Writing Advice Thread

[HarMegidon]

I really would like critique of this thing I made.

[DocBeard]

So, wait. Half of your review is telling me I need to prune everything down, and the other half says there is nothing relevant in order to propose a narrative. There's plenty of relevant stuff, the whole idea was to make worldbuilding a less expository process by sprinkling character and plot details into what amounts to a fairly normal afternoon for the kids.

And from the look of your review, you didn't even bother to read the second chapter. I realize my writing can be a little dense, but if you didn't like it enough to read all the way through all you had to do was say so and I would not have had to put my work on hold for months waiting for this. As it is I am out a great deal of time for what amounts to "tldr;".

[UDoctolero]

This, please. I know it is crap, and I would be surprised if someone made a good review.

[Crowbar]

I really would like critique of this thing I made.

I'm not sure where you're going with this either. I mean, you have some cool ideas, but I'm not sure if you're doing anything with them. You need more focus, and you need to decide what all this is actually for. Video game ideas? Stories? What?

If it is for a series of stories, there's a lot you can improve upon with your writing. You should consider starting a new line or paragraph every time a character speaks so that it's easier to read. You really need to slow down and take your time describing things, set the scene and all that. You tried to include character introspective, expository dialogue and relationship development in a single paragraph. You breezed through a big, major encounter with the bad guy in four paragraphs, man, four.

[Hazel]

I tried writing WQ's point of view, and not surprisingly, it was pretty hard. I haven't done odd POVs in a while, so I'm pretty unsure of this. Can anyone offer an opinion?

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Before Time

Don’t ask, What was it like for you before the war? There is no time before the war. Not for us. Not because it didn’t happen, not because we didn’t exist. Because time as we know it, space as we live in it, and everything between, only came into existence when the war happened. For the war, in fact. Even our histories all sprang forth fully formed from the Skaian battlefield. You think your life revolves around the war because paradox space planted you on Earth? Kid, you ain’t seen nothing yet.

We came into being as we are, to fight a war that we all know the end of. And it doesn’t even matter. Even if Prospit won the war, which it won’t, none of it makes a difference. Everything we do is just a prelude for your entrance. You come in and you think you’re fighting on our side, you feel pretty heroic. But the truth is, you’re not fighting for us, we’re fighting for you, Prospit and Derse both. Even the fool is fighting for you, even though he still thinks he’s bucking the system.

Every time I wake up, for a split second, before the prototyping begins, I think, Oh no, not again. I can hope that it won’t happen again, see, that this time will be the last, but only in the intervals. In the times when I don’t exist. Once the programming takes I remember the histories, and histories always repeat themselves. First the war, then the loss. Maybe exile, a brief hundred year sojourn in a nowhere land, then the war again, this time from the other side.

This time we have a little longer to prepare. Not that there are any reserves to call in, or any secret weapon. We’re still going to lose. But you’re supposed to wake up, and so we have a little time before. That’s why there are flowers in the streets. We get one of these about every fifth cycle, a player that needs advance preparation, needs an idea of what they’re fighting for. On average there are a thousand years between them.

I don’t know if you’ll remember this when you wake up. I’m not even certain you can hear me all the way up in your moon. But I see you in the clouds, the same clouds where you see yourself, or will, soon. Soon you’ll be waking up, and our time here will grow short. I’ve seen you, so I know what I’m missing. Perhaps if I keep talking, you’ll remember this when you wake up, and tell the others. We fight for you. You don’t fight for us, because there’s nothing to fight for.

Later on, when we go to ground, you’ll be able to hear us. One of us. I don’t know if you’ll get me. I don’t even know if I’ll make it to ground this time. That’s why I have to tell you now, and risk you not hearing, not remembering. Stopping the reckoning won’t do us any good, or you, either. Whether we die or surrender, the reckoning always happens. There is another thing you can do, though, if you want to pay us back.

Kill the game.

[Zampanó]

I would like someone to take a look at what is linked in my signature. The fanfiction thread seems to be populated entirely with nice people. I need wood-chipper, not kindergarten teacher.

[Hazel]

Pull punches? Y/N

Y ==>

Hazel: Pull punches.

