Your First Paragraph of Your Manuscript

>>8730259

Your grasp of how to structure a sentence is appallingly bad. For starters, you've written that the "door becom[es] momentarily visible in the sunlight" when I'm pretty sure you intended that to relate to the "small particles of dust"

>The ambient audio from the waiting room synthesized with the noises of traffic and manual labor from outside into a cacophony of power tools and engines of construction vehicles fusing with the air conditioned hum from inside and that constant phone ring common to reception areas

and the less said about this entire sentence the better

apply yourself

Mother refuses. Father looking at her, in the night. A pale girl under a pale shaped moon. Silk o'er a bunch of bones. They have abandoned some others before this here girl. Ragged, barred brothers. It rots, all that grows inside that woman. Hard to see a difference between this here girl and the unsung brothers that came before her.

>>8730288
this reads like you're trying to imitate McCarthy stylistically but couldn't follow through with him substantially. I'm assuming this isn't poetry; it loses itself in the dramatic flair, I don't know what I'm looking at. Poetic abstractions are fine, but don't alienate the reader. There's a lot of information here, I think it would benefit your story to provide some groundwork to smooth out the narrative instead of hiding behind an aesthetic veneer

>>8730350
Sincerely appreciate it. Have serious problems with the whole "alienating your readers" part, it really worries me and it's hard for me to find a solution to it.

>>8730275
Actually it seems to apply to "I", not the door or the particles of dust.

>>8730259
Try to read your sentences out loud and you will see the glaring issues.

Rewrite everything.

File: IMG_1141.png (46KB, 485x247px) Image search: [Google]

46KB, 485x247px

I had seen it a few times since arriving at Gallagher Air Force Base. There would be some random airman dragging his deployment bags out of his dorm room in the early morning while I smoked my first cigarette of the day, when the fog was still thick, before the sun had really risen. There would be a civilian dressed airman or two there to greet him, sometimes a whole squad of people, who would joke, hug, then help the long faced airman with his bags to a vehicle that was undoubtedly headed for the Atlanta International Airport. The airman would fly Delta to somewhere in Europe, from what I've been told, Germany, and then from there he would be shipped out to wherever in the Middle East he would be spending the next six months. I would see this phenomenon happen from my dormitory patio, struggling with my desire to crawl back into the womb like comfort of my bed.

>War is itself a world different from ours. It is a place in which its dimensions have no parallel. Men are not men, common goods that men fail to appreciate become spoils for which said men kill and what was once recognised as law is replaced by the will of an ever present, almost infinite ghost who serves war alone. Verdandi changes her appearance, surges like a wave, rises like the sea then bends down to kiss the knees like a chief who is the Divider of his tribe but merely a servant to the akanthi of the east. Valleys and hills, caves and gorges become something else: a strategic point, a defensible area or an obstacle in front of the enemy, but never are they something as simple as landforms. The demons of our world are rendered irrelevant in comparison to the terrors of war, and the wonders of our world become haunting demons in times of war.