The OFFICIAL Writing a Book thread

Many of us aspire to write a book. Enough of the individual threads periodically clogging up The Arts forum. Let's just have one big, honking thread for discussion, encouragement and reviewing of members attempts to write a book.

I'm currently messing around with some concepts for a fantasy book. Just sort of fleshing it out, making it original. All that good stuff. So, uh, here's what i've though up so far. Just kind of a prologue I guess.

In a time of heroism, in the world of Andaroth, a lord of evil moved from his great fastnesses in the frozen wastes of the far north. His name was Andalus. He was once a great shaman of the barbarian tribes. But his bloodlust and ambition compelled him to make a pact with Hell itself. Andalus, or the Demon King as he was now known, united all the barbarian tribes under his standard, two blood-red serpents on a black field. He strengthened their ranks with hundred of thousands of demons and orcs, summoned from the belly of hell itself. And like an dark cloud, they moved south out of the Wastelands, towards the the great kingdoms of Men.

Far to the south of the approaching hordes, a 20 year-old squire by the name of Amalric is knighted. The youngest son of his father, the Duke of a small fief in the realm of Tyrien, he may claim no inheritance. And so he is cast off by his family. Given only a sword, shield, some clothes, a hauberk of mail and some food and money, Amalric sets out from home, a knight-errant searching for a place in the world. He soon unwittingly falls in with Marcus, the second son of King Serenas and a Prince of Tyrien, a man filled with a love of his country, and bitterness that his father favours his good-spirited but meek older brother over him, soley by virtue of who was born first. Unbeknownst to the pair of second sons, they will soon find themselves embroiled in the intrigues, battles and politics of the world. And they will be key in deciding Andaroth's fate, for good or ill...

Yeah, that's what i've gotten so far.

Heres the first and only chapter of the book I started to write about three years ago. I managed to write this, the prologue, and nothing else.