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I didn't get very far in, because I have a short attention span. I get that there is a dude and a lady, they are high schoolers and best friend, and there is some mean coach who they don't like. I don't really get the Homestuck angle. I mean, they could be A/U human versions of trolls, or someone else, but I'm not seeing the connection if it's there.

N ==>

Hazel: Rip into Zampanó.

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The problem starts from the very first sentence. Who is this douche and why should I care about him? What is the plot? What here is so interesting that I should waste valuable minutes skimming to find out how it ends? Fanfic doesn't mean imitating the style of the original work exactly. If you do that, it's exceedingly dull for everyone who's read the source, and that's pretty much your entire audience.

It seems you have your own Sburb session going on here. As a basic concept for fanfic, it's insufficient and extremely self-indulgent. Canon tells us that Earth had thousands of Sburb players, none of whom made it very far into the game. They all died or became trapped in null sessions in paradox space. That's not an awesome premise for a story, at least not a story like this.

If you plan on having wee angsty teens Johnny and Alison (or whoever else) perish horribly, don't spend three chapters introducing their routine teenaged lives. There's no point getting invested in doomed characters. If you plan on having them succeed: 1) How do you justify that? We are explicitly told that everyone dies but Our Intrepid Heroes, and 2) Where is the interest? Why is their session different from the canonical one, and therefore worth following?

Basically the gist of my critique isn't the style but the basic concept. Things Hussie can get away with are not things you can get away with. Fanfic needs a good reason. What does your fic tell us that isn't in canon? Where's the hook? It should be either in the first paragraph, or in the summary preceding the story.

That was unusually abrupt, even for me. I wouldn't really blame you if you sort of avoided me from now on.

[Zampanó]

I asked for abrupt and really, it's hard to be offended by criticism about a fanfiction. It's supposed to be a fun diversion, right? My work is not me, so I am not offended. Thank you for taking the time to write out a response at all.

THAT SAID, here's my defensive rationalization:
I was not aware that the canon session is the only one to be allowed. It always seemed silly to me for a planet of six billion to yield only one success. So part of my motivation was to sketch out what, exactly, a non-scratched, non-FirstGuardianSprite session would look like. SBURB seems like an interesting enough concept itself that it holds my interest, at least, without much need for extra embellishment in the form of trolls (for example).

Chapter one is the only one to take place in the wide world; it is meant to show Johnny as utterly inept in combat and to indicate the general dynamic between him and Alison. Everything else in that chapter is essentially either (clumsy) foreshadowing or throwaway material that can be incorporated later if necessary. It seems weird to me that the Coach character stuck out to you... clearly something went wrong with the emphasis there.

Chapter two is meant to introduce the third member of the session, as well as explore the utter ridiculousness of a game that actually interacts with reality. Honestly, if I installed a game and it actually moved things in the real world then bricks would be shat. It's kind of an unusual situation, and one I didn't think was considered in canon. So that was my "concept" for chapter two.

Chapter three was my first crack at writing action in years. The goal was to bring someone into the game and move the plot forwards.

Basically the gist of my critique isn't the style but the basic concept. Things Hussie can get away with are not things you can get away with. Fanfic needs a good reason. What does your fic tell us that isn't in canon? Where's the hook? It should be either in the first paragraph, or in the summary preceding the story.

I guess I felt like my "good reason"' was something that would come out as the story progressed, but I suppose a basic synopsis wouldn't hurt. Essentially, I intend(ed?) to initiate a second session once the players enter the medium. The kids would each have a second set of Server/Player SBURB disks and the pattern of Server Player/Explorer Player would get turned around. Two sessions would be active inside of one another. In addition, the book House of Leaves is basically an exercise in (pretentious) creepypasta and that would greatly influence the worlds that Johnny visited. Also, ArtemisFowlSprite.

Clearly, I haven't done enough to draw the attention of potential readers and I can't just assume people will read everything posted.

Do you think it is worth it to continue this project at all, given the problems with the beginning?

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[Thanks for responding at all!]

