wastra
September 5th, 2002, 10:58 AM
Hey gang. It's been a while Since i've posted here, but I've begun a story, and I'd like to ge ta little feedback on the opening 'prologue' or 'forward.'
I'm not too worried about the grammar yet, I'd like to know if you feel the 'style' or 'feel' of the forward would work. It is almost a direct address to the reader from an omnipotent 3rd (almost 2nd) person narrator. THe book itself goes into 3rd person throughout in a typical narrative style.
I'd like to know
A) if this style is too 'corny'
and
B) what type of 'mood' you feel it evokes. I won't post hte first chapter yet, because I want to be sure that the forward is actually accomplishing what I intend.
Thanks!
(BTW- the story is fantasy, but at least partly takes place in the present day.)
______________________
Forward
Every tale must have a beginning. Whether that tale begins slowly, quickly, or just somehow ‘comes into being’ is irrelevant. In the end, there is a beginning. The tale at hand, however, has a beginning shrouded in the long shadows of history. Few ever knew of its beginning, and therefore few preserved the memory. Its beginning is lost to all but a privileged few. Thus, it would be remiss to relate the tale of Richard Castus without starting at his beginning, but remembering that the tale is far older than he.
Richard Castus was born “Rolf Stefan Schmidt” in the belly of an overcrowded passenger liner somewhere between Hamburg, Germany and New York Harbor in the winter of 1901. His mother, a poor, uneducated, recently widowed German girl from Bremen, died in the bowels of that ship, for there were no doctors to attend to her, only other bedraggled passengers huddled together for warmth against the cold. It was as an orphan that Richard arrived at Ellis Island. No one knew the name his mother had picked for him before his birth, so by the time customs officials recorded his name, he was simply “Richard Doe.”
He spent the early part of his life in an orphanage in the German sections of New York City. There, a Priest who ran the orphanage gave him a last name to keep from confusing him with the other “John Does.” The priest, an Irish Catholic by denomination, chose a Latin name: “Castus,” meaning “chaste” or “pure.”
He was always a lanky boy, tall for his age but thin almost to the point of gauntness. It was in the orphanage and on the streets of New York that he learned to fend for himself, stealing food, clothes, and anything he might sell for profit. By the time he was old enough to leave the orphanage for good, he had lived a far harder life than many, but a far freer life than most.
The roaring twenties meant little to him. He knew how to read, but his education extended little beyond that. While New York exploded in debauchery and wealth around him, he still eked out a marginal existence doing odd jobs and whatever work he could land. When the Great Depression signaled an end to high times, Richard found himself penniless, and without options. Even the odd jobs on which he had depended for his entire life dried up, and he was forced to turn again to theft to feed and clothe himself.
Either from exposure, poor nutrition, or a combination of both, Richard’s health began to fail in the summer of 1931. Unable to afford a doctor, he was not even aware that he had contracted Tuberculosis, and his years were numbered.
To some, the tale would then be complete. “He was born, he lived, and he died…the end.” His headstone might have read nothing more than that. But Richard’s remarkable tale had only just begun. It is often said that when fate closes one door, another is opened. Richard’s ‘other door’ came with a key: a small, ornate, golden key.
I'm not too worried about the grammar yet, I'd like to know if you feel the 'style' or 'feel' of the forward would work. It is almost a direct address to the reader from an omnipotent 3rd (almost 2nd) person narrator. THe book itself goes into 3rd person throughout in a typical narrative style.
I'd like to know
A) if this style is too 'corny'
and
B) what type of 'mood' you feel it evokes. I won't post hte first chapter yet, because I want to be sure that the forward is actually accomplishing what I intend.
Thanks!
(BTW- the story is fantasy, but at least partly takes place in the present day.)
______________________
Forward
Every tale must have a beginning. Whether that tale begins slowly, quickly, or just somehow ‘comes into being’ is irrelevant. In the end, there is a beginning. The tale at hand, however, has a beginning shrouded in the long shadows of history. Few ever knew of its beginning, and therefore few preserved the memory. Its beginning is lost to all but a privileged few. Thus, it would be remiss to relate the tale of Richard Castus without starting at his beginning, but remembering that the tale is far older than he.
Richard Castus was born “Rolf Stefan Schmidt” in the belly of an overcrowded passenger liner somewhere between Hamburg, Germany and New York Harbor in the winter of 1901. His mother, a poor, uneducated, recently widowed German girl from Bremen, died in the bowels of that ship, for there were no doctors to attend to her, only other bedraggled passengers huddled together for warmth against the cold. It was as an orphan that Richard arrived at Ellis Island. No one knew the name his mother had picked for him before his birth, so by the time customs officials recorded his name, he was simply “Richard Doe.”
He spent the early part of his life in an orphanage in the German sections of New York City. There, a Priest who ran the orphanage gave him a last name to keep from confusing him with the other “John Does.” The priest, an Irish Catholic by denomination, chose a Latin name: “Castus,” meaning “chaste” or “pure.”
He was always a lanky boy, tall for his age but thin almost to the point of gauntness. It was in the orphanage and on the streets of New York that he learned to fend for himself, stealing food, clothes, and anything he might sell for profit. By the time he was old enough to leave the orphanage for good, he had lived a far harder life than many, but a far freer life than most.
The roaring twenties meant little to him. He knew how to read, but his education extended little beyond that. While New York exploded in debauchery and wealth around him, he still eked out a marginal existence doing odd jobs and whatever work he could land. When the Great Depression signaled an end to high times, Richard found himself penniless, and without options. Even the odd jobs on which he had depended for his entire life dried up, and he was forced to turn again to theft to feed and clothe himself.
Either from exposure, poor nutrition, or a combination of both, Richard’s health began to fail in the summer of 1931. Unable to afford a doctor, he was not even aware that he had contracted Tuberculosis, and his years were numbered.
To some, the tale would then be complete. “He was born, he lived, and he died…the end.” His headstone might have read nothing more than that. But Richard’s remarkable tale had only just begun. It is often said that when fate closes one door, another is opened. Richard’s ‘other door’ came with a key: a small, ornate, golden key.