Critique
A collaboration with Broken-Toe.
The old man slammed his fist down on the dainty Formica table top, unnerving the peaceful aura of the small coffee-shop. “Damn-it…! What do you mean? — ‘Over use of dashes,’ you turd nozzle. I like writing with dashes. It’s rooted in the very essence of my own persona, you need them to know where to pause, — for emphasis!”
Jace looked at the older man and knew he was kidding. Ben may have looked angry to anyone else, but the younger man could read him, well, like a book. He smiled slightly at the mental pun. Enjoying the coffee, his companion, the books they had written, and the banter that was to come.
Ben kept his scowl and brought his coffee to his lip. Jace stared at in disgust. ‘Probably some pansy latte heavy on the sugar and whipped cream and lacking any true substance.’
Once the older man took his sip the grey of his beard gained some white, said beaten cream nestled into the thick facial hair. Ben didn’t seem to care, which was normal. This was a man that when he was in his mid-forties told people his was 50, ‘because reasons and stuff.’ He cared little of the opinion of others, save for Jace’s and few choice friends, ‘which he really didn’t have.’ Jace didn’t mind, he happened to be in the same shitty boat.
“Don't get pissed at me, I am just saying what they said at the writers group.” Jace stared at the wooden slab that made up their current beverage supporter. He decided to take his first swing in the coming battle of words. A flicker of thought dashed through his mind and elicited a smiled. “And stop beating the wood counter — or any wood in general for the matter. Though, this is pine and thus a soft wood. And while you may have experience trying to beat soft wood, don’t do so in public—or in my presence.” He waited, unsure as if he went too far. 'Did the jab cross a line?' But Jace chuckled, it was something he could never resist. His mind and mouth did have a habit getting ahead of his good sense. It was something he had learned from Ben.
‘There he goes with the old fart jokes. Chip off the old block! Bring it.’ “Hey—I will have you know I have plenty of experience working soft wood,— especially with exotics. But this is fake wood, laced with formaldehyde. You know? Embalming fluid, just like your sex life. And if I need to pound something right NOW. Let’s go out back.”
Jace forced shuddered. “Okay you big dork. We have a slight problem, that last little bit comes off a little creepy and weird, seeming to suggest an unwanted tryst.”
Jace saw Ben smile ever so slightly. Barely a blip on older man’s façade of fury, but there none the less. Jace took this as encouragement and went on. “You-know,— you’re kind-a’ a douche bag since you stopped consuming gluten. This is what happens when you can't have a proper beer.”
“Real men drink hard-cider —wuss. You and that amber colored armadillo piss you call a beverage.” The old man barked back. “When’s the last time you caught a buzz off that shit anyway,” he smirked taking a sip of his caramel frap.
Jace shook his head. He drank cheap beer, he knew it. When one had to buy beer on a budget and had to choose between quality and getting a buzz economically, anyone with a shine of good sense drank what he did. Besides, Jace knew his beer tasted like crap, not piss, slight deference in his mind, not necessarily a good one, but still. He took a sip of his coffee. “And how precisely do you know the flavor of armadillo urine? That is also an odd comparison considering how closely apple cider appears piss like. Besides, I drink Steel Reserve, 8.1 alcohol by volume, thank you very much. A buzz is easy, and the flavor, while not tainted with urine is okay once you get past the taste.
“Yeah, I saw a documentary on the brewing of that shit, they had a room full of them armored leathery rodents pissin’ in the vats. …That’s why it’s hard to get past the taste.—8.1—— Lightweight, probably get wasted on less than a can.”
“I would hate to see your google history. Where did you see this fabled documentary? Netflix? If so, your Netflix's suggestions for what to watch must be really weird.”
“Yeah, Yo’ momma!”
Jace snorted mid-coffee sip. "You are absolutely NOT allowed to say yo’ momma."
“Oh,—— yeah.” 'Now, here comes the long winded blah, blah, blah — his mom being a virgin and all! ' Ben did his level best to contain a rebellious snicker.
“Yeah. The purpose of a yo’ momma joke is to impugn the reputation of one’s mother and imply a diddling, usually in rather dirty manner, that would be otherwise unlikely.”
“My point exactly?” 'Now I’m going to be too white.' He let loose a small chuckle.
“Namely, you being way too old and way too white for yo’ momma jokes? My biggest issue with the whole you and the yo’ mommas is the fact my mother is your wife and thus a diddling, nasty or otherwise, which—eww — is a forgone conclusion, therefore defeating the whole point of your yo’ momma rebuttal.
“I think it hammered my point quite well.”
“Certainly, five times at the very least.”