[SeptimusMagistos]

I would like someone to take a look at what is linked in my signature. The fanfiction thread seems to be populated entirely with nice people. I need wood-chipper, not kindergarten teacher.

I have seen alternate sessions before and I have enjoyed some of them, so for me that's not a problem. But I still find it hard to care about this particular one.

Part of it might be the setup. I know there is great temptation to describe something in detail, but Homestuck at least is generally known for a fast-paced style. Generally speaking, you are expected to give out an excellent and truly unique characterization within a single paragraph or you might as well not bother.

And it's true that at least this early on I'm not seeing much about the session that's unique. Possibly that just means you have a long opening but that's still a problem. While you can get away with that in many fandoms, around here we've been rather spoiled.

One other thing is that your characters' personalities aren't coming off very clearly. Thus far they look pretty much average, which is not a good thing when you're writing for people who got used to outrageously crisp personalities.

Overall, it's all just somewhat too slow and everyone's too average. Find a way to speed it up and brighten it, or it might not attract the kind of interest you want it to.

[Hazel]

SeptimusMagistos gives a much clearer critique than me.

As for the double session, I'm not sure I understand. Do you mean reversing the server/player dynamic, like Dave and Jade did, or creating a second Skaia in Skaia itself? Because if it's the latter, I'm not sure how that would work. Would the eventually created universe just stay in the incipisphere? Would the players be the same players? It's not totally clear from your description.

[Embargo]

Is this still a thing over here?

[Hazel]

Threads are only a thing if you post something. "Something" in this case is either a story or a critique, preferably both.

[Embargo]

Oh, cause I kinda wanted someone to look at this.

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I'd stand and face my enemy like the hero I had made myself out to be, but it hurts too much to stand, to breathe, to do anything really. I thought I could just run in head-first, guns blazing as I slew the demon-worshiping cult in their own secret temple; but all I really did was fall ass-backwards into a total shitstorm. They used some kind of magic on me, because the pain is everywhere and it won't end. I can already see the demon tearing itself a larger entrance through the cultist’s portal. I’ve failed to stop these cultists from summoning their master’s vanguard. I’ve failed to seal the portal before the demon could find it from whatever sick, twisted dimension it lived in. I’ve failed, failed, failed, failed.

“Raes’goth Tral Ogo!” The demon screams in its unholy language. My muscles protest against any sort of movement, but I try to stand anyway. Superfluous cuts litter my body, minute reminders of the battle that went on as I my way into the cultists inner sanctum. Large, purple brusies litter my body. The pain is enormous and unending. God, make it stop.

‘Cmon you useless pile of waste… get up! Get up and fight! You can still wound it, maybe even get anyone nearby to call the police.’ I scream at myself internally as I shakily shift my weight onto my tired legs. It feels as if I’ve got the weight of the world bearing down on me. The feeling isn’t good by any measure of the word.

“Nos Jaq Measilth’ra Eopeeeeeeeeeee” It screeches. I’d laugh at the dumb thing, if it’s language wasn’t so damn terrifying to hear. Instead, I study the demon as it raises itself to its full height. It’s taller by a whole foot, its horns nearly scraping against the ceiling above it. Its skin pulses blood red, muscles coiling and recoiling around its strange skeletal frame. Its eyes are like two black voids draining me of thought and emotion. It’s also standing in a pool of blood, the blood of fallen cultists and human sacrifices. It seems that I’ve made quite the mess just getting here. The demon doesn't seem to notice the gore around it. Its obsidian eyes simply study my every move with a sort of primal curiosity. I'm trying not to look intimidated.

“A lively one, aren’t we? I don’t know what your name is and, frankly, I don’t really care.” I say, locking my pistol in a death-grip. My movements are slow and jerky. I’m exhausted and sweet, blissful oblivion constantly threatens to consume me. I can’t fall unconscious, not now. Not when I have a responsibility to all the people who are blissfully ignorant of the danger staring me in the face.

“But let me tell you something. You just tore yourself a trans-dimensional portal into what I’d like to call The U.S. of motherfucking A.” I tell the beast. It growls and lowers into an aggressive stance. I lift my gun and aim for it’s heart, not that shooting it there'll do much good. “And, as an American citizen, I think it’s time I exercised my second amendment rights and sent you back to the hellhole you crawled out of.”

