Slartibartfast

Some comments:

*"Pressed our blad to the tree -or- Pressed the knife blade to a governing branch.

This is tricky. I see your point, and I'll seriously consider the alteration or at least a variation on the theme.

*To me, "noble" adds a very important subtext and a stong visual.

*Siince the brances are going to "choke", I would like to impress upon their ability to do a good job at it...so "strong" was added.

*"few" can be striken. I have no quams.

*"However we considered each scenario, none of our imagination came to—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some strange way benefited from it." I have changed this a bit..I've added a word: "However we considered each scenario, none of our imagination (imaginings?) came to pass--the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some strange way benefited from it."

--I will consider revising. Thank you.

*"expansive bursts of green vegetation." I really like this. I get a wonderful visual from it, and hope others do as well. I have to keep it. These kinds of descriptives are important to me. It really defines my style (at least I think so).

*"youthful attention and carful submission..." Again, another self-defining style-point. To me, it is absolutely clear, and if a few readers don't get it...perhaps they should think more deeply about it. I love being thought provoking. The childrens youthful attention is causing the tree to bloom. Also, the children know their place, and are aware the tree is their host, and not the other way around. I think the phrase sums up a million things in a short snippet. To actually answer your question...youthful attention is different than the attention an adult would give (more playful, innocent, imaginative)...Careful submission shows that the children aren't just submissive, but very careful about not overstepping their bounds. *shrugs* I hope that explains it. I'm a dork...I know.


*"leaves" used twice...I agree. I have to change one of those.

Thank you so much for all the comments. You're a wonderful help, and I hope you don't mind me explaining and justifying some of my choices.





Quote:
We couldn’t tell you who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even in which decade it was built, but we do know that we were the first to leave our mark. I can remember holding the knife, hand in hand with Chrissy, each of us wide-eyed with anticipation as we pressed our blade to the tree. Would the noble tree feel our prick, and toss us from the great height? Would the strong branches choke the life from our shelter? Would the few leaves, feel our intrusion, fall from grace, and would the majestic Oak topple, taking us with it? However we considered each scenario, none of our imagination came to—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some strange way benefited from it. Our attention and careful submission appeared to revitalize the flow of liveliness within. In fact, our presence brought forth new buds, which quickly turned to fresh vegetation. Within weeks we were no longer surrounded by bare branches and stifling vines, but congregations of leaves, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

Slartibartfast

NEWEST REVISION IS BOTH BELOW THIS POST, AND ON THE TOP OF THE FIRST PAGE.

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





I used to go to the tree house a lot when I was a child. The smell of the moist wood, and the feel of the uneven boards and rusty nails against my bare feet filled me with a strange sense of security. It’s not completely clear to me how we found that old tree house, perched high in a dying tree strangled with vine, but I can to this day remember every word we carved deep in the planks and bark. I can recollect running with Chrissy one humid day, darting in and out of waste-high weed, chasing a small animal or rodent we had disturbed in our escapades. And I can still evoke the same feeling of awe I had as we rounded the bend and were thwarted by the massive trunk in our path. When I close my eyes, I can still feel Chrissy’s hand as she gently grasped mine, both of us staring up that great, illustrious tree as if it were a magical bean stalk reaching for the clouds. Its stalwart roots still firmly embedded in the dark earth; the bark peeling from its massive trunk; the sporadic leaf growth clinging in small groups to select branches, fighting for what little sunlight they could seize.

We couldn’t tell you to this day who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even what decade it was built in, but we do know that we were the first to leave our mark. I can remember holding the knife, hand in hand with Chrissy, each of us wide-eyed with anticipation as we both pressed the knife blade into a governing branch. Would the noble tree feel our prick, and toss us from the great height? Would the strong branches choke the life from our shelter? Would the few leaves which held steadfast, feel our intrusion, fall from grace, and would the majestic Oak wither and take us with it? However passionately we envisioned these scenarios, none of our whimsical imaginings came to pass—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some mysterious way benefited from it. Our youthful attention and careful submission appeared to revitalize the flow of liveliness within. In fact, our presence—whether coincidental or not—brought forth new buds, which quickly turned to expansive bursts of green vegetation. Within weeks we were no longer surrounded by bare branches and stifling vines, but large congregations of growth, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and luring our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

