General advice: 100 gold
Advice in styles of writing: 200 gold
Beta Reading: 400 gold (plus 20 gold per page after 5 pages.)
All three: 500 gold (plus 10 gold per page after 5 pages.)
*Will haggle on price in combination of two services.
Examples of my work will also be shown further down in this post.
Any questions in regards to these services, feel free to contact me. No charges apply.
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Information on my services...
o Beta-Reading: While I'm happy to insert suggestions within the work itself for those who request it, I mainly focus on correcting grammar and fixing jumbled sentences to provide the story with a smooth flow but the basis of the story itself remains untouched as I believe in self improvement is required and I am just here to help you find your 'flow', as I call it. That is, your particular style of writing, the forming of your storyline and the construction of paragraphs.
o Advice in Writing: Believe it or not, I found myself improving my technique by reading. Reading your own stories and deliberately bashing the faults. But sometimes you just don't know which is a fault and which is an unpolished pearl. Here, I will try and recommend different strategies and even some books that I have read that may help you find your writing style or improve and expand your current writing style and techniques.
o General Advice: Having my own website where I host my stories (both old roughs and new improved) I understand how many author's are having trouble in broadcasting their writings to their wanted audience. Here, I will try and give advice in which ways you could improve, experiment and explore your distribution and popularity.
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Examples of my works...
Prompts:
7. Flowers - When the old woman at the Happy Endings retirement home asks Jimmy to place some flowers on her husband's grave, he really could only smile when she told him how much Jimmy looked like him and he wondered if grandma really had forgotten who he was...
8. Hidden - There is a difference between 'hidden' and 'invisible' - one that Pete Kowalski is all too aware of - as if he were just only hidden then he would have the chances and opportunities to leap out and catch someone by surprise and grab their attention, but when you're invisible, you can bang and shout and scream as much as you want and even should someone look over to you, all they see is the peeling wallpaper behind you.
23. Asylum - Voices, screams and shouts and footsteps echoing from every crevice and no matter how loud he yelled, something just yelled over him; the voices eventually merging into a single rough and horrid voice that spoke in a foreign language and deafened him more by the hour and no matter how many of those drugs he took, those imaginary people in his head were there, waiting for him to slip up so they could drown him in their muffled screams and all Gary could do was ignore what was in his head for the quieter sounds of the screams in the next cell over from his.
Preview of one of my own stories:
The shadows of Old Bullworth Vale were still their pale grey, like an old man dying with the sunset. The rustling sheet of night slowly drifting down lower and lower, forever chasing that blazing light and being chased by it but neither could ever catch the other, but still their existence mixed with one another, forming the shadows and the hues of the velveteen sky. And as the shadows grew deeper like scars on rock, the waters grew darker as well, greedily sucking in the light and killing it, leaving its depths hungry and wanting of its feed; a selfish beast that doesn’t know when it is full and so it continues to eat.
The dark oppression of night always chilled Vance down to his bones, afraid that the night would rake its claws down his flesh and consume him like the water to the light but every Tuesday night he would return from Old Bullworth Vale with a black bag tucked hidden under his arm. His friends never questioned where he went and he never gave any excuse; sneaking out before the hideous night awakens, with his bag that only he has seen the inside of, and returning just before the full smothering blanket of night pulls him into it’s maw.
But the night wasn’t all that threatened to devour him, Vance felt. It wasn’t the school, or the desire to conform to be one of the Greasers by staying up to date with the latest bike news or even the pressure to hate a clique simply because they had more money then them. What kraken from the black carnivorous wrestled over sand and rock to grapple him with slime and drown him with the weight of the waves was the very reason why he returned every Tuesday night with head lowered and peddling fast on his bike. He peddled fast and hard, like a part of him thought that if he was fast enough, it would be like it never happened; not once, not ever, and his friends would think he only went to the toilet despite he had been off school grounds for well over an hour.
As the gaping opening of the shed greedily and readily took in Vance’s bike for the night, the Greaser began his hop and skip to the Boy’s Dorm, nervous and constantly feeling the presence of the looming eight-tentacle monster of the deep hanging over him. Feeling it ready and waiting; pressuring him to be found out, to slip and fall into its beak where he would be broken and never see the light, doomed to drift in its belly in the deep, dark currents of the water. A fellow Greaser, doing his regular egging of their own dorm, didn’t give Vance any recognition as his friend entered the building, heading for his room. Passing beneath the bleak lighting of the hallways as the shadow claws of black and grey cleave at every crack and rip into the torn wallpaper.
The wood of his door was scratched and worn, perhaps from the numerous beast that have stampeded by with every cycle of the moon and stars and leaving the carnage of their lives embedded deep into the skeleton and joints of the building, wearing it down like the years did to them. The polish of the handle was nearly all off and felt rough in even his calloused and worked hands but its movements were smooth and easy as it works itself undone by his guidance, like the well oiled gears of his bike that he tends to so lovingly, and allowed admittance to the room beyond.
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To find more of my works or contact information, please visit Broken Productions.