I fire my gun at the demon as it charges me. I see the world flash red before fading into black, which is a tad bit anti-climatic. I'm forced to express my total disappointment at not finding a tunnel with a white light at the end. Some hero I turned out to be.

[SeptimusMagistos]

Oh, cause I kinda wanted someone to look at this.

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I'd stand and face my enemy like the hero I had made myself out to be, but it hurts too much to stand, to breathe, to do anything really. I thought I could just run in head-first, guns blazing as I slew the demon-worshiping cult in their own secret temple; but all I really did was fall ass-backwards into a total shitstorm. They used some kind of magic on me, because the pain is everywhere and it won't end. I can already see the demon tearing itself a larger entrance through the cultist’s portal. I’ve failed to stop these cultists from summoning their master’s vanguard. I’ve failed to seal the portal before the demon could find it from whatever sick, twisted dimension it lived in. I’ve failed, failed, failed, failed.

“Raes’goth Tral Ogo!” The demon screams in its unholy language. My muscles protest against any sort of movement, but I try to stand anyway. Superfluous cuts litter my body, minute reminders of the battle that went on as I my way into the cultists inner sanctum. Large, purple brusies litter my body. The pain is enormous and unending. God, make it stop.

‘Cmon you useless pile of waste… get up! Get up and fight! You can still wound it, maybe even get anyone nearby to call the police.’ I scream at myself internally as I shakily shift my weight onto my tired legs. It feels as if I’ve got the weight of the world bearing down on me. The feeling isn’t good by any measure of the word.

“Nos Jaq Measilth’ra Eopeeeeeeeeeee” It screeches. I’d laugh at the dumb thing, if it’s language wasn’t so damn terrifying to hear. Instead, I study the demon as it raises itself to its full height. It’s taller by a whole foot, its horns nearly scraping against the ceiling above it. Its skin pulses blood red, muscles coiling and recoiling around its strange skeletal frame. Its eyes are like two black voids draining me of thought and emotion. It’s also standing in a pool of blood, the blood of fallen cultists and human sacrifices. It seems that I’ve made quite the mess just getting here. The demon doesn't seem to notice the gore around it. Its obsidian eyes simply study my every move with a sort of primal curiosity. I'm trying not to look intimidated.

“A lively one, aren’t we? I don’t know what your name is and, frankly, I don’t really care.” I say, locking my pistol in a death-grip. My movements are slow and jerky. I’m exhausted and sweet, blissful oblivion constantly threatens to consume me. I can’t fall unconscious, not now. Not when I have a responsibility to all the people who are blissfully ignorant of the danger staring me in the face.

“But let me tell you something. You just tore yourself a trans-dimensional portal into what I’d like to call The U.S. of motherfucking A.” I tell the beast. It growls and lowers into an aggressive stance. I lift my gun and aim for it’s heart, not that shooting it there'll do much good. “And, as an American citizen, I think it’s time I exercised my second amendment rights and sent you back to the hellhole you crawled out of.”

I fire my gun at the demon as it charges me. I see the world flash red before fading into black, which is a tad bit anti-climatic. I'm forced to express my total disappointment at not finding a tunnel with a white light at the end. Some hero I turned out to be.

To be honest, this internal voice doesn't feel at all conistent. Whenever I read a person narrating in first-person perspective, especially in present tense, I expect them to sound clearly like themselves. Whoever you're describing keeps switching between highly dramatic, stylized statements, and internal quips. It would read better if I could get a clearer sense of this person.

[Embargo]

Oh, cause I kinda wanted someone to look at this.

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I'd stand and face my enemy like the hero I had made myself out to be, but it hurts too much to stand, to breathe, to do anything really. I thought I could just run in head-first, guns blazing as I slew the demon-worshiping cult in their own secret temple; but all I really did was fall ass-backwards into a total shitstorm. They used some kind of magic on me, because the pain is everywhere and it won't end. I can already see the demon tearing itself a larger entrance through the cultist’s portal. I’ve failed to stop these cultists from summoning their master’s vanguard. I’ve failed to seal the portal before the demon could find it from whatever sick, twisted dimension it lived in. I’ve failed, failed, failed, failed.