“So in forty years of marriage I’ve only yo’ momma’d five time?” Ben looked up into space like his was doing mental math. “Doesn't seem right. Had to be at least twice that.”
“Again, ewww. Insertion of thoughts that involve you and mom commingling harm my innocent little brain.”
“Hmmm, — by your logic, you’ve only been lucky three times? Must be a side effect of armadillo piss.”
“I am 35 years old, I am absolutely NOT discussing my sex life with you. Besides, it is a little late for the ‘talk‘.”
“When mommy and daddy’s love each other very very much —— they get nasty!” He burst out laughing. “The sweat, grunting, weird fart sounds…”
Jace smacked him hard enough to make spilling coffee a real concern.
Ben got serious,—— for him anyway. “Fine—— enough, — I just don't understand why they didn't seem to like what I wrote.”
“They liked it; they just had a few suggestions.”
Ben looked dejected. “Well, —— Bob hated it.”
“But Bob only likes stuff that is written the way he writes. He thinks writing should all be done the same. No room for creative flair. Besides, didn‘t you hear the suggestions they have for my stuff. Apparently, I overused passive voice. Whatever the hell that means — speaking of things that harm my little brain.”
Ben smiled and poked the younger man playfully. “You do use passive voice a lot.”
Jace shrugged. “So what? I care little for that, I have my reasons.”
“Look, passive voice is like beating around the bush instead of getting to the point. Your wife probably loves this about you, but in the world of most writers, they believe you need to write in active voice. Get to the point immediately: like premature ejaculation, self-gratification without concern for both reader,—— and narrator,— on the journey together. Most just lap up active voice thinking after the fact. But a blend in a good narrative can unite reader and narrator,—— build anticipation,——feeling the emotion. Knowing when to change it up and go in with active voice will peak the reader waiting for the hammer to drive the point home. Personally, I think there’s room for both. Good writing is more than just telling a story, it can be a beautiful journey that brings both reader and narrator gratification.”
Jace was nodding. “I understand that, truly. Which is why I use passive voice at times as an interjection of the narrator’s thoughts on a matter. Or, a reflective thought of a first person perspective. I sometimes use it like an 80’s action star dropping a bad pun before killing a bad guy. Just slamming short clip sentences of action is tedious and lacks flair. There is nothing wrong with changing things up mid flow. Throwing in a bit of the fluctuation on pitch, pace, and power can make the climax better.” Jace looked away from his dad and stared at his coffee. “Can we get off the sex analogies; this has traveled far beyond weird and uncomfortable.”
“What? Just talkin’ normal here —— trying to plug the whole with a filler you can package and deliver to a stiff audience. Or, maybe I need to stroke it a-little more to get that head of your’s to sink into the beauty of rhythm and balance with a dramatic dash of peaks and ——climaxes. I’m just sayin’...”
“Perhaps you are too thick or too puffed up to get the thrust of what I am saying.” Jace sighed. ‘You know what, I refuse to continue participating.’ The older man was on a roll, but Jace really wanted to change the subject and he knew exactly how to do it. “Your dashes shock people. They’re not use to them. To most people they’re an archaic form of punctuation that went the way of our forefathers.”
“They’re not archaic!” Ben was passionate about his perspective of punctuation and it came through his voice inflections. His voice became forceful enough that little bits of whipped cream were ejected from his beard. “The true value and individual writing flare that can be expressed through the correct use of punctuation, like our forefathers used it,— has been lost. The only way society can regain the power of individual expression is through the full use of the punctuation tools available. And the only way for people to see it — is by exposure.—— The tools have to be seen.
“But it’s fallen out of favor. People don‘t like it, partly because they don’t understand.”
“People don’t like it, because they’ve been taught you don’t need them. But the teaching is wrong! There are so many ways to express a thought in the English language, but people are being limited in that individual expression. The actual individual expression shown the pitch, pace and power; time and emphasis. All of these thing can be relayed through punctuation.”
“Why are you explaining these things to me? I know them, I understand them, and most importantly, I agree with them.” Jace looked around the coffee shop intently. Appearing not finding what he searched for, he glanced at his father. “It is almost like you are trying to justify yourself to a presence that is not here.”
Ben scowled. “What do you call your little speech about passive poopy pants?”
The young man smiled. “I have every right to justify myself to the not present presence.” His face took on a stern quality. “So let it be written, so let it be done.”
Jace took a sip of his coffee. “Well, at least the bad sex analogies are over.”
Ben looked confused, as if unsure as to the meaning of the statement. “What sex analogies?”
Jace smiled and shook his head, for he saw a twinkle creased in the old man’s eyes.