Red Moon Rising

Don Clement, the Red Assassin of the High Papacy, was hastily removing the many heavy layered princesses gown inside the erratically jouncing stagecoach. Clearly being pursued by an unfriendly party he prepared for the worst possibility, that his latest fatal mark had been his final order from the Hand of the Pope, Cardinal Fredric Desmoines.
Not a small accomplishment, by any means, as the only Feudal Lord for the past three centuries ever capable of establishing anything worthy of the title “kingdom” in the southern providences of Old Ambartica now lay dead, in the signature bloody style of the Red Assassin. It appeared that for the first time (as assassins rarely experienced a second) that his deeds had finally caught up with him.
Near where his head would have been, had he actually been seated in the lavishly cushioned seat in the rear of the stagecoach, three thuds in rapid succession reverberated against the expensive wooden carriage. One such missile succeeding in punching through and remained firmly lodged. The crossbow flung bolt was capped in iron, so it was indeed the men from the southern providences who clearly meant to bring this stagecoach, along with the “princess” who rode within it, to a stop. Presumably a final one, so Clement reasoned.
From beneath the ruined bench seat he procured the seppuku sword, bounty taken from a previous bloody contract venture to the far eastern continent of Hao Wong. This small sword was the largest weapon of his vast and effectively deadly arsenal. In the proficient hands of Don Clement, favored devout noble-borne orphan, even common herbs or well placed coins could, and often did, topple empires and unpleasing vassals alike. Swiftly they felt the touch of the man from across the red sands. The very essence of meticulous and unyielding mortal fury found at the heart of the Messian Church; the only religion ever to span all three continents of the world, simultaneously.
Now relieved of his ridiculous and flamboyant costume, disguised as a far removed princess daughter of the great Lord Marshal of the Northern Expanse, as everyone new the great lord Roddrick had many, many princes and princesses alike. It was a character he used as often as any other, always at the holy order of the church.
Well, at the sound of his escort guard’s sergeants’ frantic shouting and the desperate lunging of the transportation he least cared to use he doubted the driver remained at the reins, more likely riddled through with many iron bolts. Clearly he could not remain in this speeding bulky death compartment much longer. Swiftly he pulled on the padded black silk woven trousers and vest of his midnight stealthy occupations, also from beneath the seat. Needing to hide his face, for his identity must remain unlinked to any of his Holy sanctified missions, he ripped away a strip of the saffron dress. Then with the delicacy only capable of a lifetime of discipline he swiftly sliced away an oval opening for his eyes with his poison laced sword while bouncing hastily across the often rutted and largely root ridden paths beneath the towering oaks deep within the Ambar Forest.
Tying the Saffron strip across his face, the Red Assassin mentally took stock of his situation. Without much consideration for inevitable consequences, the man born with sand for blood viciously kicked out with his right foot, savagely splintering the hinges of the carriage he borrowed three weeks ago from a devout Messian Noble farther north in this expansive continent. Beyond the banging door (which remained flailing about stubbornly by one lone steel hinge) the forest rushed by a green and gray flashing of massive trunks and foliage.
Without wasting another moment Clement grabbed the top of the opening and thrust both feet straight out while lifting with his finely toned arms. Effectively launching himself out and over onto the top of the coach. Quickly rolling over onto his hands and knees with the small, dagger like poison edged sword gripped firmly between his teeth.
Looking in all directions while swinging up into this position, he already knew there were two riders not fifteen full strides to the rear and gaining quickly. Both were professionally reloading while in blinding pursuit, no small task mind you, medium sized crossbows fitted with straps, a custom leather harness that was attached to iron armor shoulder pieces, over chain mail shirts. Clearly not cheep hire, thought the Red Moon, as his victims were often to call him before he took them in the far-east Nation of Wu Naga.
While immediately before him, indeed, the driver lay in a most uncomforting fashion dangling over backwards outside of the carriage from the waist. Apparently a few of the thick bolts securely lodged into his hip and thigh were also driven into the wooden drivers bench, their iron ends visible before him. So the riders had at least circled his five soldier “royal” escort once before falling behind. Unless there were still some unseen marauders ahead of the silk clad Wu/Hao Master.
Further ahead the often disused forest track veered off right at an angle these crazed and tethered horses were doomed to be incapable of managing.
With a searing hiss one iron missile went slashing to near for comfort, right by his left ear as he lay pressed with the right side of his face against the top panels of the stagecoach. There was a sharp pain where he assumed a portion of his ear to be missing that he immediately pushed into a deep compartment of the masters’ mind: a place which he chose not to be perceptive to at this time.
Across his back he felt and heard the apparently near approach of at least one of the riders to his right. Flipping over swifter than the rider had imagined anyone prior to this moment of his ill-fated short life capable of accomplishing. The rider was caught, crossbow slung over his shoulder, arm drawn far back about to swing mightily his iron worked morning star.