“Raes’goth Tral Ogo!” The demon screams in its unholy language. My muscles protest against any sort of movement, but I try to stand anyway. Superfluous cuts litter my body, minute reminders of the battle that went on as I my way into the cultists inner sanctum. Large, purple brusies litter my body. The pain is enormous and unending. God, make it stop.

‘Cmon you useless pile of waste… get up! Get up and fight! You can still wound it, maybe even get anyone nearby to call the police.’ I scream at myself internally as I shakily shift my weight onto my tired legs. It feels as if I’ve got the weight of the world bearing down on me. The feeling isn’t good by any measure of the word.

“Nos Jaq Measilth’ra Eopeeeeeeeeeee” It screeches. I’d laugh at the dumb thing, if it’s language wasn’t so damn terrifying to hear. Instead, I study the demon as it raises itself to its full height. It’s taller by a whole foot, its horns nearly scraping against the ceiling above it. Its skin pulses blood red, muscles coiling and recoiling around its strange skeletal frame. Its eyes are like two black voids draining me of thought and emotion. It’s also standing in a pool of blood, the blood of fallen cultists and human sacrifices. It seems that I’ve made quite the mess just getting here. The demon doesn't seem to notice the gore around it. Its obsidian eyes simply study my every move with a sort of primal curiosity. I'm trying not to look intimidated.

“A lively one, aren’t we? I don’t know what your name is and, frankly, I don’t really care.” I say, locking my pistol in a death-grip. My movements are slow and jerky. I’m exhausted and sweet, blissful oblivion constantly threatens to consume me. I can’t fall unconscious, not now. Not when I have a responsibility to all the people who are blissfully ignorant of the danger staring me in the face.

“But let me tell you something. You just tore yourself a trans-dimensional portal into what I’d like to call The U.S. of motherfucking A.” I tell the beast. It growls and lowers into an aggressive stance. I lift my gun and aim for it’s heart, not that shooting it there'll do much good. “And, as an American citizen, I think it’s time I exercised my second amendment rights and sent you back to the hellhole you crawled out of.”

I fire my gun at the demon as it charges me. I see the world flash red before fading into black, which is a tad bit anti-climatic. I'm forced to express my total disappointment at not finding a tunnel with a white light at the end. Some hero I turned out to be.

To be honest, this internal voice doesn't feel at all conistent. Whenever I read a person narrating in first-person perspective, especially in present tense, I expect them to sound clearly like themselves. Whoever you're describing keeps switching between highly dramatic, stylized statements, and internal quips. It would read better if I could get a clearer sense of this person.

Alright, I'll keep this in mind. Thanks.

[Isoraqathedh]

Um, it's not fiction material, but this can use some peer-reviewing. Not the system itself, but rather the way the article is written. It just needs to be clear, but seriously, my sights have been tainted by five days of prep work.

[Ember]

Isor:

All of your stories get bogged down in minutia. Knowing every last detail of a fictional notation system for a fictional chess equivalent is not going to do anything to make your stories more interesting. It's just more fodder for obnoxious, psuedo-intellectual footnotes. You are not Terry Pratchett. Your fiction does not need footnotes. It is unreadable. Your notes are unreadable. Please remember that no one is ever going to care about your created worlds as much as you do unless you give them a damn good reason to, in the form of a story that is actually engaging.

[Isoraqathedh]

I'm not really working on any story for this, if you understand. Drawing from previous experience I will keep No. 1. and No. 2. (mostly) separate and not-necessarily-equal.

This is just for fun, you know! It would be fun if I could write something that would use this well, but my writing skills are not as strong as I wish it was and thus the whole Segregation of One and Two. It's just me, playing god and having fun and messing with the historians of the future.

Not everything needs to be related -- that's what an index is for!

So, if you have no previous knowledge of me and my works, and if you were handed this article to edit, what would you do?

[Ember]

Not read it. It's incredibly dense and I have no reason to care.

[Isoraqathedh]

You make points. Good ones.

