. as he flailed the bloody sword at his target with all his strength. He saw the sword crash into the enemy’s chest. Dull as the weapon was, it cut through the leather but stopped at the chainmail tunic. Still, the force of the blow was so great Gareth could hear some ribs snap. The man fell down on his back and groaned, fire lighting up in his eyes. His fury was nothing compared to Gareth’s though, who lifted the sword and crashed it down with utter fury on the man’s head.

    Not protected by thick chainmail, the sword hit him at the temples and tore the upper part of his head off, cleaving the skull in two and sending bone fragments, brains and blood flying through the air. It was a disgusting sight, but in his fury, Gareth was delighted by it. With a dry splat, the man’s body crashed down in the mess of his own body fluids..

    Still breathing hard from the tiresome assault, Gareth dared to take a look at his fingers. They were wet with blood and throbbed with pain. His shoulder was numb as well. He forced open one of the broken closets and took out a large piece of cloth, which he used to bandage his fingers. The bandage was already soaking wet with blood, but it would steep the bleeding. Having tended to himself, Gareth reluctantly decided to take a look at the body in the kitchen again. He had to know if it was one of his parents. He stepped over the debris of the broken door and inspected the face of the unfortunate soul. He gasped and started to sob uncontrollably at the sight. Although the body’s visage was bloodied and cut, it was still easy enough to make out the familiar jaw line and streaks of dark hair that weren’t yet tainted with blood. Gareth’s tears fell down on the face of the man, who he had known for so long, with whom he had suffered so many hardships.

    “Stop crying son! Your tears … are … unpleasantly salt” Gareth suddenly heard in a gurgling, raspy voice, with the tone and authority he had known for so long. He looked down and saw a pair of emerald eyes looking at him with compassion. His father was terribly injured, coughing up blood after his sentence. Every word seemed to hurt his broken ribs, and since his throat was partially filled with his own blood he sounded like a drowning man. Still, his father was very much alive, even in his deteriorated state.

    “Father! You’re alive. I’ll hurry and get the neighbours, they can get a surgeon and save you.”
    New tears appeared at Gareth’s face, now of happiness, as he sped to the kitchen door.

    “No.”

    Stunned and confused, Gareth turned around. “What?”

    “No.”

    “What do you mean? We can still save you! I won’t lose you to fate today, father!”

    “You will, it is too late already. I’ve lost too much blood”, Harold Arcanos said grimly. “But there are certain things I want you to know, so listen now, for I feel the spirit world tugging at me already.”

    Gareth wanted to say something comforting, but no words would form in his mind. He stood there, motionless, feeling the words of his father wash over him. Harold coughed up more blood, then continued his words.“First of all, your mother is safe. I got her out before that fiend came.”

    “Where is she now?” Gareth asked, relief washing over him at the news.

    “That’s not important, the only thing you need to know is that she’s safe.”

    Gareth wanted to protest, but a single look of his father silenced him as he continued his speech.

    “Secondly, I want you to search the pockets of the man you killed and retrieve two things for me. A leather bag with my savings, and my ring. You did kill him, didn’t you?”

    “Of course I did.” Gareth responded with a mixture of dread and pride. He went and checked the pockets of the leather trousers of the corpse in the entrance corridor. He took out a gold watch on a chain, a few coppers and a wet handkerchief before he found a leather bag containing the savings. The ring his father meant was found in the other pocket. It had a silver band with a small ruby in a finely wrought socket, which shimmered as he held it in the light. Swiftly, he returned to his father. “I have the things you asked me for.”

    “Good. Seems you did have your pretty adventure at all, didn’t you?” Even at the brink of death, the old man hadn’t lost his sense of humor. “The money has its obvious purposes. Take it and spend it wisely. As for the ring: I want you to keep that as a memento of me. Never tell anyone I gave it to you, and don’t give it away to anyone either. Will you promise me that?”

