Honourable Witnesses

A son disowned by his parents visits to hand them his marriage invitation card

Anand took a deep breath and unlatched the gate to his home for the first time in six years. For him, home was where he grew up, where his parents still lived. As he pushed the small metal frame of the door, he wondered if their anger had gone down a touch. He also wondered what it would be like for parents to learn of their child’s marriage through an invitation card. He had no idea, but his parents would soon find out. The only thing that preyed on his mind, though, was how they would react on seeing him.

His parents had cast him out six years ago for impregnating a teenage classmate of his and having a stash of drugs on him. He wasn’t sure which of the two caused his parents to disown him, but he could not refute their decision. He knew he had let them down, disgraced them.

He wished his older brother was there to support him once more. If it wasn’t for him Anand would not have gone cold turkey successfully. He always did well in college, but if it wasn’t for his brother’s contacts, he would not have landed a job as a journalist for one of the leading daily nationals. It was on his brother’s behest that he was there to tell his parents about his marriage in person. Standing there in the garden, he yearned for his brother’s unflinching support.

It was a crisp November morning in Jaipur with the sun shining graciously and a slightly pinching, cool breeze ambling gaily. He had flown in from Mumbai early in the morning and come straight to his home. He had no luggage except for the card in his jacket and a heavy heart. He walked slowly on the garden pathway, taking in the bougainvillea vine running along the boundary wall, the swing on the far end, the yellow gulmohars lined up either side of the pathway, and the small expanse of well-cropped grass. It was all sprayed with a freshness that gently called out to him, pacified him, and backed him.

 When he reached the porch he looked at his reflection in the dark glass next to the door. He tidied his combed hair, passed his hand over his thin moustache, wiped his clean shaved face, and straightened his blue flannel shirt and jacket. People often said he was the spitting image of his father with his lean face, narrow eyes, thick eyebrows and flappy ears.  Anand always took it as a compliment not because of the handsome features he had inherited but because he was likened to someone he greatly respected and admired.

He was careful to step away from the reflective glass before ringing the bell. The sound of his mother’s gait was unmistakable. Her sandals uttered a most annoying dragging sound. But as Anand stood there waiting to see her, it was music to his ears.

His mother squealed in shock and lost balance when she opened the door. Her flailing arm knocked over the Buddha statue on the small table next to the couch. The clattering sound it made alerted Gautam Sharma, who rushed to the door. He was left dumbfounded on seeing his wife gripping the couch’s armrest to keep her body barely a foot off the ground. His perplexity reached unchartered territory when he saw a younger, thinner version of himself standing at the door.

The two men stood rooted to their spot while Mrs Sharma clung to hers strenuously. She was out of breath, and her breathing made for all the sound in the living room. It was almost a minute later that Anand realized she needed help standing up. He mustered enough courage to look at his father only after sitting her down on the couch. The confusion in Gautam Sharma’s face had subsided to some degree but it was replaced by repugnance.

His mother held his arm while he stood there, and she didn’t release her grip when he sat next to her. She was still in shock and held on to him to assure herself that her son was really there. Anand noticed his mother had lost a lot of weight and looked much older than she was. The hazel eyes he always remembered sparkling with an enchanting gleam now seemed lifeless. Her thin lips trembled and her plump cheeks shook with every breath she took.

“I see you’ve changed the curtains,” said Anand in his thin, whiny voice. His mother gave a single nod after a few seconds. Anand looked around the room once more. The two large Chinese paintings still adorned two of the walls and the two small artificial fountains occupied the two corners on his right. There was still no carpet on the stone floor. The white couches and black coffee table were all spotless.

His wandering eyes involuntarily landed on his bemused father, who sat cross-legged holding his hands in his lap. He was loosely dressed in a shirt and pyjamas but all authority in the room gravitated towards him nevertheless. It was like many of the tense conversations they had had in the past when Anand was wary of choosing the right words. His father had the ability to discombobulate anyone by grabbing on to the central thought in their mind, yanking it out and stripping it bare. It was clarity of thought that he valued more than anything.