I have got to find a way to make things less dense, however. But the denser it gets, the harder it is to extricate from the situation! No one will (be able to) read it, and there will be no comments on how to make it less dense so it will still sink under water!

This may have some impact on the final presentation of the Maronsai Tubes.

(I actually written that article with no notes at all, completely by memory. God. Why can't my shoddy memory stay shoddy!?)

[SeptimusMagistos]

Um, it's not fiction material, but this can use some peer-reviewing. Not the system itself, but rather the way the article is written. It just needs to be clear, but seriously, my sights have been tainted by five days of prep work.

Using my experience of reading technical material, this is not one of the better articles I've read. Presumably it could be useful to someone who already had a working knowledge of the other notation mentioned, but if it's intended for beginners, I'm having trouble absorbing the information.

[lucidSeraph]

You make points. Good ones.

I have got to find a way to make things less dense, however. But the denser it gets, the harder it is to extricate from the situation! No one will (be able to) read it, and there will be no comments on how to make it less dense so it will still sink under water!

This may have some impact on the final presentation of the Maronsai Tubes.

(I actually written that article with no notes at all, completely by memory. God. Why can't my shoddy memory stay shoddy!?)

/nonfiction writer busts in through the wall like kool-aid man

Your biggest problem, Iso, is that you write like a computer programmer. This article is highly technical and while doubtlessly informative, it is going to be of interest only to persons who have an interest in mathematical conlangs based on chess motifs... that is, you.

My suggestion would be to look at the articles for other conlangs, read them, and try to write based on that. Create an introduction first of all to the uses of this system, why someone might care about it, what's interesting, without saying a damn word about how it works. As it stands? I have no idea why I should give a damn about this and I look at it and go "So... bluh bluh numbers bluh?" Furthermore, reading it is a chore. I imagine that if I wanted to spend time on this I could glean the method from the madness but as it stands I have no invested reason to waste my precious minutes on such a thing.

Give some context, man.

[RogerMexico]

Hey, so I just started writing Homestuck fics about a week ago, and the story I've been writing has had good reception from the community, but it's all along the lines of "great story, I'm interested in seeing where it's going" and other such vague comments. What I'm really looking for is for someone to tear it apart and tell me what I need to fix to improve my writing style. Obviously this is the place for that to happen, so I ask you all to go at it.

Here's the fic: http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4753909

Go for it.

[ArmsAreLoud]

I wrote my first real attempts at poetry yesterday. I am not really familiar with the medium (at least, not as much as I should be), so I was hoping that someone here who understands the genre better would be able to help me out.

All three are relatively short (you could read all three in a couple of minutes), so if it is OK I will go ahead and post them all.

"Lament of the Post-Apocalyptic"

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Alas, poor Babylon! I knew thee well.
Of sins and of excitement do thee tell.
No more, no more, are my pleasures and lust;
Because, because, it's in God we now trust.
Armageddon is here, our world is gone
And so we bow to the Lord of the Yawn.
Now we shall kneel, we shall praise, we shall sing
All for the pride of our Savior and King.
What happened to my preferred worldly joys?
My life is now riddled with childish toys.
Prayers and Bibles can never entertain;
Yet, great joy, must I forever feign
For if this base feeling I were to tell
Big Brother would surely drag me to hell.

"To the Romantic"

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It is with great pleasure I now inquire
In regards to that great joke you call love.
Does she cause your heart to light like the fire?
Does your head spin with the song of your dove?

They say that through poems love is eternal.
I write against the truth in that matter.
Yes, true love can withstand pits infernal;
But, with time, it will always be battered.

There is no poetry that withstands the grave.
The words will live on, this much I admit
But your girl is not similarly saved.
She'll be stuffed in the dirt, and then, that's it.

All your great efforts, your well thought out rhymes:
Nothing but a waste of some student's time.

"Live to Laugh"

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For the kids, I will smile.
Haa Haa Hee Hee Hoo Hoo.

But their dads, I will mock.
Haa Haa Hee Hee Hoo Hoo.

When I insult, I jest.
Haa Haa Hee Hee Hoo Hoo.

