I’m looking for a critique partner, as there are those of you on here I have sussed out and trust (I won’t say who)
I had a small publisher interested in my work and was repetitively asking for three books that I have on the go: the main one being a ninety thousand word novel. Times have changed and some of my best stuff was released to another author. Needless to say I have said my goodbyes.
I’ll show you a sample of my work below omitting the ending.
I have had superb feedback from top promoters in London: Caroline Levitt on your side of the world: these amongst many others.
Although this story in my opinion isn’t my best work- and to be really honest it was on a trash CD; it does give you a glimpse of what I’m really about.
I work seven days a week and still manage to cram in three or four hours of writing. I hope this will give you the notion that I am serious about what I do.
I’d proffer a published author to work with, together with credentials and samples. Unpublished is still ok as I am obviously very much the same. All that being said and for your prospective; I have refused up and coming author for a publisher, and two contracts because I wasn’t ready to be tied in. Also a vampire short story that I refused to go in a magazine because my ex publisher wanted it. (mistake)
I know in America you are sensitive to people being blaze or perhaps maybe showing off (in your view) but what else can I do to advertise. I must admit there has been many a talented Englishman that’s been turned away from you because of this trait.
//
The notes from Caroline two years ago, below are much the same as the rest. I didn’t believe her.
If you can afford it: my mobile number is 07764 191561. Or you can email me at... m.shaw4@btinternet.com.
I am also on the hunt for new publishers.

From Caroline......... ‘Oh my God, I am always honest. Never cruel, but always honest. If I did not like your work, I couldn't work on it, and if I thought it was deeply flawed, I would find something positive to say and then instruct you how to make it better, but I would never, ever say "this is fantastic" or the other praise words I said to you. (Usually I might say things like, this is a good start, I like this passage here, so now let's work on language and structure a bit. But no over the top and untrue praise. That's unhelpful.) I can't lie about this because writing is too important to me, and as a writer myself, I know it isn't helpful to be falsely praised. How could I--or you--get better then? And from a biz standpoint, it also doesn't make sense. If I tell everyone how great they are, and then they go off and they can never get agents or book deals or snag prizes, then I cannot get more clients to work with--but if I really and truly help someone, they tell their friends and colleagues, and my business booms and I get to help more people! I honestly feel you have this unbridled, wild talent. What I read reminded me so Catch 22--this wild and wooly and original take on the war. As I said, my problem was I didn't see enough of a story arc YEt--and I use yet because I know you are still writing and you may not know the arc yet. That's why I gave you the information about character arcs and suggested you do a beat sheet for me (listing the 20 major points of the novel) so we can figure out the story holes. Talent, you have it in spades. I was grinning while I was reading--your use of language is spectacular BUT you need to be able to shape it into a coherent story and novel, which is technique and structure, ‘


My short poopy!

YORKY’S RIDGE

Six o’clock Zulu time, Yorky. It’s just you now, Yorky. Get some spit and swallow.

“One Three Delta this is Golden Goose radio check over.”

That’s me; ****… Got to turn it down.

“One three Delta OK, over.”

“One Three Delta this is Golden Goose; Foxtrot Yankee is coming in at six o’clock Zulu time. Keep your heads down and wait. Golden Goose out”

Right I’ve got half an hour. ‘Keep your heads down?’ ****ing keep MY head down. There’s just me left here, dip ****. Here, speak to Bob with half his head missing, it’ll make more sense.

TIME LAPSE AND I START SINGING

“When I was young I’d listen to the radio waiting for my favorite song.”

Friggin’ Carpenters record, is that all I can remember? My bloody ears are ringing and I’m singing a friggin Carpenters record. I suppose I just need something to add a beat to my ****ing tinitus, eh? Got to keep myself focused: listen out: concentrate. I bet Baz is still alive back there. He always did run in the wrong direction: the ****ing coward. ****, I wish I was a coward.

WHISTLING

What the hell’s that: a budgie? It’s a bloody budgerigar singing or whatever stupid multi colored birds they have out here. The enemy must have disappeared else it wouldn’t be so bloody happy. A ****ing machine gun lets rip and you’re singing you little twat. That’s some humor you have up there, God: some crazy warped humor. Or maybe it’s just half deaf, like me and answering to its own whistling ears after the heavy gun fire. **** that was one hell of a fight. Well at least you’re at home you multicolored sparrow. If I ever get home I swear I’m gonna kill my mum’s ****ing budgie: then find a good old British pigeon and paint it green and yellow: telling everyone I fed Percy on steroids.

****ing home, huh! No chance: not after seeing all this ****. I belong nowhere; in fact I belong here: yes right here: this is my spot: my new home and these bastards have killed all my family. Look at them all strewn and littered: their only half the men they used to be, ha ha.

Home, yes it’s been in my dreams for too long, but this is reality now. I’ve seen the humanity in friends and enemy alike as they’ve died in each-other’s arms. Now I know exactly where I belong. Home is just a plastic dolls house… a big fake plastic friggin dolls house with toy people inside.

SHOUTING

What! These bastards are still here calling to me now: calling to me in their dug out machine gun nest. They sound like Manuel from Fawlty Towers, ha ha. Hold on, I think its singing. I’m not having that.

“Come on then you Rag-eds. Yeah; I’m here too. I’m still ****ing here. You’ll soon need those hats for bandages. Ahhhh woooo ah woooooooo woooooooo.”

Stinky sandle wearing bastards. I’ll slap a ****ing flash bang to your ears. Here have some Western music. Have some Carpenters… No wait! Have some Guns and ****ing Roses; yeah that’s it.

“Oy ****s, have some Guns and ****ing Roses. Take me down to the paradise city where the grass is green and the girls are pretty; oh won’t you please take me home, YEEEEAAAAH! Come on then. It‘s better than your friggin la la ****e”

I just got to take a peak over. I doesn’t sound like they’ve moved. Not like us; we shoot and scoot, but you lot, you shoot and stay put then give the game away. You stupid pajama wearing twats.

“You stupid ****ing pajama wearing twats, ahhh-wooo wooooooo!”

Come on Yorky take a peek, just an itsy peek. Yes yes yes yes yeees. Ah, I see you: you mother-****ers. I bloody well see you. Still there, eh? still friggin there. You’ve been to lucky sunshines: too bloody lucky. Big Yorky’s coming to get ya. Yes, big Yorky’s gonna stick ya.

Right Yorky, next move, what’s the next move? Just charge at em; got to catch em unaware, catch em with their pants down. They weren’t looking in my direction. That stupid deaf budgie has helped me by singing next to me and making them think I’m over there: right where they think it’s scared to go. That’s it! They think I’m in the dunes with the echoes. I’ve got the edge. Yes I have the edge…. Yes Yorky, you have it. Let’s get them: got to get them. Take a deep breath, only ten minutes to go. You can do this Yorky; you can do this.

Practice, right. One two three go. One two three go; got to practice. Come on- come on- come oooooon. Right! after one two three go, after one two three go.
Right now, One two-three-yes-yes-yes… Yeeees! I’m running fast as a camel; no I’m running fast as a leopard. Come on- come on- come on- come on- come on. ****ing sand! Here we go…


“Aaaaaaargh, aaaaaaaargh