    “Of course I’ll promise that!” Gareth yelped. He solemnly swore never to part with the ring. Harold seemed satisfied. “But what should I do now? I will inform the authorities of this atrocity. They will hunt down the person behind this. Justice will be served!”

    “Unfortunately .. things aren’t so easy. If you return to Alberich, they will capture you and ultimately put you to death. The authorities aren’t on your side in this one, as it seems. You must run. Find your uncle Bertrand. He will know what to do.”

    Every word seemed to put a bigger strain on Harold Arcanos, so Gareth refrained from asking too many questions and just nodded. “I will be fine. I can survive on my own for that long.”

    “I hope you do, indeed. Lastly, would you please receive my blessing?” Gareth took on a serious expression. “I would be honored.”
    “May the good spirits protect you in good times and bad times. Especially the latter, that would be most helpful now.” Harold grinned, and coughed up yet more blood. Gareth saw the twinkle in his father’s eyes vanish, and the facial muscles go slack. And so, with a smirk on his face, Harold Arcanos left the world of the living to join his ancestors in the spirit world.

    Gareth felt completely devastated. He was engulfed with sadness, but he had no fluid left for even a single tear. He clasped his father’s only remaining hand one last time before he left the kitchen. Leaving the estate, he gave his home one last glance before he disappeared into the incoming dusk, never to return again.
     
    Laatst bewerkt: 24 jul 2010
  7. Sliv

    Sliv The One and Only

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    Iemand hier die meedoet aan NaNoWriMo? Ik ben niet van plan om mee te doen maar ik werd ervoor getipt door iemand anders vandaag. Misschien een uitdaging?
     
    Laatst bewerkt: 25 okt 2010
  8. Killamonkey

    Killamonkey Niet zo aanstellen! XBW.nl VIP

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    Wat is het?
     
  9. fredfenster

    fredfenster Active Member

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    National Novel Writing Month, dan moet je in een maand een roman schrijven ofzo. Ik zie dat mensen er wel serieus mee bezig zijn, zelf zie ik niet echt de meerwaarde in van zo'n georganiseerd iets. Mensen willen sneller schrijven ofzo, en dan doen ze dat zo. Ik geloof meer in eigen tempo :)
     
  10. Gerjan

    Gerjan XBW.nl VIP XBW.nl VIP

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    Aandacht voor je werk. :)
     
  11. Sliv

    Sliv The One and Only

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    Ik geloof er zelf niet echt in dat boeken van wereldformaat zomaar even in een maand geschreven worden. Maar dat kan ik natuurlijk helemaal fout hebben :)
     
  12. fredfenster

    fredfenster Active Member

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    Het idee is om 60.000 woorden op papier te krijgen, zonder echt na te denken over hoe het er uitziet en of alles wel klopt. En dan aan het einde van de maand beginnen met schrappen en herschrijven. En je mag van tevoren wel je idee uitwerken in bijvoorbeeld een schematisch overzicht, zolang je maar niet aan het manuscript begint. Het kan wel werken voor mensen, er zijn zelfs grote schrijvers die op zo'n manier te werk gaan.
     
  13. Peter_Aragorn

    Peter_Aragorn Peter AragornNL

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    Studeer zelf journalistiek op het Windesheim in Zwolle. Zit nu in het begin van het tweede jaar. Heb in een ver verleden trouwens nog voor 'pspworld.nl' geschreven, maar die site was al vrij snel dood. Ook heb ik een aantal jaar voor gamequarter geschreven, maar hier ben ik mee gestopt. De site kwam absoluut niet vooruit en er werden allerlei beloftes gemaakt die niet ingelost werden/zijn.

    Heel veel schrijven doe ik momenteel niet meer. Ik ga aan het eind van dit jaar voor media producties kiezen en me dan vooral bezig houden met journalistieke video (om het maar even krom te zeggen ;)).

    Ben met een medestudent nog bezig om een site op te zetten. Het plan is opgezet, de domeinnamen zijn geregistreerd en we zijn nu bezig het project verder op te bouwen. 140woorden.nl, meer zeg ik nog niet ;).
     