“Why have you come here after all these years?” he asked in his piercing voice. He strained his eyes and observed Anand carefully.

“I’m getting married,” said Anand with a shrug of his shoulders. His mother was about to say something but checked herself and looked at his father. She didn’t know what exactly she felt. There was a tussle between her joy on seeing him again and the pain his wrongdoings had caused her. Memories pertinent to both the emotions unsettled her even more.

“Is it because you knocked her up?” asked his father. It surprised everyone in the room. Mrs Sharma couldn’t believe her husband would take such an attitude against his own son. Mr Sharma was surprised by how bluntly he spoke. Anand was surprised his father didn’t hold back any punches. But he knew it was six years’ worth of pent up anger and vexation and decided not to dwell on a single statement.

“No, dad, it’s because we love each other and want to get married, start our own family,” said Anand, making a real effort to keep his voice calm. He placed the invitation card on the coffee table. His mother reached out and snatched it as if to prevent it from running away.

“What kind of a card is this? It’s so plain and dull! How can you have a white marriage invitation card? And what’s this? You’re having a court marriage?!” asked his mother with a tormented face.

“Oh, Shalini, how does it matter if he is having a court marriage?” said his father disgustedly. Gautam Sharma did not adhere to societal norms for the sake of it, and his scorn for those who conformed to them got the better of him as he sat there. When he saw Anand’s smiling face, he added: “How does it matter if he is getting married at all? He lives his own life, we live ours. How does it affect us?”

“And the girl, this Monika, her parents are fine with a court marriage?” Anand’s mother asked.

“She’s an orphan, ma. She doesn’t have any family.”

Shalini thought of saying something but decided against it. Her husband, though, decided to continue his passive admonition of his son.

“Oh, so that’s how it is, for here I was wondering who would allow their daughter to marry a degenerate junkie!”

His condescending tone caused Shalini’s eyes to bulge out in shock and Anand’s to close in dejection. Anand always voiced his thoughts given the occasion and reasoned with people, at times a bit too passionately. But the person sitting in front of him was his father. In his time away from home he learned that while one should always treat others without letting their appearance, race, gender, or other differences affect them, there are people who deserve special treatment. There are people for whom you can make a compromise if it can prevent needless acrimony or petty squabbles. Anand had come home determined not to let any strong words faze him. It took a herculean effort to remain quiet. 

“Our son is not a degenerate!” said his mother heatedly.

“I’m not a junkie, dad,” said Anand humbly.

“Maybe not anymore, but who knows what you’ve been up to these past few years? How do I know that you haven’t picked up another vice?”

“I’m afraid that’s something you have to make yourself believe, dad. I could say that you can trust me, but I know I lost that privilege all that time ago, and I don’t hold that against you. I was wrong, and I accept that. But that’s not who I am anymore. It’s all in the past.”

Anand could feel his mother’s grip on his arm tighten a little as the air got stifling. The tension was almost palpable, and Gautam Sharma’s harsh, derisive laugh made things even worse.

“Don’t say it as if putting it in the past makes you a better person!” he said.

“By saying it’s all in the past I meant that’s a part of me I have let go of. I had deviated from my path in life, strayed too far from the road I had chosen, a road the two of you had helped me pick and walk on. It was a dark path that not just blinded me but obscured all my senses, and it took something as enormous as your disappearance from my life to help me reform myself.”

Anand thought of appealing to his father’s reasoning mind but decided against it. This was not about logic. More importantly, he did not want to hide behind rationality.

The silence that ensued was not a result of Anand striking a chord with his parents. His father still wore an ill-humoured expression. His mother, too, was still lost between the present and the last conversation they had had in the house. Her wounds had not yet healed and Anand’s presence opened them further. But unlike her husband, Shalini knew that it was only Anand who could stitch them up. She had the strength and tolerance to listen to him. She was careful not to let her love for him misguide her, while her husband was less tactful in fending off his bitterness and disappointment and keep them from governing him.