But, before that swing ever started the rider was stunned, if only for this one small moment, by the sight before him. The stagecoach lurched quite sharply sending the small man in fine black attire with the sash about his face at least two full feet above the coach! Immediately seizing this terrifyingly moment for an advantage the nimble man spun about fully, like a far-east acrobatic sideshow! Using that same momentum to extent devastating force directly across his body down his wrist to some thick red dyed silken lash some twelve or fifteen feet in length like a whip. It stung a devastating blow directly upon the eyelid of the mail- clad rider, the fluid of his eye violently imploding and splattering onto his left cheek.
But almost more terrifying than seeing the snake like approach of silken catastrophe was the very sight of the “man”. For his face was covered in the white facial makeup fashion so adored of the noble ladies of the day, a style taken from the women of the Wu nation, two oceans removed.
And thus, the Red Moon thought warmly, a White Moon rose before this night, to ensure you never see it again.
The rider now flailing back, arms akimbo, toppled sickeningly straight back off of his horse.
Clement, still in the motion of the full turn, arm outstretched, literally lashing outward, continued through his motion. Landing near horizontal to the panels again lightly upon his right foot he launches out again, this time upon one foot and across his shoulders. His momentum carried over expertly from the carriage toss succeeded in giving him the distance with his complete concentrated effort to replace the falling rider immediately as he left his own seat!
The Red Holy Increment, now astride a mount, was, at the moment evenly matched with a fool mounted crossbowman who had split to go around the left side of the carriage, effectively placing the coach between the fleet footed assassin and his ready crossbow.
Clement slid off purposely the right side of his saddle maintaining all his weight upon the right stirrup and left grip upon the pommel with right hand pressing upon the side straps. Somehow he had managed to sling the reins over the opposite side of the horse’s neck while falling right, then catching them again from the under side. He pulled mightily slowing the horse a step then sending him careening to the left, just behind the speeding coach.
The other rider, as expected by Clement, had all ready like wise slacked off. Probably as soon as he realized he broke his necessary line of fire! So this crossbowman was caught unawares when the apparently unseated horse of his compatriot spun full around, counterclockwise, only to have the black clad man hanging there. Hesitating only a moment the bowman fired, the bolt ripping deeply into and through to the other side of the horses underside, right where the man had been holding onto before he let go to hit the ground while in a mid-air calculated tumble and go bouncing over the edge of the overgrown path into trees and foliage, every assassin must utilize advantageous cover.
For a few bruised ribs and one torn ear Clement had bid his chances and won, though the rider was still reloading and looking out from the road, trying to see him. He new the rider wouldn’t dare come further, not without this most dangerous prey locked inside some wooden carriage. Not when you become the one vulnerable, to a trained and obviously adept raptor, waiting in the trees.
The rider thought upon this very thing one too many moments, then quickly made to retreat urging his spurs into his mount, but Clement, already some way back down the path, hidden within his own element, had other ideas for this rider, questioning being one of his better, even darker abilities. A shrewd profession of its own he had perfected by implementing many cultures torture techniques with the masterful hands, perhaps the most knowledgeable man alive in administering, and prolonging, death.
Thinking of how he would enjoy this mans death for a particularly very, very long time he came barreling out across the road right before the accelerating horse and rider, slashing out with his slender and near- impossibly sharp seppuku sword. With a surgeons’ precision and precise timing he was able slice through vital tendons, taking complete use of the front legs immediately from the beast.
As Clement tumbled across then rose up across the road the rider went down hard, face first into the ground, the horse barreling over him completely, many bones snapped like falling timber in crowded vegetation. Clement was there in a moment ending the flailing horse with two well placed thrusts, only to find his joy over a lasting murder crushed with the site of the mangled bowman before him, the gore inside him mashed up and actually seeping through the ringlets of his mail shirt.
“You sorry worthless lowborn son of an iron merchant!” cursed the greatest living implement of terror the church ever reared unto her bosom.
Two? Only two sent for me? Clearly by the looks on their faces and the meagerness of their attempt these two thought me actually to be a princess of Lord Roddick, easy prey for some unknown respite. Now, to protect this scene from the search for the assassin, himself, he would have to go very quickly back up the road, to the farmstead earlier where they chanced upon some serf working a field. One particular woman serf there will now become the princess he was, he did not relish the idea of dashing her skull in (nor undressing her, then putting her into the princess’s gown for that matter) but this was the business of god.
Don Clement never faltered in his obedience to leaving absolutely no ties he didn’t create intentionally, at any cost. For this was also an order from Father Joseph himself unto the Espionage disciple, Don Clement!
Poor woman. She shall receive the last rites from me and her soul shall go over clean, with the church to guide her. In the end she will be thankful, for helping the Papacy in its mission.

