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StillI's Dung Beetles...

StillILearn

StillILearn

New Member
Once again Mockingbird shrieked, and once again Aashaa swung to face the monstrous creature out there upon the water. To his increasing horror, Aashaa saw what appeared to be three gigantic dung beetles spreading their clumsy dark wings to trail behind the bat-things. As these apparitions swept low above him, Aashaa could see the viscous brown parcels of dung they clutched against their foul, hard undersides.
These loathsome creatures landed upon the ground beneath the newly plundered trees, and there, under the scrutiny of the bat-things, they dropped their oily balls of dung and began to roll the stinking things about, leaving ugly trails behind them.
Aashaa knew with his dream-knowing that the beetle-things were building ugly dung huts with their dung-parcels. He closed his dream-eyes tight. Who could believe that even dung beetles could want to build 'eewas made of dung?

As before, I would be immensely grateful for any and all suggestions on how to edit this to make this more concise. I have looked at some of this stuff so much that I can't see it anymore.
 
This is how I would cut it (only about 20-25% cut):


Mockingbird shrieked, and once again Aashaa swung to face (say what the creature is). To his horror, Aashaa saw three giant dung beetles on the wing, clumsily trailing behind the bat-creatures. As the beetles swept overhead, Aashaa saw the viscous dungballs clutched against their shiny undersides.

The beetles landed on the ground under the stripped and dying trees and dropped their foul parcels. Each began to roll its dung ball, leaving a stinking brown trail in its wake. Aashaa's dream-knowing told him that the beetles were building 'eewas with their dung-parcels. Why would even a dung beetles build a hut of dung? he wondered, squeezing shut his eyes against the sight.

A couple of points:

The 'bat-thing' 'beetle-thing' language doesn't work for me at all. Just say what the thing is.

It seems like you're getting stuck on image instead of moving through action. Try to get out of the passive voice.
 
Why on earth do we do it?

Or, to be more precise, why do I do it?

There are millions of beautifully written books out there -- written, bound, published and simply begging to be read. There are dozens more that deserve at least one rereading, and yet some of us -- okay, I -- I'm talking about myself here -- I sit for hours before a computer screen, sweating blood, ruining my eyes, missing my daily walks, running up my chiropractic bills, allowing dust balls to form beneath the beds -- trying to accomplish something that I know in my heart of hearts I will never, never, never be able to do!

Or never do well, at any rate. All I will ever accomplish is complete, total, irreparable self-mortification before the eyes of those whom I respect. (I mean, who else would you show your work to?)

I am perfectly capable of enjoying the excellent writing of others, so why on earth do I even feel tempted to try to write fiction myself?

To be fair to me -- it all began innocently enough: I'd just write down a little bit of the family's history for the children. Then -- okay -- I'd just make it a little bit more interesting so they'd actually read it. I'd show off a little bit (let them see that Mom knew that the word ask didn't actually have an x in it.)

Next thing I knew I was seriously believing that I needed to write a book about the ravishment of the Kumyaay people by those stupid Spanish missionaries and those filthy forty-niners.

I think I'll go back to my dream journal, and let the little darlings ask me questions when they get around to being interested.

If ever.

Dung beetles indeed.
 
Why do we do it?

Aw, Still. I feel much the same - except for the dung beetles. :D

I started writing as a means to rant and rail at people and situations that I felt were out of my control. It's not in my nature to yell and curse out loud – though I'm sure there'd be great therapeutic benefits if I did – so I started writing it all down. I started with journal writing, then the occasional essay online. A lot of my journal entries were rants about frustrating episodes with number one son, so then I worried that he'd find my journals one day when I was dead and decide that I hated him. I figured I'd better write things that would clarify my real feelings – i.e. I didn't hate him, he just drove me crazy!

I've a compulsion to write even though I know it's likely 99% tripe and only of interest to myself and those dear to me. I figure, at the very least, it's a way to leave something of myself behind for my sons. I always worry that I'll run out of time to tell them all the little things about my life and life in general that might make a difference to them in some small way later on in their lives. :eek:

ell
 
Actually, ell, your post has made me a bit better about Aashaa and the Dung Beetles, and I even know why that is -- it's because if you've been doing the same thing, and for the same reasons (and with the same hesitations), then maybe I haven't gone completely bonkers after all.

Um, have you ever posted any of your writing here? I could do a search, but just axing you is so much easier.

I promise to be kind.

:D
 
Still, I've only posted a few things here - mostly during a rather bleak period of my life last year.

But for what it's worth here they are.
 
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