Jump to content


Welcome to Gay Authors

Confused? Check out one of our guides to using Gay Authors. I am here to ... Read  Write  Socialize  eBooks

If you need assistance, click  Contact Us  on the bottom of all the pages. You can remove this help box by  Signing In  or  Creating An Account  for free today!

Photo

[Luc] Crisis of faith


This topic has been archived. This means that you cannot reply to this topic.
5 replies to this topic

#1

Luc

    Classic Author

  • Author: Classic Author
  • 283 posts

Posted 30 December 2007 - 05:50 AM

I either need kind, encouraging words or a good solid kick in the ass. I am having a crisis of faith. Maybe more accurately described as a crisis of words. They all seem to be stuck somewhere inside me and no amount of shaking seems to be able to get them out. They are all there. I can see them and hear them. But whenever I sit down to write them, they hide behind every possible distraction I can muster up. I am nearly to the point of throwing in the towel and just admitting to myself that I can’t write for shit and maybe sitting on my ass and watching tv is a much better occupation for me. It’s hockey season so there is no lack of good tv. And hockey players are seriously hot when they are all sweaty and physical. Yeah, maybe I should just admit defeat and surrender to the lure of the testosterone on skates.

So…I have had a story in my head for some time now. I have it all written in there. Really. I can see it and hear it and feel it from start to finish. Maybe that is it? Maybe I have it complete in my head so don’t feel the need to finish putting it “on paper”? I do run into that. But I really want to finish it. Maybe the truth is that it just sucks and I am trying subconsciously to save myself from complete and utter humiliation? I have killed more than one story for that reason. I don’t know.

So…I will post what I have written so far, the part that has made it “to paper.” I want to know some things. I want to know, of course, if it sucks. Be honest and save the world from another badly written, badly conceived bit of babble. Whether or not it sucks, I really would like to know your feelings on the main character. I want to know what sense of him comes through. DO you get a sense of him? What gives you that sense? *laughs* Part of that question is inspired by my son’s English class. They are learning about characterization and I used this story in progress (more or less) as an example of things that start to give you a sense of a character. But mostly I just want to see what I have written through the eyes of the reader, to get a sense of whether what I am attempting to do is actually working. I’m usually afraid to actually ask that of anyone but ‘he who points out things’ because he has a way of making “it sucks oak root” sound positive. I do love him for that.

So… (yes, I say that a lot) here is what I have so far. Please feel free to be honest. Please also feel free to tell me why I should or shouldn’t just watch hockey and forget about writing.

Crime Scene (working title)

“So you’re a photographer?” she asked, leaning closer to him. Up until this point her interest had been more polite than anything else. He knew that. It was always the way. It was why he always found a way to introduce that into the conversation.

“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “You may have seen some of my work. I’ve had several showings at the gallery down the street.”

She tipped her head slightly to one side. Her dark red hair brushed her bare shoulder, and he noticed how it almost shimmered in the slightly dim light of the bar. Natural? Yes, it had to be. Her skin had that creamy pearlescence that only belonged to red heads born from nature and not from a bottle. Beautiful skin. Smooth, flawless skin. He could almost feel its softness on his fingertips.

“Maybe,” she replied. “What type of photos were they?”

He smiled. He doubted she even knew there was a gallery down the street. “An assortment. I like to take pictures of beautiful things. Sometimes they are things that others don’t realize are beautiful—until they see them through my lens, and my eyes.”

He made a “picture frame” with his fingers and held them up in front of her. “You have perfect bone structure for the camera. Has anyone ever told you that?” It was a line, but it was true. Her features were sharp, clearly defined. The right lighting would cast them into a spectacular display of angles and planes. She would be stunning in black and white. Though the dark, rich redness of her hair would be lost. Black and white and red… Stark contrasts. Yes…

She laughed, a giggling sort of laugh that irritated his ears. “Do you really think so?”

He noticed a slight blush had crept into the white of her skin. He preferred it pale.

“Yes,” he responded, lowering his hands. “I would love to photograph you sometime.”

“Oh, I’d love to pose for you!” she blurted out excitedly.

Sometimes it was easy…

He looked at his watch. It was early, for a Friday night in the city. “I have someone coming over to the studio in an hour. But if you like, I’ll call and cancel.” He smiled and leaned closer to her and whispered in a conspiratal voice, “I’d much rather shoot you. I am inspired.”

She giggled again. He hoped she wouldn’t do that while he was photographing her. It wouldn’t suit the pose he had in mind.

“Do you say that to every girl you pick up?” she asked as she laid her hand upon his forearm, her fingers playing with the sleeve of his shirt.

He could see it in her eyes, in the way she looked at him from under her lashes. She would let him do more than just photograph her, if he wanted to.

Did he want to?

“Only when I am sincerely inspired.” He looked into her eyes. Cerulean blue.

Did he want to? Oh, yes.

* * *




“Are these yours?” She was looking at the array of framed photos that greeted the eyes as soon as they walked through the door to his apartment.