“Why did you take so long to come see us?” asked Shalini. The words stung Anand, for he knew what the words insinuated. He was there because he wanted his parents’ presence and blessing for a pivotal moment in his life. While he wanted them to be a part of his new beginning, he had not cared enough to help them deal with their horror and dismay. Shalini’s words made him realize that his visit showed not just his desire to right his wrong but also his negligence towards his parents’ suffering. They were in his thoughts every day for the past six years, and he knew they had thought of him much more than that.

There was no question in her eyes, only sadness and pain. Anand watched as the two entities started to trickle out of her eyes. She didn’t utter a sound, and he was too overwhelmed to say anything. Even his father was moved by it.

Anand could only say ‘Ma’ and squeeze her hand holding his arm. She blinked slowly and her suffering flowed even freely. Her weak shoulders and slim neck moved as she sobbed silently. Her snivelling was not caused by grief but misery and heartbreak. Anand had never seen anyone’s mother cry like someone his age. It devastated him.

“I am your culprit, ma. It was the very act of wronging you that was unforgivable! I cannot ask you to forgive me, but I must admit my sin. I failed you, both of you, and that’s the worst of it! But I vow to spend the rest of my life respecting and following everything that you have taught me, not just because of my faults, but because I’ve only got the one life, and I am blessed to have parents like you!”

Silence enveloped the room once more. Shalini didn’t cry profusely and did not make the slightest sound. Life outside the house was eerily quiet. It was difficult to say whether it was the foreboding or the aftershock of a storm.

“If you don’t have anything else to say, I think you should leave,” said Anand’s father. He was much changed since Anand had first entered, but agony still presided on his face. Anand could see that he had come some way in making amends, but it was just a small step on a long journey. He had not come expecting everything to go back to normal by a single visit, but he was rather unreasonable in wanting his parents to accept him without any hesitation. They couldn’t just let bygones be bygones. Forgiving is not tantamount to forgetting, and it is often the difficulty of the latter that burdens the mind.

“The wedding will take place in a marriage court in Malad West in Mumbai in a fortnight. As per law, the presence of witnesses is required. I request the two of you to be witnesses for my wedding,” he said. After watching his father for a couple of minutes, Anand decided it was time for him to go. He turned and lightly embraced his mother before getting up.

 

Anand had no idea how to dress up for his wedding. He had grown up seeing grooms and other male family members donning the traditional attire of smart, flashy kurtas or sherwanis or three-piece ethnic suits on the day of wedding. He didn’t like the idea of wearing ethnic wear in a court marriage. Even putting on a suit seemed too extravagant a choice to him. But the occasion demanded something special. More importantly, he wanted to look his best if his parents did indeed make it. He wanted to believe they would come, but there was an uneasiness in him that just wouldn’t let off.

The courthouse was bustling with activity. The corridors were full of people moving about with hugely diverse faces. There were faces with expectation, excitement, joy, as well as trepidation, drudgery, and reluctance. The strangest thing was how some of the expressions didn’t match with the faces or the roles those people were supposed to play. It rattled Anand.

When he turned a corner and moved towards the marriage officer’s office, things looked completely different. The air was ripe with anticipation and the corridor was full of people in a plethora of outfits. He could see the regional ceremonial dresses from different parts of the country. Anand felt he was at a costume party. He did not feel out of place in his immaculate tux.

He found his soon-to-be wife waiting for him right by the office with his brother. She was dressed in a yellow saree and Anand knew she chose yellow because he loved it. Her high heels barely made her reach up to his nose, and that pleased Anand. It pleased him because it helped him look into her large, ebullient, inquisitive eyes. Looking at them from above made them look larger and more curious. Her glistening eyes and bright smile outshone her earrings and nose pin. They even made her fair skin appear dull.

When it was their turn to go in, Monika asked if his parents would come. Anand’s eyes were heavy with melancholy as he looked at her and sighed. He produced his phone from his pocket and called their friends - the standby witnesses - to fill in the remaining two spots for witnesses.