  14. Sliv

    Sliv The One and Only

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    Ik ben maar weer een beetje begonnen met schrijven, en daar is een nieuw hoofdstuk uitgevloeid. Zoals altijd, opbouwende kritiek is altijd welkom :)

    Hoofdstuk 3
    Gareth’s breath had somehow stabilized, after all the horrible discoveries in his former home. Ghosts of all sights went through his head, and he almost submitted to sitting on the ground and waiting for the cold to take him. What was there to live for anymore? His family was dead, his home wrecked, and he would never be able to go back to his normal life besides getting caught and tortured for a crime he didn’t commit. Still, this invigorating feeling, which he could feel in every muscle, every strain, was keeping him going. A feeling which made his skin crawl, his blood pump, his eyes flicker. A feeling which emboldened him to increase his pace, to keep his sense, to make a difference.

    Vengeance.

    He now had a new purpose in life. In a world which held many doubts for him now, one thing was crystal clear. The blood he drew would not be the last of his enemies. He was a bit confused: Bloodshed had always been something distant for him, something he abhorred and condemned. Yet, when he struck the devastating blow in the house, he was filled with exhilaration, joy, accomplishment. What was he turning into, he wondered as he mindlessly stepped over the gravel of the road leading away from his home.
    Gareth had considered avoiding the road, so that he could avoid possible patrols looking for him, but he quickly dismissed the idea. The area surrounding his house was made up of all sorts of alluvial forests, which were so dense and without steady ground that it would take days to venture across them. Winters were cold, and if he couldn’t find a dry spot and suitable wood in those soaked woods, he would surely freeze to death. It was better to traverse as many miles as possible before anybody could assemble a search party, and travel during the night. At least he had his thick buckskin cloak which would keep him warm on his travels. His pack held food for at least two weeks, so if he could make it out of Alberich, he was pretty optimistic about his survival. His pursuers were going to have a hard time, he vowed to himself silently as he closed in on the crossroads near Alberich. From there, he would take the road east to Copperwood, where he would find his uncle and his answers.

    First, he would have to clean himself. His hunter garb was blood splattered. If only he had thought of it earlier, he could’ve swapped clothes. He didn’t dare go back anymore. He wanted to go somewhere warm: Maybe he would make a fire somewhere in the woods, where the thick brush would conceal most of the smoke. Hauling the wood there set him off though. It was going to take too much energy for the little comfort it would give.

    Gareth snapped out of his thoughts when he took a casual sight at the horizon. Some traveler, still at least a quarter mile away, was moving his way. Panic came over him. Although his eyesight was keener than most, he was reasonably sure the traveler had seen him by now. Could it be another assassin? Gareth quickly weighed his options: He could go back and brave the alluvial woods. There was no road in another direction than the one he was using, so there would be no quick escape route. Still, the traveler could be a stranger who wasn’t aware of what had happened. But what would a stranger do at this road at this hour? There were no houses besides theirs at the end of the road. His time was running out, the stranger was closing in..
    He had to hide, and fast. Gareth looked in both directions: Wet woods. It would have to do, he thought to himself as he quickly dashed into the thick willows. He made a leap across a small pond and hid between a particularly large willow tree, from where he could see the traveler pass, but where he was still reasonably concealed. Waiting in a crouch, like a predator stalking his prey, he waited for the stranger to pass by. Within minutes, he heard the creaking footsteps of the person coming closer. At least he wasn’t trying to be silent; his heels pounding the gravel could wake a deaf man. Gareth held his breath, his legs getting numb from the crouch, as he waited for the traveler to continue along the path.

    The creaking stopped.

    Gareth kept himself as still as he could, keeping his head down and praying the good spirits the stranger would pass. Somebody was fumbling with something. Maybe the man had lost something and was fetching it. It was more of a comforting idea than something he really believed.

    His heart missed a beat.