i wanted to write a Nam book, but never got around to it

@Erik

You definately got a good story brewing there, I'd partake in it. I was wondering if what you posted from it was to be the start of an actual chapter. I ask because it reads like the back of the book. You know, whats written on the cover to get you interested enough to buy and take it home. Its got serious potential, if you've got serious desire to see it through. But, at the pace you are putting it to paper, there won't be any story left to tell very shortly.

You did invite us to critique, thats why I posted my little prologue, because I don't mind a critisism from my peers either.

Also, instead of:
a 20 year-old squire by the name of Amalric is knighted.

Try this:
a squire by the name of Amalric, of some twenty winters, is knighted.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
thanX for starting this thread and sharing a little glimpse of the story you're working on!

I like your concept of a High Papacy ruling over a world. This idea of religion, rather than feudalism and kings, is rather original. I'm sure you could put it together nicely to form a rather good narrative.

Me? I'm relying on more operatic, classical themes of good and evil, light and darkness. I'm currently tinkering with the ideas of other races in Andaroth. Give it a little diversity other than men. But i'm trying to make these races, so far I only have the Sea-Elves, a race of great mariners and explorers, unique, keeping away from the old fantasy stereotypes. You know, Dwarves are drunken and good smiths, Elves are elegant and good archers, etc, etc.

And yes, that is sort of the thing I would plan on putting on the back of my book, if I ever get it written.

If you are genuinely serious about writing fiction then it is a very great mistake to offer your earliest pre-draft notes (or even a first draft for that matter) up to invite comments. In your heart you know you only do so because you want to be reassured, for people to be kind and for that kindness to dispel the doubt-cloud that settles in the space of your chest cavity. People sense this and may thoughtlessly give you exactly what you want, encouraging you when what you've shown them simply doesn't deserve it, and rings immediate alarms for them. If they don't do this and actually CRITICISE you, then you either become angry or disheartened, and neither is helpful.

It is best to just keep putting in a solid number of set hours every day into working together a first draft, sorting your ideas and sticking at it. If you write 2,000 words of clumsy first draft a day, without pausing to edit yourself or worry about grammar or sentence-structure, then you can have the ramshackle start of a fair-sized novel in 1.5 months. THEN you could ask people for criticism about the ideas behind it - and use that to fuel the real work that then begins, of rewriting the thing in full.

Having made that long and heartfelt disclaimer beforehand, I will be brutally blunt with you, Eric, and so provoke the anger or demoralisation I have just described. What you have there is the start of a synopsis of the book - and it smells of wet ass. It reads like the same sub-Tolkienesque stuff that has been chewed over and regurgitated a thousand times until it makes people's skin crawl. The ideas have no energy, no pazazz. You need to be brutal with yourself and start from scratch. Try stretching yourself mentally by taking your 'operatic themes' point and then taking it in strange directions - like even introducing humour, or confounding the fantasy-elements with other genres like science-fiction or crime, or thinking about unusual viewpoints for telling the story like keeping the whole thing from one unexpected character's perspective, or making it merely the backstory for something else entirely that concerns the characters, etc. There - I've said it. Also - you use far too many adjectives, a classic error from beginning writers...seriously, how many times can you use the word 'great' in one paragraph?

Interesting thoughts Cluny.

Honestly, i'm not afraid of being critisised. I realise that it is impossible for a writer's fantasy works to NOT be compared to J.R.R. Tolkien's masterpiece in the modern world of fantasy literature.

I like good, solid criticism to tell me what I do right and what I do wrong. Feedback is one of things that keeps me going when writing. And I honestly enjoy it when people give me the pros and cons of my story. Too many times i'll ask someone for feedback, they'll read over whatever it is, hand it back to me and say "It's good". I need more than that!

I'll keep your advice in mind, thanks.

And there are many stories that SOUND Tolkienesque, but turn out completely different. Take a relatively recent book i'm reading "In the Eye of Heaven" by David Keck. Here's the introduction:

On the very day of his homecoming, the future of Durand Col is snatched out of his hands. He has trained a lifetime for lands he cannot have, and a role he cannot play. There is nothing for him but the road on the verge of winter.

With this news ringing in his ears, Durand reels from his father’s stronghold into a realm in turmoil. It has been a year of war and whispers. There are signs in the Heavens, and spirits stalk the land.

Plagued by omens, Durand struggles to make an honest place for himself in this old kingdom, lurching into the company of desperate knights, madmen, lost nations, and fallen heroes. While he finds no shining armour, he soon stumbles into murder and the opening of a civil war. Every step tangles him deeper in knots of treason, love, and betrayal.

While Durand and his companions struggle to resolve their private fates, their kingdom is collapsing. Their private course, however, leads them into the heart of the collapse. With their blades drawn, they arrive at the day when their kingdom's fate is decided.

It is on this day that Durand must find the strength to face his own sins if he is to save his country...

Now Keck goes on to take that relatively simple intro, and twist it into one of the most original epic fantasy tales i've ever read. And I enjoyed it greatly.