Each day I sat in the school house, fidgeting with my pencil and shuffling my feet, anxious to hear the metallic scream of the ominous red bell which hung above the chalkboard like a spotless ladybug. I would sit quietly and dramatize our adventures in the old tree house, and sketch cryptic illustrations of our new secret dwelling. Often the teacher would call on me as I wandered my imagination, leaving me looking perplexed as my eyes shifted from the paper-dreams, back to reality. This transition was sometimes more difficult than usual, and I would faintly hear the vague echo of tittering as I strained to alter my focus. I was, however, never worried about what classmates thought, nor was I influenced by their cruelty. I knew kids were malicious and ignorant, and I felt deep inside that I was special—even through the roughest of times at home or at school. Perhaps one might regard my considerable imagination and theatrical adventures as an escape from a hard reality, but I knew better than that. I wasn’t concerned about what the teachers and School Master thought. I wasn’t one to turn red-eared and flustered when harassed by my peers. And I certainly wasn’t taking my step-father’s abuse to heart—that was my backside’s job. For some reason—to this day it baffles me—I could let all that negativity and hostility slide off of me as easily as rain from a cathedral roof. Even though I had spent a lot of time musing during class, my time at school was never a total waste; I was aware of the importance to learn and grow, but I suppose I was more keen to select what I knew to be important, and exclude what I thought to be superfluous. Miss K. (as we called her) knew that I was learning, regardless my unique outlook and active imagination, and we always had an unspoken understanding. I think she saw in me something untamable and singular, and for this reason left me to my own devices.

As the school days neared their ends, I would become more restless, unknowingly gazing out the window with a Pavlovian stare. Usually, I would watch the last minute tick by, counting in my head along with the second-hand. And just as the long slender hand was about to snap to attention, I would visualize the electricity shooting across town, surging through vast denominations of wires with lightning speed, until it reached the school grounds, splitting-off into each classroom in a glowing frenzy of resonance. Before I knew it I was racing home to drop off my book bag and head into the woods just north of the housing area where my step-father was stationed (he was in the military, and we lived on base). I never had to tell Chrissy to meet me, she just knew. Sometimes we would vie for King (Queen in Chrissy’s case) of the tree house by seeing who could get there first. I would always suffer the day after from the heavy bounce of my History and Biology books against my lower back as I scurried home. Most of the time, however, we would meet by the flagpole, and walk each other home—sometimes stopping at the local corner store to refresh our stock of Gobstoppers we had secretly stashed in a nook by the old bench on the second level of our fortress.

Time was never a factor in the tree house. Chrissy and I would sit for hours on the ornate blanket we found discarded on the curb outside of Tina’s Tarot, which we placed meticulously in the center of the main quarters. We would sit cross-legged with perfect posture, discussing things far too adult for two children our age. We fancied ourselves politicians and diplomats, and would stand outside on the make-shift balcony which hung precariously off the main den, dictating orders, pointing to specific trees and pronouncing them with occupation. ‘You’re the Captain of the Guard!’ we’d say pointing to a brawny Evergreen, our brows ruffled and our voices pressed as low as possible. No matter what time we made it to the tree house, we always had more time then we needed. Dusk would stretch endlessly to night, as if the sun’s buoyancy was just too great for the horizon to overcome.

Everything went as usual for several months, and the ease and charm of the summer lingered on…

Azmakna

i took it that the people in your story are young, right? you need to get to the next level here, so i'm going to take just a small example to show you that what you think is style is actually over writing (don't take that the wrong way) when you write, every word has to work for you, with no redundancies, for what ever reason.

Quote:

youthful attention

i asked that question above for a reason, you must now be able to see why

__________________
don't count me a blank page
waiting to be written on,
see me as a written page
waiting to be photocopied.

http://www.writersbeat.com

Slartibartfast

I'm still not sure whether I understand your problem with this phrase (redundancies), or agree with you. Everyone could go through the most veteran of writers' books and change things they thought were "over-written."