    Realizing his fatal error, fear crept up at Gareth. He had left his walking stick in his frantic attempt to conceal himself. Cursing himself silently for his stupidity, he made himself ready for a fight, should it come to one. Maybe he could move past the traveler and make a run for it. They would know they were on his tail, but at least he would live a few more days to tell the tale. Suddenly, he heard a deep, menacing yet familiar voice.

    “Do you honestly believe you can survive in a wet wood in winter? Haven’t you learned anything in all those years?”

    Clearing his skinning dagger in its holder, he raised his head up to catch a glimpse of the traveler. It was Evan. As he moved to check on him, Evan had spotted Gareth and was coming towards him.

    “I see, there you are. How in the name of the light did you get there without being wet?”

    Looking at the pond between Evan and him, Gareth realized he must’ve made a leap of nearly eight feet to get to where he was.

    “I uh, don’t know”, he stumbled. You scared the hell out of me.”

    Evan tossed him his walking stick: “Here, use that to get back here.”

    Catching his precious possession, he still hesitated. All the events this day had made him cautious. “Why are you here Evan?”

    Evan cleared his throat: “There’s talk in town. Seems your father is dead and you murdered him. I was sure they were nothing more than dark tales of those who wish to do you harm, because when the ‘murder’ took place, you were hunting with us. Still, they’re mounting some soldiers now to ride this way. I came to warn you, and to check on Harold.”

    "My father is dead", Gareth said grimly as he spat on the ground, clearing his mouth of the bitter taste of heartburn. “There’s no point going back there Evan, but I appreciate your effort.” Convinced of Evan’s good intentions, he used the stick to pole-jump across the pond, landing on the far bank. ”I’m on my way back.”

    Clearly taken aback, Evan looked over him, and gave a nod of compassion. “I’m sorry Gareth, I really am. He was the greatest man I’ve ever known.” In a tenderness much unlike Evan, he embraced Gareth and patted his back. “What happened to your old man?”

    “I don’t want to talk about it.” Gareth grumbled.

    “I see”, Evan said, not pushing the subject any further. “You are hurt, both physically and mentally. We should get you some bandages and supplies. I know somebody – trustworthy – who we can visit. We should head there now. There’s no saying when the authorities will come to clench you in irons.”
    Seeing as what Evan said make sense, Gareth submitted to it and grabbed his bag. Soon they were running in their hunter’s pace, the icy wind tormenting them, making their skins red and senseless and their tongues dry. Still, the crossing came in sight quite soon. As they stopped there to catch their breath, he managed to speak.

    “Evan, I have to go east from here. There’s no telling how swiftly they will be here, and if I go from here, I might be able to outrun them. Time is still on my side.”

    Still panting, Evan rolled his eyes and spoke sternly: “You can’t outrun cavalry. Besides, in this state you’ll probably die on the way there. You’ll come with me to Carrell’s, where we can tend to your wounds and you can get some sleep. Carrell isn’t quite acquainted with you so they shouldn’t suspect you staying there.” It wasn’t a question, but an order. Gareth was too tired to go against him, and unfortunately he was completely right. He wouldn’t last a day in his current condition. Therefore, they headed north at the crossing, avoiding the town center as they shuffled through the ragged streets of north-eastern Alberich. Evan stopped at Carrell’s doorstep, and pounded the door with three exuberant knocks.

    The lights upstairs went on, and he heard a grumbling man coming down the stairs, until he finally reached the door and opened it. “Damn it Evan, you screwed up our climax. What do you want?” he snapped as he saw Evan’s familiar face on the doorstep.

    Carrell was the town’s blacksmith. He was quite known for his temper, which Gareth had to endure when he had sneaked into his back door with some friends when he was young. Carrell had chased them with his blacksmith’s hammer long enough that he was reasonably sure he scared them so much they’d never return again. He did indeed have a bit of a menacing appearance, with his ruffled grey eyebrows and balding head, which was remarkable because he was only in his early forties. Still, Carrell was an expert in forging cart wheels and horseshoes, for which people came from far and wide to get the best quality for their products.