If you're serious about writing, then start writing, and don't stop.

I used to want to write, but I stopped writing, and now if I ever do decide to actually publish anything, it'll have to wait till I'm retired.

Well, here's a draft of what I have so far. I've yet to divide it up into chapters, but whatever. You guys can tell me if it merits further work. I'm currently just jotting down notes on where to take the story from here.

Amalric Viamed was bitter. Who would not be bitter? For Amalric was gripped with the realization that all his love for his father and his family, all his loyalty to their small fief, all the years of hard training as a squire. All of it would come to nothing. For Amalric was a second son, seen as worthless only by the virtue of being born after his brothers. Tradition was all-important in his country, the kingdom of Tyrien, and the tradition was for second sons to be cast-off, abandoned, given only what their families can spare and sent off to make their own destiny. He sighed at the brutal truth of it, his warm breath casting mist in the cold autumn air.

He was young man, of twenty winters, with broad shoulders and a lean, muscular build. Amalric’s hair was a light brown, and his eyes a deep amber. His face was relatively plain and he was not distinguished by either exceptional beauty or ugliness. Many had noted that Amalric’s nose was slightly crooked, due to training sergeants dealing him harsh blow after blow in his years as a squire. His hands were rough and calloused from hard work all through his life. On this day of disinheritance, he wore a brigandine jacket, with its small metal plates riveted onto a leather tunic, with a padded gambeson underneath, woolen trousers on his legs, and simple leather shoes covering his feet. A green cloak hung across his shoulders.

Amalric rode a bay gelding horse through his father’s modest holdings. This fief was relatively poor, as it was in the far east of Tyrien, on the north side of the Barring Mountains, which got their name as they often acted as a first line of defense for the richer southern lands of Tyrien from barbarian incursions from the Wastelands to the north. His steed’s hooves clattered against the cobblestones of the road upon which the horse walked into the small village upon which life in the small fief centered. In spring, the hamlet looked idyllic and beautiful. But now, in the grips of early autumn, the forests that surrounded the village were leafless, their dead forms casting long shadows. The grass was a brown, and most of the villagers stayed inside their small, squat brick houses. The village’s name was Xanc, and it was situated in a small hollow, with a tall, stone keep overlooking it from a hill some distance off. Viamed Fortress, Amalric’s home and his father’s stronghold.

The squire sighed again, thinking about his coming abandonment, and gave his mount the spurs. The horse whinnied a little bit, and set off at a gradual canter through the small town, attracting the looks of various freemen and peasants throughout the town. He ignored them, and focused on guiding his horse up the road to his father’s castle. It was a short ride; though the wind stung his bare skin, and he soon found himself in the courtyard beneath the towering keep of Viamed Fortress.
“My son, my son you have returned,” said Arthas Viamed, exiting the main gate of the fortification.
“Greetings Father” Amalric replied, mustering the best smile he could under the circumstances of disinheritance. His father returned the gesture. Lord Viamed knew tradition; he knew what he had to do.
“Come inside, the ceremony is beginning” the Lord said, sweeping his arm towards the open door. Amalric swung off his horse, the gravel of the courtyard crunching under his leather-shod feet as he did. With a few long strides, Amalric stepped through the threshold and into his father’s halls. Though they walked fairly quickly, it seemed to Amalric that it took an eternity to get to the chapel where he was to be knighted. Maybe it was just sadness of his impending fate?
“Your mother will be glad to see you” Arthas said, trying to make conversation with his melancholy young son.
“Hmmm” the squire grunted back, still filled with thought about his future. The father sighed and continued to walk.