And yet, I am not liked.
Haa Haa Hee Hee Hoo Hoo.

On my jokes, I can't live.
Haa Haa Hee Hee Hoo Hoo.

If I don't laugh, I cry.
Haa Haa Hee Hee Hoo Hoo.

[DylanB]

This a project I'm currently working on. It's my own idea, but its still very young and in the developmental phase. The purpose of this fictitious letter is to present the idea in a very real and human way, as well as gauge the interest of the viewer to the unknown and the vagueness of the letters subject matter. I am fully open to all forms of criticism, the most responses I can get the better I can advance my ability to compose to the best of my abilities.

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Dear Walter E. Melville,

It is with a heavy heart I compose this letter. Under better circumstances my dusty desktop not have been turned on, I would be spending this time helping the undergraduates, you would be maintaining your position as the dutiful sergeant, and your son would still be alive. Under better circumstances my associates would still be in our employment, they would have known better, and your house will still be in one piece. Under better circumstances I would've never known you, your stellar report as an officer of law, as your dedication to your son and daughter. I would not need to ask you the sensitive question of your most recent divorce. I am not a man who enjoys digging into the personal lives of strangers, and under better circumstances, none of this would have happened.

I know you are angry, you are furious, you are heartbroken, but most of all you are confused. So let me begin by saying I apologize for the actions of my associates after the incident occurred. We follow strict guidelines on each operation, even after something has gone awry. We do not pride ourselves on the secrecy of our operations, of our staff, of our organization as a whole. Yet what we do uphold is the ideals of compassion and empathy. After your son was taken from this world, my associates should have shown compassion and empathy, least of all stay there for the duration of the confusion to alleviate the heartbreak you must have been feeling. My associates did not do their job, and they have been removed from their position. So little a step towards soothing the still open wound, but I will not allow my organization to experience such a drastically inept mistake ever again.

Heathcliff Melville, your son, was a child. Only sixteen. I can't tell you the pain this has caused me. My organization will ensure that your family and extended family receive all the necessary support you will ever need, although I know that will never be close to mending the wound that we have caused. Our negligence was shown when a professional approach was most needed, and it caused your sons undoing. This mistake is something I will take with me throughout my entire life. I believe in the importance of a single human life, no matter race or age or gender. I take full responsibility for this action.

Yet I know I am sidestepping the issue, the stark elephant in the room, if you'll excuse the analogy. You are a father, a police sergeant, a strong supporter and volunteer of truth, justice, and the security of the state. It is your job to know the facts of any situation, to ascertain the best response, the best course of action for your department. This, however, is not something you have ever experienced.

I have seen it before, many times. I am a haunted man by the things that I have seen. Sometimes its mistakes, sometimes it was conflict from outside powers. Although I have no doubt in my mind that your boy did not show these feelings, sometimes its just a lack of self-confidence. Sometimes they just didn't want to live. So they let themselves leave this world. As a police sergeant you must know this somber realization. The world hangs on a delicate balance of joy and despair, if you can forgive my extrapolation. Again, your son did not feel suicidal in any way, your son was full of life, of ambition. He was full of love. What took your son was not anything in his heart or mind.

But again, I am sidestepping the issue. Before I go any further, I ask that you try to understand the nature of my organization. We are a subsidiary of the United States government, but we have no service code. Officially we have very little authority, nor do we ever openly excessive or exploit our governmental rank. By all accounts, we are concerned citizens, with none of our staff wearing any kind of firearm or weapon. We do not act on violence, I would like to believe that we act on peace and understanding. Your son only needed peace, but our now-removed associates became careless and took to the abhorrent and demeaning behavior of the amateur. Our staff is trained extensively, no associate leaves our facility until after two years of intense training. No training of combat or self-defense mind you, but of empathy, understanding, counseling, and the power of the heart. Why they chose to act on impulse and idiocy shames me more than I can say. On that day our organization failed completely, and it will be a mistake we will never forget.