The office was more like a school principal’s than a marriage officer’s. Silence and disquietude abounded in the room. The large teak desk had a pile of papers resting on one edge next to a pen stand and glass paperweight. The two walls on either side of the table had aluminium cupboards full of papers and files, the keys hanging in the slots in the doors. There were two glass panes high up on the wall behind the desk through which sunlight filtered in apprehensively, lighting up the room just enough to make everything visible.

There was no chair in the room except the one occupied by the officer; a small, dark, hairless man wearing an oversized suit, hunched low over the table. His clothing, his posture, his closely packed eyes, small nose and thin lips made him look like a rodent. He merely looked up when he heard the door open and motioned them to come up to the desk with his left hand.

“There need to be three witnesses,” he said in a brusque voice when Anand reached the desk with Monika and his brother.

“They’re on their way here, sir,” said Anand deferentially. The marriage office straightened in his chair.

“All the slots for today are filled. You must have seen the crowd outside. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s special day. The law only asks for three witnesses to be present along with the couple seeking marriage. That’s not too difficult to manage in a country like ours!”

Anand closed his eyes and sighed. This was not how he had hoped the day to unfold. There was a knock on the door. Anand’s brother opened it for the witnesses. A few moments later Anand suddenly jerked his head back, for he heard the familiar dragging sound.

The appearance of his parents strengthened Anand’s feeling of being in a school principal’s room, but he was overjoyed. Tears flowed freely down his healthy cheeks but they were out of exhilaration, not guilt. His parents only chuckled at their son’s emotional outbreak, and that caused his tears to gush out. He couldn’t move but just stood there, continuously wiping his eyes. 

Author's Note

Any suggestions and all opinions are welcome.

Reviews

[Dhara_Ditzy Kat]

A simply heart touching story Agyani. I had trouble accepting the attitude of the parents who banished their so for his follies. As a parent, I wouldn’t be able to do that. I’d work through his problems with him. These folks came across as too rigid and harsh. Not ideal parents at all. Especially, since they didn’t even bother to at least keep a track of him, all those years.

Where did he go? How did he make himself capable of fending himself and even get into a responsible relationship like marriage, especially since he started off on such a disadvantaged note are some questions that lingered in my mind while reading the story.

No credit to the parents for forgiving him and coming to the marriage. That’s the least they could do for a neglected, repentant son.

A story that invokes such as strong reactions as these, is a great story. Kudos Agyani!

[Agyani]

I'm glad you shared your views like this. I agree with you that these are far from ideal parents, but Anand is not an ideal son himself, and we don't always find ideal people in our life. His parents love him, but something unexpected and shocking can leave severe marks on a person.
The thing about the parents not knowing about his life after disowning him......well, that's a bit open to interpretation. What I had in mind is that they knew what he has been up to but just didn't contact him. It is his older brother after all who helps him get back on track, and the parents haven't broken ties with their elder son, so Anand's life might have come up in conversation a few times. I think it MUST have come up. Maybe just the mother knew, maybe just the father, maybe both of them. ;)

Thank you for your review, Dhara.

[Dhara_Ditzy Kat]

You are most welcome Agyani! It was a pleasure.

[JayG]

Here's the problem: You, the invisible storyteller, whose voice contains no emotion other than what the punctuation suggests, are talking TO the reader. Sure, you can hear emotion in your voice when you edit, but you know the story, the characters, and the situation before you begin to read. The reader has only your words, punctuation, and what the words suggest to them, based on THEIR background. Your intent never makes it to the page.

Added to that they can't see your performance. So the facial expressions that illustrate emotion? Gone, as are the gestures you visually punctuate with, and your body-language,

What's left? Have your computer read it aloud and you'll hear how different what the reader gets is from what you intended.

Think of a reader in the bookstore. They pick up your story and begin to read. Look at it from their viewpoint:

• Anand took a deep breath and unlatched the gate to his home for the first time in six years.

Not a bad opening line. We know our name, what's going on, and were we are in space.

• For him, home was where he grew up, where his parents lived.

