05-31-07 @ 2:15 pm EDT

I'm just feeling kind of down about something rather trivial that happened earlier this morning. It's really petty, but for some reason, it's really left me depressed. -_-

I was browsing the DA forums to see if there was anything I could reply to, which isn't often, and usually when I do people don't notice my posts anyway. The writing forums aren't very active but I found an interesting post I could reply to. It was in a forum where the main rule is you're not allowed to "promote" your writing or ask for critique because there's a different forum for that. This is never a problem for me, as I have no writing posted on the site and even if I did, I would not ask for critique in the writing forums, because I've found that most of the critics there, while sometimes having valid points, lack tact and often just resort to tearing writers to shreds. (Forumgoers on the site are VERY sarcastic.) Besides, I haven't sought technical critique on my writing in a long time. I'm MUCH more interested in feedback on characterization and plot and theme and such than on stuff like "You misused a comma here" or "This sentence reads awkwardly." So--I know better than to post certain things on that site.

Well, the post in question contained a link to an interesting site that, when you input some of your writing, tells you what grade level you're writing at. Intrigued, I decided to try it out. It just so happened that the morning before I'd finally finished the rewrite of the third chapter of Lucifer, and I thought it would be cool not only to see what grade level I was writing on, but if I'd actually improved, seeing as I had two drafts of basically the same scene on hand. So I copied and pasted these scenes into the box at the site, and posted my results in the writing forum like some other users were doing. The only difference was the other users actually had their writing onsite, and they either linked to it or linked to their journals onsite where it was posted. My writing isn't on DA, so I copied and pasted the text itself into the forum thread; that was the only thing I did differently.

I didn't wish for any typically snarky comments (they have emoticons and such there just for such things like "Textwall") so I made sure to include the "Tl;dr" ("Too long; didn't read") disclaimer myself, since I figured nobody would read my writing anyway. If someone DID read, so much the nicer, but I wasn't expecting it, and I did not ask for any critique or even comments.

This was my post. I'll put it all between asterisks. The bold stuff is the two scenes in question; skip them if you wish, the important part of the post is actually my comments themselves anyway, which aren't in bold.

**********

Tl;dr, I know.

Text of a novel I'm rewriting. Wrote it up just this morning.

Text in question (formatting stripped):

A snort. "Ha ha! That's very funny. Tell me another one." He stood up straight with the empty potato chip bag and various other disposable items in his hands, and marched away into what must be the kitchen, leaving Damien alone in the den. Damien stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do; so he just started wandering around the room in circles, looking at the various items decorating it. There was a bookshelf along part of one wall, entirely filled with a nice set of encyclopedias and various other books; when Damien cocked his head to look at the titles he was somewhat surprised. It looked like most of them had to do with witchcraft and alchemy and astrology, among other things. There were even a few true-crime books, and Damien pulled one out and tentatively flipped through a few pages, pausing as soon as he saw a few black-and-white yet gory pictures within, then shutting it and nudging it gently back onto the shelf. He gave the kitchen an odd look, as if expecting his uncle to come out wielding a butcher knife and a mask made of human skin. He considered asking him about his strange choice of reading materials, then thought better of it.

"So," he called out instead, "you have any hobbies besides painting?"

"If you mean the books," Father Damien's voice called back from the kitchen, "then you could call them 'research,' if it helps any."

"Research," Damien echoed under his breath, pulling out another book, examining the various arcane symbols on its cover, then putting it back. "Right."

One of the voices from upstairs yelled suddenly, "Effdee? Effdee? 'S that you? Did you bring Jell-O?" A second later a loud thump-thump-thump came from behind the opposite wall, and Damien turned from the books to see the opening of a stairwell across the room. Two children promptly popped out of it, a boy wearing a red baseball cap and a girl in a pink dress and hair ribbon, and as soon as they all saw each other they froze like startled deer.

Damien was silent for a moment, then held up a hand and gave his best smile, expecting a reaction similar to the babysitter's. "Hi," he said.

