Writer's Block: Please Give Me a Suggestions
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I have two stories started. I'm pretty happy with them so far. However, I've had some major writer's block and I can't seem to come up with where the stories should go next. I would appreciate any suggestions or ideas that you have. I am not against scrapping my ideas altogether if someone an suggest something that I like better. Thank you!
Enslaved
I was forced into this lifestyle at a young age. Now, at the age of eighteen, I am the most desired of all the girls in this brothel. Strangers come into my bed at night, full of lust. Some come for my youth, some for the exotic color of my skin. Others come to escape their own misfortunes by using my company as a way to ease the pain. I fell in love with one of those men.
He was one of my regulars. He always requested me. Whenever I entered the room, a crooked smile would creep onto his lips. He was a man who had lost everything. His eyes were a sad shade of grey. He moved like a broken man, his body stiff and slow. The pox had taken his first wife and his only child. Haunted, he looked for an escape. He found that in me.
The first night I met him, he simply wanted company. I could feel the warmth of his lean body as we lay in a silk-laden bed. We didn't speak. Just as he was about to leave, he kissed my neck gently and whispered into my ear, I'll come back for you. And so he did. Almost every night he came to me. We talked about life and our dreams. He had little money, but he had a home down the river. It wasn't much, but he told me that there was rich farmland nearby and that we'd be able to get by. He told me that he loved me before he kissed me full on the lips and made love to me. That was when I decided that I needed him.
The next night, we planned an escape. There was always a guard at the front door of the brothel. We needed a distraction. I pointed to one of the candles lighting the room. I told him that if we caught the curtains on fire, maybe some of the others would escape during the chaos. I knew that they wouldn't. These girls had no place to go. Not like I did.
and
Camera
I never thought it'd end up like this. Its been 2 days since I last ate. 6 hours since I last had a sip of filthy water. My energy is depleted and my body feels like its about to give up. I can hear gunshots behind me, sounding like too-close thunder. The ground beneath me is rumbling as dozens of feet try to outrun the slaughter. My heartbeat is in my throat. My camera is beating against my chest. There is no time, but I stop and spin, quickly pointing my camera towards the fearful faces running towards me, trucks holding men with guns in the background. The shutter goes off and I capture the moment. The camera drops against my chest again as I turn and run, hoping like hell that I'm fast enough.
Nightfall is upon us. The onslaught has ended for now. The ragged group I'm with is attempting to rest before tomorrow's attempt to escape this hellhole. I can see the fatigue on their faces. I pull my camera in front of my face again and capture a photograph of a few of the villagers huddled together for warmth. There are no fires tonight. We cannot give away our location.
Morning has come. My body aches and my mind is slow. There has been no sign of the enemy at least. No gunshots in the distance, no tell-tale rumble of engines. It is quiet for now. Those of us that are left, a mere fraction of those who lived in the village, gather what little we have. There is no water nearby. There is no food. There are children crying. Their parents are gone. Their hope is gone. Nothing will ever be the same. I kneel to their level and snap a picture of their filthy, tear-streaked faces. I will never forget their pain.
I'm such a sucker for the trope of the first story haha! I feel like you could really expand on what you've already written for the first one. Write the scene of how they met, write more about his life, her life, throw a sex scene or two in (only if you're into writing that sort of thing of course). Maybe have it so they don't escape on the first try?
I feel like them escaping and starting anew is kind of like the end? I mean, obviously things could happen once they escape, but the idea of them struggling to be together when they first develop feelings with her being who she is and him being who he is would be fun to write about.
Both of these are off to a good start. However, as a reader, I don't understand these characters. The enslaved girl feels very distanced from her situation. I can't tell if she is really in love with this man. The cameraman doesn't seem like he cares about the villagers, yet the last line suggests otherwise. Also, both stories have good narrative, but I am not there with the characters. You write them like you are telling this to someone. This happened, then that happened. You should show the story to the reader, not tell them what happened. Add more descriptors to make the reader feel like they are there too.
Enslaved feels like the outline or baseline of the story. You have a beginning (their meeting), a middle (getting to know each other), and an ending (their escape and new life). Personally, I think it would be more interesting if something else happened besides them living happily ever after. If they set the curtains on fire, the rest of the brothel might burn down. Maybe one or both get caught or don't make it out. If the girl escaped, would she feel guilt for killing the other girls? Or maybe he lied about their future life, and he just wanted her all to himself (out of twisted love or not), so that now she is still a prisoner.