Within a few minutes, they had reached the chapel in which Amalric would be knighted. His father opened the heavy, oaken door and they entered the small room together. It was a stuffy chamber, filled with the scent of burning incense. Benches in two long rows along the sides of a center aisle held the dozens of friends and family that had gathered for the occasion. At the end of the aisle, standing near to the altar, was a priest in his long black, white and purple robes, he stood and chanted in the language of heaven, taught only to priests. Slowly, Amalric walked forward down the aisle, the incense-scent filling his nose. He looked at the people who sat there, observing the ritual. His mother, tears in her eyes, his older brother looking smug. Amalric never did like Theodoric, who was three winters his senior, and a bit of an arrogant prick as well. An elderly man in an aging mail hauberk, with an old conical helm under his arm nodded at Amalric as he passed. It was Sir Kyred, the old knight and servant of his father that had taught Amalric the basics of soldiering when he was young. Amalric finished his long march, and knelt before the priest. The aging man nodded to the young knight-to-be and began his sermon.
“Praise be to the Heavenly Emperor” The priest began, lifting his arms towards the sky.
“For He is righteous and merciful,” the crowd echoed back. And so it began. A three-hour long sermon, a Vigil it was called, in which the Priest called down blessings by the dozens upon the young squire. Finally, as Amalric felt his knees were about to give out, the priest began to knighting proper. A servant brought out a long sword of fine steel, with a leather-wrapped hilt, metal crossbar, and a pommel with a ruby embedded in it. It’s sheathe was also of fine leather, with soft cloth lining the inside to preserve the blade, and a belt was wrapped around it, the belt that Amalric would wear from now on.
“Amalric, Son of Arthas, of the House of Viamed,” the elderly man said.
“Yes?” Amalric replied
“Do you swear to be righteous and courageous? Do you swear to uphold the Laws of the King and of Heaven? Do you swear to uphold honour and cast down villainy? Do you swear it?” the priest continued,
“I swear it by the graves of my ancestors, by the sword with which you dub me, and by the Gates of Heaven itself. I swear to uphold virtue” Amalric answered, conviction in his voice. The Priest drew his blade. Amalric noted it was an exceptionally well-forged weapon, perhaps a parting gift from his father? Finally, after holding it aloft for a moment, the chaplain lowered it upon his shoulder.
“I dub thee, Sir Amalric, Knight-Errant” The priest finished, and there was applause from all within the chapel. The clapping was a little underwhelming, Amalric noted. It probably would have been louder if he had been a first son, and thus a proper knight, in service of his father and liege lord.

It was over; Amalric’s stay with his family was over. From now on, his fate was in his own hands. The family gathered in the courtyard to see him off. Theodoric’s smirk was now a full grin. He knew he would inherit all these holdings after the death of his father, and Amalric would get nothing. Alas, it was the fate of a second son. Arthas gave his son the hauberk that every true knight wore. It was rolled up currently, and placed in a small pack of cloth, but Amalric could feel the weight of it. He opened up the pack and looked at his mail. It was of amazing quality, supple, and light as armor went, with tightly woven rings. Amalric muttered a thank-you, and strapped the pack onto his gelding, which stood snorting as a groom held his reins. Then his father gave him a conical helmet. It was also a good quality piece of armor, of fine steel. The lining inside it was fresh, and soft and it had a bar riveted on the front that would cover his nose, and give his face some protection. Amalric nodded, and put the helmet under his arm. And finally, the last gift his family could give him was brought out. It was a round shield of good oak, with a golden dragon emblazed upon it.
“The Golden Dragon has always been the heraldic symbol of our household, it would honour me if you would bear it,” Arthas said, holding out the shield to his son.
“I will carry it with me always” Amalric promised, taking the item from his father’s hands

They were all silent for a very long time. Finally, the new Knight sniffed once in sadness, determined not to let his family see a Knight weep. After quickly strapping his shield and sword to the saddle of his horse, Amalric put a foot up into the stirrup and mounted his horse. Raising his hand in one last farewell, he gave his horse the spurs and left his family for the last time.

He galloped out of the keep’s courtyard, and through the village, and then gradually slowed his horse down to a trot and then a walk
“I am away at last. A Knight-Errant” he said to himself, as he looked at the dead trees passing him by. Where would he go? What would he do? He thought about these things as rode. Many hours passed listlessly, the only sound being the clattering of shoe-shod hooves upon the stones of the King’s Road. He finally decided he would go to Altus, a large fortress-city that guarded the Great Northern Pass that led to the rest of Tyrien. Maybe there he would find a lord to serve and attach himself to another man’s entourage? If not, he could always go south through the pass to the richer southern fiefs of Tyrien. Amalric decided that would be the best course of action.

