The Curse of Overwriting.
"I fear my enthusiasm flags when real work is demanded of me" H.P Lovecraft, 1890 - 1937
*Stands up*
My name is Ely, and I overwrite.
From the tiniest shimmer of the dust mote that floats elegantly down from an incandescent heaven to the overpowering maelstrom of the storm that rages with a power that defies all overhead, I overwrite. Adjectives, adverbs, overextended metaphors, overblown synonyms that have been sought desperately for in my well-thumbed thesaurus are all my friends; dear, dear friends I have spent a lifetime collecting, devising, enjoying.
But, alas, unlike my idols Lovecraft, Poe and Stoker, we do not live in a time where a love of language is de rigueur. To write because you love words is not enough. For fear of being rather melodramatic, I would describe myself as a bit of a shadow out of time (nudge nudge, wink wink); an anachronism who needs to let go of these archaic mentors and begin to live in the literary now.
But how to cut those ties? To cut loose that which brings fire to your belly? To prune, yet feel you are not losing that which defines and inflames you?
That, I do not know. It escapes me, cantering into the depths of the maelstrom above with a gleeful kick of its heels, defying me, challenging me: come and find me, but do it with less reliance on adverbial phrases and passive passages beginning with words that end in 'ing'.
Time to put the thesaurus back onto the shelf, methinks...
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I did have the same problem with ING, but I ry to avoid it. I just write , edit and red edit and read and write and then ask someone to crit it. Many crits are good and some can be a bit awfull, but those crits who are awfull only crit like that because they have expereince, but that should not put you off. I would suggest to you to read everyones crit, good and bads, weigh them up and decide for yourself where you can improve.
By the light of the four small waning moons of Xiccarph, Tiglari had crossed that bottomless swamp wherein no reptile dwelt and no dragon descended; but where the pitch-black ooze was alive with incessant heavings. He had not cared to use the high causey of corundum that spanned the fen, and had threaded his way with much peril from isle to sedgy isle that shuddered gelatinously beneath him. When he reached the solid shore and the shelter of the palm-tall rushes, he did not approach the porphyry stairs that wound skyward through giddy chasms and along glassy scarps to the house of Maal Dweb. The causey and the stairs were guarded by the silent, colossal automatons of Maal Dweb, whose arms ended in long crescent blades of tempered steel which were raised in implacable scything against any who came thither without their master's permission.
Tiglari's naked body was smeared with the juice of a plant repugnant to all the fauna of Xiccarph. By virtue of this he hoped to pass unharmed the ferocious ape-like creatures that roamed at will through the tyrant's cliff-hung gardens. He carried a coil of woven root-fibre, strong and light, and weighted with a brazen ball, for use in climbing the mesa. At his side, in a sheath of chimera-skin, he wore a needle-sharp knife that had been dipped in the poison of winged vipers.'
Pretty cool, huh?
With no other light than that of the four diminutive moons of Xiccarph, each in a different phase but all decrescent, Tiglari had crossed the bottomless swamp of Soorm, wherein no reptile dwelt & no dragon descended -- but where the pitch-black ooze was alive with continual heavings & writhings. He had carefully avoided the high causey of white corundum that spanned the fen, & had threaded his way with infinite peril from isle to sedgy isle that shuddered gelatinously beneath him. When he reached the solid shore & the shelter of the palm-tall rushes, he was equally careful to avoid the pale porphyry stairs that wound heavenward through dizzy nadir-cleaving chasms & along glassy scarps to the ever-mysterious & terrible house of Maal Dweb. The causey & the stairs were guarded by those that he did not wish to meet: the silent, colossal iron servitors of Maal Dweb, whose arms ended in long crescent blades of tempered steel which were raised in implacable scything against any who came thither without their master's permission.
I'm with you - the edited version is better. It is more concise (as far as CAS can be concise, of course...) and I found that after a few lines, my eye started to wander... not a good sign!
Have you read any Arthur Machen? He's the only man I've read that can string together three semi colons (and not be connected in any way with a list) in one description. It's fantastic! (I'll see if I can find it - it's in the story about the Angel of the Mons (The Terror?).
What I do find amusing is these wonderfully erudite men invariable gave their tales such crap names...
Seemingly it was written before Machen became known primarily as a horror writer. I never could figure out what the roman fortress was mean to signify, if anything.
Always with the spiders...
Still can't figure out how something that size could lurk down in the town drains. A bit like 'Godzilla' where we're expected to believe some giant dinosaur can terrorise New York, then hide down in the subway. Hmmm.....
I sometimes struggle with under-writing; I get over-excited and rush, not taking the time to fill in detail, then have to go back and rewrite. Character engagement seems to be my main weakness. More thoughts and feelings needed, rather than just telling what the character is doing and saying. It's something I need to work on.
You mentioned tending to skip over what the characters are thinking and saying. Have you read Dashell Hammett? Now there was a guy who believed in being concise. In 'The Maltese Falcon' (not his best work, I reckon, but pretty good all the same) the characters are all described from the outside, like you're watching a movie - you never know what's going on inside the central character's head (Sam Spade) - and it works very well indeed.
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