Writers: I want to write a book. But is my writing poetential there?? Please tell me what you think of this?
This a part of a story I want to write set in South Africa (where I live). This is about one of my characters history (escaping Zimbabwe into SA) PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF MY WRITING IS WORTH PERSUING. Im sorry if its long. ------------------------ They claimed it would cost them R200 each to cross the border. In Africa money is hailed like the gods, Selina was aware of that doctrine and she had to buy her freedom through pious loyalty of such preaching. On this land the drums beat to the rhythm of revenue, the beads of red, blue and orange, bloated with buoyancy, are threaded for the making of that little-bit-extra not as rescue missions to savour fading histories. In Africa government houses chant with hallow debate because all ears are fixed on the lyrical lyre of the dollar. For it is where politicians and businessmen are synonymous terms… and it’s called an example of ‘developmental democracy’. Money is the emerald blood that channels through the black markets. Row after row of vendors, stick stalls, carpets and people form the veins, thick and thin…a hundred and a thousand tiny lines stretching across capitals, towns and villages. The hemoglobin flow of estranged heads on bronze or some other rusty colour fill cities with fraud, ‘favours’, blackmails and business contracts. The notes of minted green flow from dirt-hibernating pocket to pocket. The money itself almost tastes of blood. This need brings only more poverty and licenses greed and Selina saw it. She had lived it until she could not breathe the choking dirt any longer. Squinting up at paper planes and kites that litter the Gweru sky she waits for their secret meeting to materialise. All of the flying toys are made up of Zim dollars. With freshly ‘passed by parliament’ billion dollar notes the older ones are used by the children to build jets and towers of money, racing each other to see who can stack the most in the fastest time. Zimbabwe is on life-support. But for how long can oxygen be artificially pumped in a body that is terminally paralysed? She didn’t believe in euthanasia but hope seemed more sacrilegious than ever. As she waits by a pineapple and chille stall somewhere in the market her gaze is torn from a particularly amusing tower of notes toppling to the ground to another young child, a bright blue spot, weaving through the crowds of brown, black and white, running in her direction. The pace of his legs reminds her of small turbines as he draws nearer. She watches him turn his face to glance back at who it was that was chasing him but he isn’t quick enough and, in shock, she doesn’t have time to move out of the way and like a train collision, he hits the ground that coughs up a spray of dust in ill-fated complaint. “Are you alright?†Selina holds out a hand and helps the boy to his feet. She can’t help but note the skeletal feel of his fingers reminding her of the chicken necks they would suck at as children. He places his bony hands on his excuses for knee caps and breathes tightly as if he didn’t hear her. Staring at the bag he is gripping around his tiny fist he suddenly remembers the barrier that had halted his escape and his eyes flash both fear and shock as he cuts her an upward look. The bag looks like its filled with sugar and he held onto it as if it were filled with diamonds that he, himself, had mined. Without a word he turns away from her and hurtles back into the crowd. She checks her watch, broken in the middle, but the roman numerals are still visible. 5:17pm. Daya was late and Rahul and the trafficker are nowhere in sight. Could someone have tipped them off? Maybe Daya had changed her mind, like she is beginning to feel… that all too familiar sinking sickness in the pit of her stomach. She tightens the blanket she has wrapped around her to keep Moyo warm on her back as she scans the now filtering crowds. Watching them, the scent of afternoon tea that the vendors drink flows past her nose, lazy-like, on the breeze that meandered through the people. It took her back to a time on a farm just outside Bulawayo. ---------------------------- (there's more...) I know Im sometimes verbose?? Is the writing good? BE BRUTAL if you must. PLEASE PLEASE give me some feedback. APOLOGIES FOR THE SPELLING ERROR IN THE QUESTION. I TYPE TOO FAST FOR MY OWN GOOD. :)
Books & Authors - 7 Answers
Random Answers, Critics, Comments, Opinions :
1 :
its very good i enjoy all the metaphors
2 :
I think you're pretty good. There's a lot of description in the first paragraph, but I would like to think that it has something to do with the story, and not just there. There are some incomplete sentences and spelling problems, but if you work on your grammar, I really do believe you can do good.
3 :
i think you could write for google
4 :
Really good, yes you should defiantly continue this story!
5 :
Make the verbose accepted and acclaimed for their intensity of sharing. The rest success! Go ahead!
6 :
You have the nub of an exceedingly good story. It's a little too metaphorical in places. Maybe you should ration these a little but the underlying story is good. You have the makings of an excellent writer but you need to learn a little more about technique and the boring job of learning your trade, the correct use of words, spelling, tense and layout. With some work I could envisage seeing your books on the shelves at some time in the future.
7 :
yeah, id have to agree with what ed(above) has said. dont let anyone discourage you. imo you need to have target audience and a suitable content and language to be commercialy viable. what do ya say.. but hey what about your india plans ? is it on? theres something interestn you might wanna try. its "nadi or naadi astrology" its exciting. may be you could write about it. mail me if ur interested. gud luck