The two children blinked, mouths falling open. Damien braced himself for their squeals of delight--which was why it caught him completely offguard when they shrieked in apparent terror instead.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!"

"FATHER DAMIEN!!" the little boy yelled at the top of his lungs, fists clenching. "THERE'S A ROBBER IN THE HOUSE!!"

Damien's mouth dropped open, then he held up his hands and started waving them frantically, trying to reassure them, yet no words would come out. It was just as well, as he would have gone unheard anyway--the boy kept up his yelling, and by now the girl had burst into tears and was cowering behind him although she was an inch or so taller. She hopped up and down like she had to go to the bathroom and Damien could have sworn that he heard her sob something about taking her piggybank but please not taking her unicorn.

Father Damien now appeared, wearing not a human-skin mask but rubber gloves, and wielding not a butcher knife but a bottle of window cleaner as if it were a gun. "Where--?" he blurted out, at which the boy and girl both pointed at Damien as if a giant scarlet letter R were emblazoned on his chest.

"Right THERE!"

Father Damien actually had to turn and look, and all that Damien could do was shrug helplessly. The one time I'm not breaking into a house, he thought, and the reaction is just the same!!

"Him?" Father Damien exclaimed, gesturing at Damien; when the two children stopped their racket and nodded accusingly he lowered the bottle and let out a huge breath. "No, no, no!" he said in exasperation. "That's not a robber! It's only my nephew."

The angry looks abruptly vanished from the two children's faces and they now looked surprised. "A nephew?" the boy echoed.

"You've got a nephew?" the girl asked.

"Of course I do!" Father Damien replied, sighing again and giving Damien an apologetic look. "I'm awfully sorry about this, Damien. Ever since I taught them about strangers--"

He didn't get much further than that. At the mention of Damien's name, the children's eyes grew as round as marbles, and now Damien recognized the look there and braced himself again. They hurried closer and started looking him over, squinting as if to make sure their eyes weren't playing tricks on them. Damien felt like a bug in a jar, except that he was bigger and they were smaller. He tried not to squirm under their scrutiny.

"The Damien...?" the boy asked in awe.

"'Someone Is Watching You'...?" the girl added, giving the name of his first hit song.

Damien felt the heat creep up into his face but forced himself to smile and nod as civilly as he could. "One and only," he managed to get out.

The two children's mouths slowly fell open and their eyes looked ready to pop from their heads. A second later, they were yelling again and jumping up and down, arms and legs flailing.

"Oh WOW! THE Damien! In OUR house! This is GREAT!"--the boy yelled, waving his fists.

"Wow! Can I have your autograph?" the girl asked, clasping her hands together. "Pretty please with a cherry on top? Wait! Hold on while I get my book!"--and she turned and dashed back upstairs as fast as she could go.

"Wait, me too!" the boy exclaimed, following her. The thump-thump-thump noise came again, then, following it, what sounded like a room being torn apart.

Father Damien winced and rubbed his head. "I just cleaned their rooms yesterday," he lamented. He turned to his nephew with a sigh. "Sorry about that...they couldn't help but overhear one day when I was listening to your album, and they recognized you from the radio, and there was one week when they played it almost nonstop. They're just a little excited to meet you, is all."

Damien grimaced. "A little? Uncle, please, tell me that's an understatement."

"All right, all right, a lot. I never figured you'd be meeting them; see, a couple was supposed to come up from downstate to see them, only they never did." He flopped down on the couch, letting out his breath. "I guess they changed their minds."

A vaguely weary look came to his face, and Damien suddenly found himself feeling sorry for the two kids. "So...tell me about them," he said, going to sit beside his uncle, trying to ignore the noises coming from upstairs.