    “We’ve got a situation here, Carrell. You remember Harold Arcanos?”

    “The hermit? Yeah, everybody knows him. Bah, politicians, they’re always jabbering more than they get work done. Never did anything for the good hardworking folk here. Anyhow, what’s he gotta do with me?”

    “You owe me one, and I owe Harold one, so I’m urging the favor now because I need some help. You see this guy next to me, Carrell?” Evan patted Gareth on his shoulder. “That’s Harold’s boy, and he’s in trouble. We need some help.”

    “Gah, did he impregnate somebody important’s daughter? Why do you call your favor for such menial tasks, Evan?”

    “No Carrell, we’re in some much deeper trouble.”

    “What are you buggering me for then? Did he murder somebody?”

    “The authorities seem to think he did.” Evan sighed.

    The blacksmith shook his fist angrily: “I don’t want no murderers in my house, get him away before I turn you both in. What the hell are you thinking Evan!?”

    A soft female voice came from upstairs: “What’s wrong honey?” Carrell’s wife said as she stepped out of the sleeping room, dressed in a night gown.
    “Stay out of it woman! Carrell snarled. Can’t you see I’m talking?” He put his eyes back on Evan and Gareth. “Anyhow, I want no bloody blood on my hands. No murderers in my house!”

    “He didn’t murder anybody. It’s a false rumor. They want to put him to death for it; therefore I need your help. Please give him shelter for the night, some food and let me tend his wounds. We’ll be gone by morning.” Evan made it sound as a plea, but there was a distinctive urge to his voice.

    Carrell was clearly uneasy about what was happening, but finally he said: “Curse you Evan, he can stay, but we better be damn even after this then! Come on up lad, I’ll check where I can get you some place to stay.”

    Thank you Carrell, we’ll be completely even, Evan smiled as they entered the house. Reluctantly, Gareth followed the blacksmith until he stopped at a small storage room where he could barely stand in. As Gareth looked around, Carrell tossed him a pillow and some blankets. “Sleep under these. Evan you know where to find your bandages, I’m off to bed.” Grumbling he went back to the sleeping room, and in no time his snore was filling the house again.

    “Don’t mind him”, Evan said as he checked on Gareth. “He’s a good man, just a bit grumpy.”

    “I’ve noticed” Gareth responded. But I appreciate the aid.”

    “You should, especially from Carrell. I’m glad he owed me one” Evan chuckled while tending to his wounds. Using a washing cloth, he cleaned up Gareth’s bloody fingers and put a fresh bandage on them. “This should do the trick. Get some sleep now, I assume you have a long journey ahead of you tomorrow.”

    Too tired to nod, Gareth sank down on the blankets. Not wanting to ponder all things that had happened in this life changing day, he closed his eyes and quickly drifted away from consciousness, in a sleep where nightmares ruled his disillusioned mind.
     
    Laatst bewerkt: 26 nov 2010
  15. Mtthz

    Mtthz XBW.nl VIP XBW.nl VIP

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    Media Producties is geen journalistiek he;) Krijg je een diploma Communicatie voor. Wat ga je ernaast kiezen?
     
  16. Deoxis

    Deoxis Coloris

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    Klein bumpje.
    Got bored, heb maar eventjes iets geschreven in een nieuwe stijl voor mij:

    Not A Love Story

    The Mathematician
    ‘Boy meets girl in surprising nature. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl remains reserved.
    Boy musters courage. Courage and boy equals date. Multiply this by a romantic setting. Divide this by the number of laughs and you’ll find the length of how far girl will open up to boy.’
    ‘Follow the latter part multiple times and you have yourself a love story.’
    ‘Yet sometimes, sometimes one forgets to add. Sometimes someone forgets a number, one forgets to add up or to divide. In these situations the formula for love can just as easily turn into the opposite; one of tragedy.’
    ‘Pure Shakespeare right?’
    ‘To continue this supposedly mathematical theory; all couples have a few dates.
    Not dates in the sense of a date-date, but actual moments in their relationship.
    #1: When the couple meets
    #2: The date
    #3: The first kiss
    #4: Their future’
    ‘The first three are fairly obvious. When the two reach the fourth however, it truly becomes interesting. You see, when this first part is reached; one either finds out if there will be a positive or negative outcome towards their actual affection. “Dad/Friend/Person of choice, I will marry this person.” One of the two will most likely confess towards their beloved ones. And then there’s the other option, where they will not do so and then the oh so familiar tragedy ensues fueled by the infinitely heard veiled excuses that all mean the same: “I do not love you.”
    ‘And why do we become upset over this? Simple: It is not because they said it. But rather because they said it. The person hurt most likely saw it coming, expected it and was dreading it for a longer while than that one fateful day. Only on rare occasions they actually do not. No, not at all; people become upset because of the thinly covered excuses that are used to actually say it.
    Meet Jules:
    Jules, like many others, is hurt. Has been hurt, will be hurt and is most likely hurting this very moment as well. And as the aftertaste of hurt is often bitter; Jules makes no exception. A person that has become the textbook standard victim of the boy meets girl formula. But also as many, practiced in the result of said formula. Yet even then, it can still surprise. And this is where the twisted dance of affection truly becomes interesting. For what if there were a slight deviation in this flawed system of mathematics? What if boy meets girl; becomes boy meets the one?


    Boy Meets Girl
    The cursed words:
    ‘Hi, I’m Kat!’
    Ensue amused quirked brow.
    ‘Where’s the dog?’
    Follow by unimpressed smirk.
    ‘Would you like a seat or do you just like naming yourself after animals?’
    Seat is thus taken; other interests are foiled for the day.
    ‘Perhaps my parents did.
    ‘Catherine.’
    ‘Jules.’
    Start pondering and follow up with a tapping of the lips with a finger.
    ‘Did you know that nine in ten people secretly like to meet a new person if they sit alone?’
    Boy repeats quirked brow.
    ‘And the other one?’
    ‘Dies lonely.’
    Genuine timid chuckle.
    ‘Here’s the catch though. People never take the new person in question in this theory.’
    Boy questions with a hum.
    ‘They never consider him or her to also be a subject to this, and consider just one victim in the theory. The person is an additive. Not considered lonely because of the spontaneous approach that person might use to make the other feel less lonely.’
    Enter thought.
    ‘Would you consider yourself lonely then?’
    ‘That depends; do you?’
    Witness a shake of the head.
    ‘In that case we surpass the theory. At least today.’
    Behold the raise of a finger.
    ‘And tomorrow. I’m inviting you.’
    ‘To what?’
    ‘Rebellion of the rule.’
    Abrupt exit of the stage.
    Catherine and Jules.






    Love Letters

    ‘I wrote you a love letter.’
    ‘Are you in love?’
    She chuckles and shakes her head. Sighing melodramatically.
    ‘It is thirty-six pages.’
    The boy then stammers.
    ‘What did you write in it?’
    The girl giggles and shoots a beam. Nodding with emphasis.
    ‘Terms of use.’
    The boy then grimaces, shivering a little as he glances at the girl with contempt.
    ‘That’s disgusting.’
    ‘People are disgusting.’
    ‘So why put emphasis on it?’
    She hums and beams another smile.
    ‘If you can watch someone sit on the toilet, you truly love them.’
    ‘So in theory, this love letter is a toilet?’
    ‘Or a steaming pile of dung.’
    Once more, the boy stammers.
    ‘This is Shakespeare.’
    The girl continues, smirking teasingly as she does so.
    ‘Or Joyce. He sure knew how to take care of his sweetheart!’
    She snorts and chuckles afterwards. Sighing a little as her mood settles down.
    ‘What makes you want to write such a thing though?’
    ‘The same reason all humans do.’
    ‘And what might that reason be?’
    ‘Stupidity and self-destruction. Giving themselves a chance to blow it all by freaking out the other person in one small gesture.’
    ‘Why just not have that chance then?’
    ‘Because it’s a fail-proof test.’
    The boy chuckles.
    ‘You’re quite something.’
    ‘If I was not something you’d not speak to me.’
    She quickly adds.
    ‘So can I read it?’
    ‘Read what?’
    ‘The love letter of course.’
    ‘I have not written it.’
    ‘What? You mean someone else did?’
    ‘No. It does not exist.’
    ‘You’re incorrigible.’
    ‘And Shakespeare.’
    And Shakespeare