The newly disinherited Lord’s Son rode on and on for many more hours drifting in and out of thought, barely aware of his surroundings.
“Halt, in the name of Andalus!” said a rough voice suddenly. Amalric looked up and saw a roadblock, manned by several hard men in gambeson jackets, wearing kettle helmets upon their heads. They bore mattocks, halberds, glaives, and swords of crude, dull iron. There was a standard driven into the ground by the side of the road, and Amalric could not identify the heraldry upon it. It bore two curved, hissing, red serpents upon a sable field.
“This is the King’s Road, I need not halt, not even for your lordship” Amalric replied, loosening his sword in it’s sheathe as he did.
“Andalus is now the lord of these lands, you will halt or you will die!” the leader of the band of highwaymen declared, and his men trained their weapons upon him. With a snarl, Amalric swept out his new sword, and gave his horse a nudge. The gelding burst into action at a hard gallop. Men were trampled before the powerful beast. The razor’s edge of his sword swept left and right, parrying halberd blows and slashing grievous wounds into the men. A sweeping cut from his sword hit the leader in his shoulder, sending him toppling to the ground wounded.

Soon, Amalric burst through the ranks of his opponents, his horse still galloping but breathing hard. They pursued him for a while, but mounted he easily outrun the group. He reined his horse in, the gelding panting and steaming in the air from the sudden exertion. Amalric patted him on the neck as a thank-you.
“Looks like we’ll be together for a while, I guess I’ll have to name you. I will call you… Woden” Amalric said, the word coming to him suddenly. He patted the horse again, and then dismounted to walk Woden for a cool-down. He drifted off into his thoughts as he began to walk west along the road, headed for the ancient fastness of Altus.

Alright if I post a script here?

I'm working on a short film that I'll hopefully have done by the end of May. Here is the screenplay, it's called Aunt Blanca. Whoever reads it, I'd like to know what you think. Your ideas and criticisms.


Aunt Blanca 2 cont.
Aunt Blanca 3
Aunt Blanca 4
Aunt Blanca 5
Aunt Blanca 6
Aunt Blanca 7
Aunt Blanca 8

Nice script you have there. The beginning scene in the church is looking nice. Overall it's well worded and written. It interests me so far.

What do you think of my draft of the first chapter of my book?

Originally Posted by Eric

Nice script you have there. The beginning scene in the church is looking nice. Overall it's well worded and written. It interests me so far.

What do you think of my draft of the first chapter of my book?

Thanks for reading it. The rest of the pages are in the links below the first page.

I like adventures and it sounds like he's bout to get in one. I think you micromanage the story a little too much though.

Originally Posted by Eric

Amalric looked up and saw a roadblock, manned by several hard men in gambeson jackets, wearing kettle helmets upon their heads. They bore mattocks, halberds, glaives, and swords of crude, dull iron.

There are explanations for many things that really don't need to be explained. Let the reader use a little of their own imagination and only describe in such detail important things.

I don't read many fantasy novels, so I'm not entirely familiar with some of the terms you use. For example, Gambeson, Brigadine, Fief, Hamlet and others. I could get an idea for what these things were but maybe you could write a little more around the terms so those new to the genre have an even better idea.


I liked the fight scene, it went smoothly and could picture the action well. I'd add some more depth to the characters. Amalric is too much of an archetype he needs a distinct personality. Maybe you could show more of who he is with a companion.

Also you need your story to stand out from the other fantasy stories. A twist in what's common in other stories, or something completely new. Otherwise it'll start sounding like a fanfiction story.

I'm interested to see more. Though, I think it might help your improve if you did some short stories, where you could mess around and play with different ideas.

A gambeson is a type of padded tunic worn underneath armour to cushion blows, a brigandine is a type of armour made up of a tough leather jacket with small armour plates riveted onto it. A fief is an area of land owned by a King but managed by a lord or other nobleman, and a hamlet is just a tiny village.

Did that help?

Anyways, yes I think you make some good points in your critique. But you know it's hard to pack a whole lot of character development into a draft of the first chapter of my book.