So in reality, it's not his home. He lives somewhere else. This is only where he grew up. You also just said that wherever he lives now it wasn't his home? Makes no sense. My point is that you included a sentence that tells us nothing that we wouldn't know had you said "childhood home" in the first line. One word to replace twelve speeds the reading and adds impact.

So only thing this line does is confuse the reader and slow the narrative.

But look at something else, of more importance. Anand is by the gate. But he is NOT telling himself that this is his home. He is not telling himself that he made a girl pregnant. He's thinking about what might be going to happen, and what he hopes will happen. That's what's important to him. But we're not with him, we're with you, who's talking about things we don't need to know at this point.

Won't we know why he left if it comes up in conversation, or he's made to think about it by the situation? Of course. So why are you on stage talking to the reader when we could be with Anand and focus on what matters to him? Want the reader to know about the girl? Then have him wonder what happened to her.

But we have a bigger problem: You begion with the poor b*****d on stage opening a gate. That's story. Then, you freeze him in place for three paragraphs, 248 words. That places us well down on the second manuscript page and all that's happened is a man opens a gate. The rest is a history lecture, given by someone who is neither on the scene nor in the story. So we must read a page or more of nonfiction before the story begins? Who wants to do that? History is boring. It's a flow of facts. But fiction is emotion based. Fiction entertains, but facts only inform.

And after that huge info-dump what happens? A weather report followed by another 110 words of info-dump before he reaches the house. I's be a lot more interested in what he's worried about than a history lesson
Think about it. It took us more than two pages of reading to get him from the gate to the house? How exciting is that?

Bottom line: I hit you this hard because I needed you to see this as a reader does, so you'll understand the necessity of change, and that it's not a matter of changing a few words here and there. And that's damn hard to accept without proof—even with proof.

You've worked hard on this and given it a LOT of thought. You've demonstrated the necessary desire and perseverance. And the problems I mentioned are NOT your fault. It's that at the moment you own only the writing skills your schooldays has provided. And though we're not told in our school days, those skills are nonfiction skills. Their goal is to inform the reader, so they're fact-based. This story is fact-based. Nonfiction is author-centric, as this story is. You, the narrator, are EXPLAINING the story TO the reader.

Relate that to a horror story. When you read one, are you seeking to know when the protagonist is terrified? Or do you want the writing to terrorize you and make you afraid to turn off the lights?

See my point? Fiction is emotion-based. It's all about making the reader feel, not know. Fiction is character-centric. We want to know the situation as the protagonist does. After all, that character is going to make all his or her decisions based on how THEY perceive the situation, right or wrong. And if we don't know that, how will we know what they hope to achieve with what they do and say?

I'm sure you've heard the old saying that there are three sides to every argument: His side, her side, and what really happened. And that's where we all get it wrong. Because we're thinking in terms of plot events and facts, we assume that fiction deals in what really happened.

But nothing could be further than the truth. Everyone is unique in how they view the world. And if we don't know how our protagonist does, all protagonists are interchangeable plot devices. But your protagonist is a living being, making decisions based on how HE perceives the situation. All that backstory you provide is irrelevant to him because he lives in his now. And he focuses on the immediate future. And, given that it's his story, not yours, what matters to him in his "now" matters to the reader.Yours? Not so much

And placing the reader into his now is something your school days hasn't taught you how to do.

So, given all of the above, are you getting the feeling that there's a whole lot of things involved with writing fiction that you had no idea existed? If so, you're where i was the first time I had a manuscript professionally critiqued. You've worked hard, you think the story is pretty good, and then you get hit over the head with something like this.

But as I said, it's not your fault. Nor is it a matter of good/bad writing, or even talent. It's that you're missing some important information. And that can be fixed. As Mark Twain put it: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

And that "just ain't so," is what you need to address.

First, take a look at this article on viewpoint, to see how the character's viewpoint changes everything:
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/the-grumpy-writing-coach-8/

You might also poke around in the articles in the rest of the writing blog for an overview of the various issues you need to look into.