He nodded. “They are some of my earlier work.” He watched her as she examined each one. They were mostly candid shots of street people, captured in the act of creating accidental beauty. The one of the old bum rummaging though a trash bin, holding a half-wrapped part of a discarded sandwich in one hand, the other hand reaching down to offer a piece to a pathetically thin cat was his favorite of the time. The thought of two of life’s forgotten sharing a scavenged meal was poignant. She passed by it with barely a glance. He could see…was it disappointment?...in her eyes when she looked up at him. There was no glamour in those photos, no beautiful women in artistic poses. Doubtless that was what she had been expecting.

He took her hand and smiled reassuringly. “As I said, those are my earlier work.” He led her through the living room toward the back of the apartment. She looked around and he could see indecision in her body language. He could almost read her thoughts. On one hand, he said he would photograph her, that he was inspired by her. But on the other hand, what sort of picture would he take? She wasn’t a street person. Did she want to put out if he wasn’t really that good a photographer? He could feel her looking him over, deciding whether or not he was worth having sex with for nothing.

“These are more recent,” he commented as they came upon another display of photos. He heard her sharp intake of breath.

These were different. But then, so was he. “Do you like these better?”

He did. Especially the one of the pretty young blonde girl. She had been what, 16? Or had it been 17? It didn’t matter since she never reached 18. The person who had raped her and stabbed her and left her body lying on a doorstep in a back alley had seen to that. But even in death she was beautiful. Her face was unmarred, its innocence and sweetness would never fade, held captive forever by his camera.

“They look like crime scene photos,” she said quietly as she moved slowly from one to the other.

He nodded. “They are. It pays the rent and lets me pursue the more creative aspects of my art.”

She touched the face of the young girl. “She is beautiful. She must have been even more beautiful when she was alive.”

That annoyed him. It was his lens that had given her everlasting beauty, his eye.

“She was not as beautiful as you.” It was not a lie.

She continued to stare at the photo, wrapping her arms around herself as if she felt a chill.

He put his hand on her shoulder. Her skin was soft, so soft. “Let’s go into the studio and I’ll show you my latest work.”

She smiled up at him, and he thought he could almost see relief in her eyes. “When we came in and I saw it was your apartment, I wondered if you really had a studio or if that had just been a pickup line.”

He smiled and opened the door. He bowed slightly and gestured inside the room with a sweep of his arm. “As you see, I really have a studio.”

The room was about the size of a large bedroom—a similarity that was reinforced by the presence of a large, elegant bed.

She giggled. “You have a bed in your studio? Is that for before or after the photo session?”

He laughed with her. “Actually, it is for during. I find it is often an ideal setting for some of my shots.”

She looked around the room. “You said your most recent work was in here. I don’t see any photos on the wall.”

He shook his head. “I don’t display them. Not yet. They are still too much a part of me.” He doubted she would understand that. No one would quite understand it…yet. Someday…

He crossed the room and opened a drawer in a small desk. “Come here,” he said as he took out a portfolio.

The photos inside were, in some cases, even more shocking than the crime scene photos. They were all of beautiful women, all obviously dead, and all had just as obviously been sexually assaulted.

He watched her closely as she looked at each one. “They are all staged. Unlike the other photos, they are all models and the scenes posed.”

Her release of breath was audible. “Thank God!” she exclaimed, placing her hand over her heart. “I was beginning to wonder…”

Wonder what? If he were some sort of freak? A serial killer?

He laughed. “Trust me. If they were real, you’d have heard about them on the news.”

She nodded and shuddered. “I’m sure. All over the front page of every newspaper.”

He replaced the portfolio in the drawer. “I will admit they are rather…dark. But there is beauty in darkness as well as light.” He leaned back against the desk and smiled reassuringly. “So, still want to pose for me?”

She smiled and stepped closer to him. “Of course.” She ran her fingers down his chest and over his stomach, then tugged lightly on his belt. “I wouldn’t want to waste your inspiration.”

No…he wouldn’t want that either.

He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. “Do you trust me? To pose you perfectly, so that the camera will capture every bit of the beauty that I see?”

She leaned forward and brushed her lips slowly over his. “You’re the boss,” she whispered.

He returned her kiss. Her lips were soft, as soft as her skin. But there would be enough time later. For now… He straightened up and pushed her gently away. “Then stay right here for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

He went into a small room that functioned as a closet and prop room. After a few moments, he returned carrying a dress. He held it up to her. “This will be perfect,” he said with satisfaction. It was white silk, cut on deceptively simple lines. Pure and simple.

“Why don’t you change into this while I get a few more things.”

By the time he re-emerged, she was standing next to the bed wearing the dress. He stood and stared for a moment. “Perfect,” he breathed finally.

She beamed and turned around. “It is such a beautiful dress,” she ran her hands down her sides. “I love silk; it feels so wonderful, so sensual.”

He smiled and held out a dark red rose.