"Well..." Father Damien pulled off the gloves and held up one hand, seeming to be counting on his fingers. "Esmeralda's the older one--she's seven. Her parents were killed in a car crash. Harvey, he's six; his parents divorced and his mother died, and his father didn't want to care for him, so he went to live with an uncle. But his uncle couldn't care for him anymore either. So they became wards of the state." He shrugged. "I have a big enough house, and they're so young to be put through the system. So I took a few in. The others were younger and were placed much faster. These two...I don't know. They're really sweet kids, but I guess they're too old. I'm not sure how long I can look after them before the state wants them back." He rubbed his forehead. "But I may as well hold onto them while I can."

"It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to," Damien said.

"I know." Father Damien stared across the room for a moment. "I think maybe they reminded me of you and your sister," he murmured at last, at which Damien blinked, before the thumping noises came once more and Harvey and Esmeralda appeared from the stairwell, waving little books and markers excitedly.

Grade: 8.1.

Junior high school? No wonder everybody thinks I'm trying to write YA fiction. And this is a series featuring mentions of rape and murder and ritual crime, for starters. :hmm:

Original version of the scene above, written around 1995 or so:

A snort. "Ha ha! That's very funny. Tell me another one." He disappeared into another room, leaving Damien wandering around inspecting the surroundings. Halfway through his unguided tour there was a thump-thump-thump-thump, and suddenly two little kids appeared at the foot of the stairs. One was a girl wearing a pink ribbon, and the other was a boy wearing a red baseball cap. Seeing him, they stopped in their tracks and stared, mouths open.

"Hi," Damien said.

"AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!" they shrieked.

"FATHER DAMIEN! THERE'S A ROBBER IN THE HOUSE!!!" the boy screamed with all his might.

Damien had jumped back at the girl's shrill scream, but as the little boy started shouting for help he held up his hands and started shaking them wildly, trying to calm the kids down. Instantly Father Damien appeared, looking startled, his sleeves rolled up and wearing rubber gloves. He glanced around, holding up a Windex bottle as if it were a gun. "Where?"

"He's right there!" the boy screeched, pointing his finger accusingly at Damien.

"Him? Oh, no no no! That's not a robber! That's my nephew!"

The two kids stopped screaming and looked at him as if he'd suddenly turned purple. "Your nephew?" the boy asked incredulously, as if it were the most unbelievable statement in the world. "You've got a nephew?"

"Of course I do!" Father Damien grinned at Damien, half in apology, half in exasperation. "I'm sorry about this. Damien, this is Harvey and Esmeralda. Harvey, Ez, this is my nephew Damien."

At the mention of his name the kids' jaws dropped again; they came closer and stared up at him in open disbelief. Damien felt like a bug in a jar, only he was bigger and they were smaller. He forced himself not to squirm.

"The Damien?" Harvey asked with awe.

"'Someone Is Watching You'?" Esmeralda offered.

Damien felt his face growing red as he nodded and gave a stupid smile, his throat stuck.

The two kids were silent for a moment as they looked him over, trying to decide if it were really him or not. Finally, they must have decided it was so, for they started jumping up and down and screaming, this time in excitement.

"Oh WOW!" Harvey cried. "The Damien! In our house! Wow, this is great!"--just like a miniature Tony the Tiger.

"Wow, can I have your autograph?" Ez exclaimed. "I've always wanted to meet you! Hold on while I get my book!" She dashed back upstairs as fast as she could go.

"Wait, me too!" Harvey said, and followed, hot on her tail. Damien and his uncle were left alone with only the thump-thump-thump of the kids' feet pounding on the stairs while they went to grab their autograph books.

Father Damien smiled, pulling off his gloves. "Sorry about that, too. They're a little excited to meet you."

Damien turned to him, a pained look on his face. "A little? Uncle, please, tell me that's an understatement."

"All right, a lot. I suppose I should have told them earlier. But I guess I forgot to plan that." He sighed and flopped down on the couch, balling up the gloves and dropping them beside him. "You see, I didn't really expect them to be here. There's supposed to be a couple coming up from downstate to see them, only they didn't show up. I suppose they changed their minds."