    Love is fickle.
    Love is poor.
    Tears do trickle.
    When you call me a whore.

    ‘That’s a terrible poem. There’s something very depraved about that.’
    They both pause.
    ‘Don’t you dare use the toilet theory again.’
    ‘I was not going to!’
    ‘You had something on your mind though.’
    Laying on the bed. Just when there’s two. Nose by nose. Lip by lip. Eyes by eyes.
    Things feel warm whilst both glance outside. Where it is turning cold. As all men. There are a few things the boy liked about the girl. The way she responded to him. How everything seemed frivolous to her. But most importantly, most standard and most to his annoyance. The way she smiled.
    He loved her smile in the way so many others love watching their lover smile. Verification of happiness. Gratification and most importantly; confirmation.
    ‘I fucking hate that smile.’
    There’s this undeniable, inevitable, unexplainable and everlasting urge to find someone else and completely blow your feelings for them out of proportion.
    Oft done, oft ending in disaster.
    As said before: inevitable.

    Tabs werken helaas om de een of andere reden niet in de opmaak.
    Verder het eeuwen oude excuus natuurlijk: 'het is nog niet af'.
    Ik ben er zelf ook van bewust dat dit bij verre weg niet mijn beste werk is.
    Maar naast alles waar ik nu mee bezig ben om gepubliceerd te worden is het wel fijn om eventjes compleet "vrij" te kunnen schrijven.
     
  17. fredfenster

    fredfenster Active Member

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    Ik zie dat mensen in het Engels schrijven. Ik vraag me af of zij native speakers zijn.
     
  18. Deoxis

    Deoxis Coloris

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    In mijn geval wel.
     
  19. L.A.

    L.A. Active Member

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    Ik heb ook altijd erg leuk gevonden om te schrijven. Van jongs af aan eigenlijk al, elke keer dat we opstellen moesten schrijven op de basisschool hoorde ik door de klas een diepe zucht, waar ik juist een verblijd geluid maakte. Ook later op de middelbare , school waren betogen en andere stukken mijn sterkste punt. Heb ook een jaar journalistiek gestudeerd, maar uiteindelijk gestopt omdat het niet helemaal mijn ding bleek en ook de schoon een ontzettende rommel was. Wel heb ik over de jaren heen honderden gedichten geschreven en ben ik ook weleens met verhalen aan de gang geweest. Helaas ligt het schrijven nu een beetje stil, maar ik wil het opzich wel weer gaan oppakken.

    Moet wel zeggen dat ik een boek nog wel lastig vindt. Vaak lees ik na de eerste pagina alles even terug en begin ik toch wel te twijfelen of mensen daar nou werkelijk op zitten te wachten..
     
  20. fredfenster

    fredfenster Active Member

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    Oké, dan is het logisch ;) Ondanks wat mensen soms denken, druk je je het beste uit in je native tongue.

    Misschien moet je niet in eerste instantie schrijven waar mensen op zitten te wachten. En ik denk dat je over allerlei onderwerpen wel op zo'n manier kunt schrijven dat het interessant is om te lezen, hoe je het presenteert is erg belangrijk. Ook kan het helpen om uit te werken wat je wilt vertellen en waar je met je karakters heen wilt.
     

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