Yes the main characters are children--the exact age I imagine will remain untold. Youthful attention gives off a much different vibe than just saying,

"Our attention and careful submission appeared to revitalize the flow of liveliness within."

or

"Or attention and submission appeared to revitalize the liveliness of the tree."

*Sure the second version works, but it is neither descriptive, nor poetic. I choose to be both in this case. I'm not trying to be difficult, I'm only sticking up for a sentence I feel is appealing. The way a child pokes at tree bark is much more playful and innocent than the way a "grown up" might poke and prod. That's the visual and feel I mean for the reader to explore.


I am not disagreeing with the fact that I tend to over-write at times--this is something I'm working on, and through revision I find the instances that need to be removed or edited. In this particular case though, I love the phrase, and I'll fight tooth and nail for it. Please understand that I've taken everything you've said into account, and have indeed made some revisions based on your comments...thank you again.

Azmakna

in 'youthful attention' the word 'youthful' is pointless because we already know they are 'young' in the following sentence there is only one adjective that is justified: 'on the oblong table there was an orange orange, a glass of liquid water in a tranparent glass, a thin filigree of hair and a red rose'

__________________
don't count me a blank page
waiting to be written on,
see me as a written page
waiting to be photocopied.

http://www.writersbeat.com

frogirl1000

It was very good, though a bit repetative, and some of the descriptive sentences were to dragged out or off the mark a bit. THe Pavlovian stare bit didn't quite fit in, in my humble opinion, maybe it wasn't introduced right? and saying that your voices were 'pressed' low didn't seem right, perhaps you were trying to use synesthesia? didn't quite work for me. However, i really enjoyed the part about the electricity, very easy to imagine.

Slartibartfast

It is not redundant to say 'youthful attention.' It is not the same things as saying the 'orange orange', or the 'transparent glass'--each of your examples are completely different. If I said 'youthful childishness' or 'concentrative attention' then you'd be on the ball...but 'youthful' and 'attention' do not relate in general.

I completely see what you're saying. You just want me to change it so you can pen it in your next published work!! Ha...I jest.

Slartibartfast

Thank you for your comments. Repetative? The entire thing? Ouch. Ok.

One thing I certainly agree on is that I tend to drag-on at times, but to be honest, my favorite authors do too. I think I've picked up their bad habits...lol.

THe Pavlovian stare...ahhh yes. I'm working on that one. I swear I will use my newly coined word 'Pavlovian'...but how, I'm not sure.

Pressed low...yes, that is a tricky one. I'm fighting over it. I will have to smooth that out somehow and play with it. I know there's a brilliant line in there somewhere.

Thanks again.

Slartibartfast

Newest Revision





I used to go to the tree house a lot when I was a child. The smell of the moist wood, and the feel of the uneven boards and rusty nails against my bare feet filled me with a strange sense of security. It’s not completely clear to me how we found that old tree house, perched high in a dying tree strangled with vine, but I can to this day remember every word we carved deep in the planks and bark. I can recollect running with Chrissy one humid day, darting in and out of waist-high weeds, chasing a small animal or rodent we had disturbed in our escapades. And I can still evoke the same feeling of awe I had as we rounded the bend and were thwarted by the massive trunk in our path. When I close my eyes, I can still feel Chrissy’s hand as she gently grasped mine, both of us staring up that great, illustrious tree as if it were a magical bean stalk reaching for the clouds. Its stalwart roots still firmly embedded in the dark earth; the bark peeling from its gnarled trunk; the sporadic leaf growth clinging in small groups to select branches, fighting for what little sunlight they could seize.

We couldn’t tell you to this day who constructed that magnificent tree house, or even what decade it was built in, but we do know that we were the first to leave our mark. I can remember holding the knife, hand in hand with Chrissy, each of us wide-eyed with anticipation as we pressed the knife blade into a governing branch. Would the noble tree feel our prick, and toss us from the great height? Would the strong branches choke the life from our shelter? Would the few leaves, which held steadfast, feel our intrusion, fall from grace, and would the majestic oak wither and take us with it? However passionately we envisioned these scenarios, none of our whimsical imaginings came to pass—the enchanted tree took our scoring, and in some mysterious way benefited from it. Our youthful attention and careful submission appeared to revitalize the flow of liveliness within. In fact, our presence—whether coincidental or not—brought forth new buds, which quickly turned to expansive bursts of green vegetation. Within weeks we were no longer surrounded by bare branches and stifling vines, but large congregations of growth, filling our nostrils with the freshness of summer breeze, and luring our ears with the spirited rustle of leaves.