And by and by my Soul returned to me,
And answered “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell”
- Omar Khayyam

I'm a review/feedback whore. I will "do things" if you read . my stories and tell me what you think
Especially if you post something in my discussion forums..
(...ok, maybe I won't actually "do things" because Mark would not like that...but I'll be very appreciative and pleasant and... ok, will shut up now.)



http://luc.gayauthors.org/

#2

Graeme

    Gay Dad

  • Mod:  Forum Moderation Team
  • 11,457 posts

Posted 30 December 2007 - 06:25 AM

A really nice opening. The opening paragraph, in conjunction with the title, gave the story a classic crime detective aura. The story is written in the analytical mode common with old style detective stories, though most of those are written in first person, not third.

There appears to be a sinister undercurrent in the lead character, too. Whether that is in his job as a crime scene photographer, or in his morbid interest in death/rape victims, it's hard to say, but he doesn't appear to be someone who you should instantly trust.

Definitely keep writing. :)

However, I accept that sometimes you just can't. I'm going through that too, at the moment. I've got two novels that I've started, but tonight I added the first words to either one in over a month. I just haven't been able to find a way to get the images in my mind into words on the screen. That happens from time to time, and you just need to work through it.

There are a couple of ways, though this is very much an individualistic thing. One is to just write something else. It doesn't have to be published -- just kick the mind out of the groove it's stuck in so when you go back to your novel you'll have a fresh try. For me that's usually writing short stories -- I've written three while I've had this "block" on my next novel.

The other is to take a break and come back when you're ready. Go off and watch those hockey games. Go shopping for lots of paper to soak up the drool while watching the hockey. Take your son to a hockey match. Do what you want. The idea is to take your mind off writing and let yourself relax. You can't write while stressed out about not being able to write :P

Good luck, Luc! You're talented and the snippet above shows that. Don't let yourself be told any different, but don't worry if the words won't come out just now. There's no rush -- we'll still be here to wait for them when they do start to flow.

Graeme :)

There are three types of people in the world - those that understand binary and those that don't.

Now starting to post: Leopard Spots, the sequel to Leopard Skin Cover


#3

corvus

    poetician

  • Author: Author
  • 770 posts

Posted 10 January 2008 - 10:57 PM

Oooh... that was chilling. I get a lot of signals about this guy you've introduced. Definitely an... artistic soul, but very sinister. It's never clear if he's the one who causes the deaths -- only that he's there to capture it. Or is there even a difference? You've balanced the ambiguity very well. Sometimes too much ambiguity can make things very muddled, but you don't. The different possibilities are still very strong, and the lack of clarity only serves to heighten the tension.

I will say, though, that the scene you've introduced is not the most original. I have read -- or at least imagined reading 0:) ) is-he-a-serial-killer? scenes. However, there's nothing better than twisting a cliche. That's all Harry Potter is, for instance. Even fulfilling a cliche in a way that isn't maudlin can be a triumph. I prefer to call that 'myth making.' So it depends on where you take this. A lot of art is in the 'how' rather than the 'what.'

Don't stop writing. I believe that every bit of angst you feel now prepares you to be a better writer later :D . Sometimes you need to let go, loosen up a bit, write something you didn't think you would write, or write in an unexpected style. That can do wonders. Good luck!

music | poetry and prose
fanfiction | blog


'I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.' -- Yeats

#4

viv

    Forum Fiend

  • Author: Classic Author
  • 451 posts

Posted 16 January 2008 - 11:46 AM

Luc...

As much as sweaty hockey players wrestling with each other would be distracting... and I know how that is, believe me... can I take a minute to point out a few things here?

1. You are an emotionally gripping storyteller, one that consistantly delivers. More than that, you are a writer who knows what he's doing and how to do it excellently.

2. Since when do we write for other people, or for what they may or may not think about what we have written?

3. There is a LARGE GAPING HOLE where there should be fantastic stuff for me to read, which means one of two things... I read entirely too much, (totally possible) and or, someone needs to help fill it with quality, me included. I've been much in the same boat lately... but you don't forget how to feel, or how to tell a story, and I know that the hard part is getting the picture and story in your head out and onto paper where someone else can share it too, but you're a seasoned pro at that now.

4. If you don't tell me what happens next... I won't be held responsible for my behavior! :P And besides, there is a whole harem of boys that want to say great things about you so... give them something to talk about besides how fun you are to flirt with. ;)

Hugs, Vivian

PS. If I can do anything to help you, you know where I'm at... all you have to do is ask, kay?
Posted Image

#5

Menzoberranzen

    The Wanderer

  • Author: Promising Author
  • 871 posts

Posted 27 January 2008 - 10:47 PM

I don't think I've ever commented in one of your story threads, but I've read most of what you've posted here at GA and, like Viv said, you are an excellent story-teller with stories that convey emotion impeccably. Writing can be a very frustrating business, but please don't give it up.

As for the little snippet you posted, I loved it. The imagery was beautiful, and the setting was excellent. I'd love to read more of it.

Menzo

#6

arl215

    Member

  • Members
  • 13 posts

Posted 24 April 2009 - 11:40 AM

Just read this Holy crap!,this scared the hell out of me.Something very different than your other stories. I think all your other work is brilliant.Arl