Yet that is all I can tell you about our organization. As you may understand in special situations, information can empower the wrong people, those outside forces that seek to subvert our work, to subvert our philanthropy to advance their own selfish and destructive desires. In how we act we must adhere to secrecy. I do not want to emphasis a feeling of covertness or elitism. I founded this organization on the tenants of the neighborhood watch, of the concerned citizen. If you wish to ask further, and I hope you are willing to discuss tragic matter with me, please contact me via phone number. Perhaps I may spend a day with you personally, I do not want this letter to make me seem distant or detached for the interpersonal realities of this horrific incident. If you are angry, furious, please let me know. I am here to listen, Mr. Melville.

It is important to understand why my organization was interested in your son. My associates and I do not randomly select young men or women across our great nation, or across this beautiful planet. The term in our organization is “undergraduate,” or those who are new to the organization yet have special gifts that attract our attention. Let me stress this point as much as I can. Your son had an amazing gift. He was an athlete, a dutiful student, who did not shy away from the arts or the written work. He was a member of the high school student council, and spent his free days volunteering at the homeless shelter. From what I learned of him, I could tell that any father would be proud of such a wonderful son. Heathcliff was an extraordinary young man, and an extraordinary son.

But more than that, your son had an amazing gift. It set him above all other men his age, or women. It may sound strange, but your son possessed a gift that set him above this fellow humans. This gift is what brought us to him, it is this gift that I founded this organization upon. Only a handful of people on this planet have such a gift, and many were unable of their gift until we approached them to explain their miraculous talents. I know it is still much too early to move on, I wouldn't ask that of you. But I would ask that you remember him for the good in his life, not the bad in his death.

I understand you were at the town police station at the time your son's death. To come home that night, to see your house ripped open, and your son in the ambulance, I cannot imagine the pain. A father should never outlive his son. A father should never experience that kind of lost. The gift your son possessed is a gift to the world, but for some unfortunate individuals it is used as a weapon. Life flows through our world like a river. Time also flows as a river, our lives begin as small streams, then to great rivers. In the ideal world, once man grows old, the river of his life resigns. It returns back to the great ocean from where it came. Heaven, the universe, or perhaps a total end of life, I am not here to gauge your religious beliefs. What I am here to say is that the gift your son had was a power that governed the flow of the river.

Although he did not realize it, not even to the end, the river of life and of reality was something he could affect with his will and with his body. Although we still do not fully understand the genetic inheritance of the gift, we know that your son was born with an inert ability that developed into a usable power at the age of sixteen. I imagine his astonishment at his abilities, at what he was able to do with the right amount of focus and willpower. I wish I could tell you more, to tell you just how amazing his gifts were, and I wish I didn't have to pander around in vague terms to you. But I cannot leave you without giving you an explanation of the dismal event of your sons demise. You deserve to know how your son died.

The gift your son possessed was only just realized by Heathcliff. Our associates came with the utmost sincerity upon knocking on the door and introducing themselves to your son. I understand you were recently divorced, explaining his mother's absence. As my associates entered, there was an unexpected fluctuation. The river of your son's life became manipulated without his control. The normality of your home was compromised. The water of life became effervescent, there was a distortion. Individuals with this gift have been known to experience brief moments control loss, this was not why your son died. Our associates reacted to this event in an incorrect way. They used a tool our organization possesses. This tool is for the few combatants who use their gift to hurt others and the world around them. I cannot tell you what it does. I cannot tell you what it is called. I can only tell you that it did something to your son. Your son's body changed, and his heart couldn't take the change. Your house was ripped apart, and most of the pieces will never be found again, they don't exist in the world any longer. But more importantly, your son had passed away.

Please, contact me. I don't want this door to be closed with this letter. I feel as if by simply sending you this letter, I'm belittling these horrific events. I feel that I'm insulting the history of your son's life. I want to sit with you, and see you. I want to make real this mistake. I have made this organization on the foundation of clearing confusion, of understanding the misunderstood, of righting the wrongs that this gift has inadvertently placed on the world. I want never again to know a failure of this magnitude, to let another life fall through my fingers like sand. I want to keep the memory of your son alive, alive for today and for the future. For all those around the world with the same gift he had.

My Complete Condolences,

Dr. Howard Jaraad Toure
Dissociation Restoration Committee (DRC)