But basically, you need to devour a few good books on the elements of writing fiction. A scene, for example, relates to place or a time sequence on stage, and derives from "scenery." But on the page? There, it's a unit of tension. But if we don't know what that means, the elements that make it up, and how to manage them, can we write one? Will we know to end it in disaster for the protagonist, and why? No.

I'm guessing that the flood of unexpected information is kind of like trying to take a small sip from a fire-hose, about now.

But everyone faces it on the way to publication, so it's no big deal. And I have a suggestion as to how to proceed:

The best book on the nuts and bolts issues that I've found is Dwight Swain's, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It's not a "how to" book. It delves into the whys of it, and the objectives. It's an intimidating book, because on every third page you're going to find yourself saying, ""Why didn't I see that for myself? And after the tenth time that happens, it's tough to take.

The thing to do is read it slowly. As they say, the way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time. Leave lots of time to think about the issues he raises, and how they relate to your writing. And practice. Fix that point in your writing, so that by being used it becomes part of your skill-set, rather then something to nod in understanding and then forget you read two days later.

And then, after six months to practice it, go back and read it again. This time, better knowing where he's going, you'll learn as much that's new as you did the first time.

I wish my news was better. But then, you did ask. Most people don't and never learn.

So hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Agyani]

Thank you once again for taking the time to write such a detailed review, Mr Greenstein. I must confess I don't understand everything that you said, as you identified yourself! But I wanted to ask why you always say people read fiction to be entertained? That's not reading has been for me over the years, and I wanted to know what are your thoughts regarding that.

[B. W. Teigland]

Thought I would share this since I also received the remarkably similar advise from Mr. Greenstein. The only difference being that he never cherry picked his way through my first paragraph. Instead, he more than likely just commented without reading a single word because my story was most recently added.

The Greenstein method, I'm sorry to say, is bias. Entertainment is one aspect of writing, there is also writing quality and thematic expression. Where are those dimensions in the Greenstein method? Supposedly, like everyone, I was brainwashed in my school years to only be capable of writing non-fiction and by reading Dwight Swain (A marketing book) I will realize that fiction writing is a career and all I have been doing up until now is writing as an author-centric amateurist writer.

I'm a fiction editor for a Canadian Lit Magazine and in my time as such I have learned that what Mr. Greenstein is really trying to say is that unless you understand the business-side of the publishing industry, you won't get published unless your work is based on a recognizable favour in the fiction market. And he is clearly trying to sell that to all of us here at the writers cafe. His comment was my first impression of this online platform and I hope it gets better than people peddling their reductionist methods.

Mr. Greenstein's comment (which never mentions anything about my piece and could easily be copied and pasted onto any story imaginable):
Well, you did ask, and what I have to say is not going to make you happy, but I thought you would want to know...

You're telling the reader a story as a report, primarily in overview, and using the words you would use were you with the reader. But that can't work because storytelling is a performance art. How you tell the story—your performance—is as important, and perhaps more so than what you say. Fully half our in-person communication is non-verbal. It lives in the tricks of delivery. To illustrate why, take the line, “Susan is a girl who loves her mother.”

Assume two storytellers. The first strides to the podium, as if impatient to begin. He smiles and nods a greeting to the audience, obviously pleased to be there. He extends a hand, as if presenting a gift, as he says, “Susan is a girl who loves her mother.” His voice is warm, and we know that the story we’re about to hear flows from Sue loving mom. So a mood has been set with eight words and a bit of storyteller performance art.

The second speaker, however, saunters in, and on the way to the podium sniffs, and frowns deeply, as if disliking the smell of the place. Once at the podium he looks the audience over, obviously displeased, shaking his head, arms crossed, body-language closed in. Finally, he flips a hand in the audience’s direction, and in a voice dripping with sarcasm, says, “Susan is a girl who loves her mother.” The same words were spoken, but the mood set is far different. And the audience knows this story is to be far darker.