Each day I sat in the school house, fidgeting with my pencil and shuffling my feet, anxious to hear the metallic scream of the well-worn red bell which hung above the chalkboard like a spotless ladybug. I would sit quietly and dramatize our adventures in the old tree house, and sketch cryptic illustrations of our new secret dwelling. Often the teacher would call on me as I wandered my imagination, leaving me looking perplexed as my eyes shifted from the paper-dreams, back to reality. Perhaps one might regard my considerable imagination and theatrical adventures as an escape from a hard reality, but I knew better than that. I wasn’t concerned about what the teachers and School Master thought. I wasn’t one to turn red-eared and flustered when harassed by my peers. And I certainly wasn’t taking my step-father’s abuse to heart—that was my backside’s job. For some reason—to this day it baffles me—I could let all that negativity and hostility slide off of me as easily as rain from a cathedral roof. Even though I had spent a lot of time musing during class, my time at school was never a total waste; I was aware of the importance to learn and grow, but I suppose I was more keen to select what I knew to be important, and exclude what I thought to be superfluous. Miss K. (as we called her) knew that I was learning, regardless my unique outlook and active imagination. I think she saw in me something untamable and singular, and for this reason left me to my own devices.

As each day neared its end, I would become more restless, unknowingly gazing out the window with a Pavlovian stare. Usually, I would watch the last minute tick by, counting in my head along with the second-hand. And just as the long slender hand was about to snap to attention, I would visualize the electricity shooting across town, surging through vast networks of wires with lightning speed, until it reached the school grounds, splitting-off into each classroom in a glowing frenzy of resonance. Before the droning cry of the bell fully subsided, I was already racing down the hall and out the door.

I never had to tell Chrissy to meet me, she just knew. Sometimes we would vie for King (Queen in Chrissy’s case) of the tree house by seeing who could get there first. I would always suffer the day after from the heavy bounce of my History and Biology books against my lower back as I galloped home. Most of the time, however, we would meet by the flagpole, and walk each other home—sometimes stopping at the local corner store to refresh our depleted stock of Gobstoppers we had secretly stashed in a nook by the old bench on the second level of our fortress.

Time was never a factor in the tree house. Chrissy and I would sit for hours on the ornate blanket we found discarded on the curb outside of Tina’s Tarot, which we placed meticulously in the center of the main quarters. We would sit cross-legged with perfect posture, discussing things far too adult for two children our age. We fancied ourselves politicians and diplomats, and would stand outside on the make-shift balcony which hung precariously off the main den, dictating orders, pointing to specific trees and pronouncing them with occupation. ‘You’re the Captain of the Guard!’ we’d say pointing to a brawny Evergreen, our brows ruffled and our voices pressed as deeply as possible. No matter what hour we made it to the tree house, we always had more time then we needed. Dusk would stretch endlessly to night, as if the sun’s buoyancy was just too great for the horizon to overcome.

Everything went as usual for several months, and the ease and charm of the summer pressed on…

Azmakna

if i just saw an event with blood spilled and limbs flying everywhere, it would be wrong to discribe it as a 'gruesome scene' because we know it is, just like we knew they were young in your story, hence 'youthful' is not needed

__________________
don't count me a blank page
waiting to be written on,
see me as a written page
waiting to be photocopied.

http://www.writersbeat.com

Slartibartfast

I love your perseverance! You're right...how about that. But I'm not changing it...lol. Humbug! Humbug I tell you!

Azmakna

__________________
don't count me a blank page
waiting to be written on,
see me as a written page
waiting to be photocopied.

http://www.writersbeat.com

Slartibartfast

blackthorn

Wow....I'm really lost for words right now.

Really phenominal story man, really. I really liked your attention to description. It really paints the scene....I felt like I was really sitting in that tree house!

Slartibartfast

Thank you so much Blackthorn...the canvas is big enough for all of us.