It could be interesting to tell the cameraman story backwards, or non-linearly. Since you have written the consequences of some action, assumed to be performed by the cameraman, you could write the events leading up to this point in time. You could do it in backwards order, or show pieces of it as they are running to safety. For example, when a character stops in the middle of the action to remember the normalcy of their day until the action brings them back to the present.
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I think that more contextual information, particularly for Camera's story, would be useful. Like, what is the narrator's role in this? Are they just witnessing something, are they working as a journalist or an artist, are they a tourist who just happened to be in this place? Where are they, and what was it that happened? I also like the suggestion from --it might be way more intriguing to present Camera's story in a non-linear fashion. Like think about what the disastrous event was, and space it out with information about how the narrator got there.
For Enslaved's story, I'm kind of curious about what happens next--which is easier to acknowledge from a writer's point of view than actually figure it out, speaking from experience! Like, who is this fellow who keeps coming to this girl, and what are his motives? Does the girl have other motives, beyond being with someone she loves (whether that's true or not)? Like, does she want to escape the brothel and run away, or does she want to take this guy for his money and property?
For that matter, what's the man's motives? Does he think the girl is easy to manipulate, or is he legitimately in love? What skeletons does he have in his closet--if any?
Another thing that helps to keep in mind is what the character thinks happened, and what really happened. It might be useful to sketch out the real events, and then consider how the character interprets those events, particularly if you're writing from the point of view of a narrator who can't be trusted. It might be helpful to try writing things in 3rd person as well, or switch POVs. I can see switching POVs being useful with Camera's story, in particular, if you decide to take the route of changing up the timeline.
Thanks everyone for the input so far. I haven't had much free time, but I worked on Camera's story a bit. I will consider adding in flashbacks to make it non-linear once I get the main story drafted.
Camera Updated
When I took on this job, I never thought it'd end up like this. I had been hired to photograph the suffering of those that lived in this war-torn village for a journal. The pay was decent and I was down on my luck, so I had thought myself pretty lucky that this had fallen into my lap. The gig was simple enough. The bush-plane had dropped me off with instructions to return in a week. Night three is when the shit hit the fan.
-{ I need to write info about what happened the first night. Pretty much that enemies came into the village and started setting homes on fire and gunning down anyone they could. Some villagers and the photographer escaped the initial attack, but are being hunted down as they try to escape to the border to seek refuge in neighboring country }-
It has been two days since I last ate. Any energy that small portion of food had given has long since been depleted. It’s been six hours since I last had a sip of filthy water. My canteen is now empty, hanging on my side, slamming against my thigh as we run. My body feels like it’s about to give up, but I know that if I stop moving, I will die, just as surely as those who had already collapsed behind us. Even the other refugees didn’t stop to help those that had fallen. They knew that doing so was a death sentence.
As we move through the scraggly trees, occasionally I can hear gunshots behind me, sounding like too-close thunder. The ground beneath me is rumbling as hundreds of feet try to outrun the slaughter. My heartbeat is in my throat. My camera is beating against my chest. There is no time, but I stop and spin, quickly pointing my camera towards the fearful faces running towards me, trucks holding men with guns in the background. The shutter goes off and I capture the moment. The camera drops against my chest again as I turn and run, hoping like hell that I'm fast enough.
Nightfall is upon us. The onslaught has ended for now. We finally put enough distance between us and the demons chasing us. One of the survivors told me in broken-English that we’re within a day’s travel to the border. Our exhausted group is attempting to rest before the final push to escape this hellhole. I can see the fatigue on their faces. I pull my camera in front of my face again and capture a photograph of a few of the villagers huddled together for warmth. There are no fires tonight. We cannot give away our location.
Morning has come. My body aches and my mind is slow. There has been no sign of the enemy at least. No gunshots in the distance, no tell-tale rumble of engines. It is quiet for now. Those of us that are left, a mere fraction of those who lived in the village, gather what little we have. There is no water nearby. There is no food. There are children crying. Their parents are gone. Their hope is gone. Nothing will ever be the same. I kneel to their level and snap a picture of their filthy, tear-streaked faces. If I survive this ordeal, I swear to God that I will never forget their pain.
-{ I need to add info about the final day. I haven't decided if the photographer should live yet. If he doesn't, I'm thinking that someone else could find his body and the camera footage. }-