That mood-setting—the emotional part of story—demonstrates the effect of performance, none of which makes it to the page. The page reproduces neither your golden voice nor your gestures, expression, or body-language. So there, mood must be set by other means, because if you open a book and read, “Susan is a girl who loves her mother,” how would you read it? As the first speaker did? The second? Or as the writer intended? See the problem?

It's not the story, a matter of good or bad writing, or talent. It's that we learn none of the skills of writing fiction in our school days because writing fiction is a profession, and we learn out professions after we master the three R's that make us useful to an employer. And employers need us to write reports, essays, and letters, which are nonfiction applications.

So the solution is simple. Add the tricks of fiction to the nonfiction and storytelling skills you already own. It won't be easy, because as I said, it is a profession you'll be learning. and making it more difficult is that your current nonfiction skills have been practiced till they feel intuitive, and they are not going to want you to change.

But on the other hand, everyone who achieves publication faced and overcame the same problem. For all we know you're oozing talent from every pore. But talent is only potential, and an untrained writer with talent has no advantage over one with no talent. So give yours something to work with. It can give your words wings.

The local library's fiction writing section can be a huge resource. It holds the views of pros in publishing, writing, and teaching. And if you are meant to be a writer the learning will be fun.

My personal recommendation, as it so often is, is Dwight Swain's, Techniques of the Selling Writer. Most of the articles in my writing blog are based on that book, and are meant to give a taste of the issues you need to look into. So they may be worth a look, while waiting for the book to arrive.

I wish my news was better. But whatever you do, hang in there, and keep on writing

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[JayG]

• Instead, he more than likely just commented without reading a single word because my story was most recently added.

Sorry, but you're pretty much wrong about everything.

• I did read more than the beginning, though any acquiring editor would classify it as readable. It reads with all the emotion any other transcript of someone telling a story aloud has. It works for tou because you cheat. You already know the story, the backstory, and your intent for how you want the reader to react. But intent doesn't make it to the page, and the reader has only what the words suggest to them, based on their background not yours. So as it stands it provides the reader no context to make it meaningful. And that's why no one commented on this story.

• The reason I went into more detail here was that this one was closer to being professional. And notice that this story did get others to comment.

• As for my saying the same thing here as to you, the same problem gets the same correction, or course.

You're focused on Story, with that capital S. But if the writing doesn't make the reader WANT to keep turning the pages they will never see that plot.

At the moment, like all of us who have studied none of the specialized knowledge of our profession you're making the expected mistakes in approach. You have lots of company, including me, when I turned to recording my campfire stories. So it's no big deal.

And if I, who have no special talent for writing, can sell a publisher on offering a contract, anyone can—if they're willing to take the time to learn to write.

And that's a choice only you can make. All I can do is wish you success with your writing career and move on.

[Kate]

A beautiful and deep story. Well done. No complaints here! Keep up the amazing work.

[Agyani]

Gee, thanks Kate. I always like it when others find something lacking in my writing which I didn't see, but hell, it's always a good feeling to be appreciated as well. ;)

[Ricky]

On a personal note, this story carries many real world lessons that i think i'll apply to my own life thank you for that.

For The story itself it felt really grounded and realistic, perhaps you could go into more detail on how Anand's life spiraled out of control and what he did/what happened to him that saved him from himself. The atonement scene with him and his parent was perfect though, emotion were high as they would be. Better yet you showed that Anand still loved his father by having him restrain himself even under the harsh words that his father was bearing down on him. Most importantly you displayed Anand as flawed with him even recognizing it, and not having him act like it didn't happen, but rather you show that despite it happening he is dong his best to make up for it. Not necessarily for him, but for his parents because of what his actions had done to them.

Overall this story is like reading someones life as it goes by with its ups and its down. I enjoyed this story greatly and will look into your other pieces.

[Agyani]

Hi Ricky. Thanks for letting me know your thoughts. I didn't really think initially that I needed to explain what Anand had been up to in his time away from home more than what's written in the story, but after reading your comment, I shall think it over again. Thanks for the helpful review! :)

[Ricky]

You’re welcome.