Damien looked back toward the stairway. Though he wasn't, actually, he still considered himself somewhat an orphan, and knew how they must feel. Still, it was good that they had each other. Which was more than he'd had after 1986.

"Tell me about them," he said, joining his uncle on the couch and locking his fingers over his knees.

Father Damien sighed and appeared to be counting on his fingers. "Well, Esmeralda's the older one; she's seven. Her parents were killed in a car crash. Harvey's six; his mother died, and his father was divorced and didn't want him, so he was living with his uncle. But his uncle couldn't take care of him either." He shrugged. "So, here they are."

Damien snorted. "Sounds like a great life."

His uncle waved a hand at the air. "Oh, don't worry about them. They're little kids, and little kids have a way of getting back on their feet. And believe me," he said, as they heard the thump-thump-thump start again from the stairway, "they really are on their feet."

Grade: 7.13.

Hey, I've improved! I moved up a grade in twelve years!! :w00t:

**********

I found the post and my results quite interesting, and was a bit happy with myself to discover that my writing style had "moved up" a grade. With that in mind I logged off.

Later on I went back to the thread and saw there were two replies. One was from somebody basically saying that I'd used the word "various" at least three times in the first paragraph alone, and they said this with a winky face. Well, like I said, I just wrote that draft the morning before and haven't even proofed it, so it's bound to have some problems. No biggie. It was the other post that got me.

It was from the original poster of the link and it basically said, "Way to potentially get this thread locked."

It's well known that the admins/mods on the site are "lock happy" when it comes to inappropriate threads, and that includes abusing the rules of the different forums as well as placing a post in the wrong forum. For example--posting a link to or a sample of your writing in this particular forum, and asking for feedback, is a big no-no and can get a thread locked so nobody else can post. I try to know the rules of the few forums I post in just so this never happens. If it does, then oh well, I would find the right forum to post in.

What upset me, however, was not only the poster's tone, but the fact that I was the only one being rebuked for breaking (or at least severely bending) the forum's main rule by posting my writing directly in the thread. They seemed to be insinuating that I had endangered the thread by posting my writing for critique, in what is of course a non-crit forum.

What I honestly don't get is why what I did was any different from what the other posters did. That is, the people who LINKED TO THEIR WRITING ON THE SITE OR IN THEIR SITE JOURNALS.

A link to your writing, asking for feedback, is just as much a no-no as is posting the writing in the forum itself--I know because I've seen both kinds of threads get locked and the posters get directed to a more appropriate forum.

The other respondents posted their links and results on the grade level. So did I. They weren't rebuked for their actions, but I was--just because I posted the text directly.

Now how was what I did so much worse?

I did NOT ask for critique in any form. I did not ask for comments. I even, as I pointed out above, ANTICIPATED that my writing WOULD NOT be read when I included the "Tl;dr" at the beginning. While I admit I did kind of hope somebody would read it and maybe note me privately, I did not ASK for any such--thus I did not abuse that particular rule of the forum. I didn't promote myself. Or at least, if I did, then so did all the other people who linked to their writing in their replies!

The forum bans self-promotion. How is posting the text of something promoting it, yet posting a link (which has gotten threads locked in the past) is NOT promoting it?

Of course, feeling terribly hurt and insulted, I replied to tell the original poster this:

Other people linked to their writing and I didn't have any here so I thought it was all right. I didn't ask for critique, or even comments on the writing itself. I even assumed people wouldn't actually read it when I wrote "Tl;dr" at the beginning. :(

Cripes; sorry I bothered...

...though it's already obvious where they stand. Though as I've said, I honestly have no idea where they get the idea that what I did was so much worse than what everybody else who replied was doing.

I felt good and proud of myself yesterday for finally finishing up that chapter, and liked the original post for helping me find a way to see if I'd actually improved any in my writing style, but this double standard in what's permitted and what's not really mussed up my day. I'm left feeling that all the trouble I went to to improve my writing just boils down to "You use the word 'various' too much" and "Thanks a lot for possibly getting my thread locked even though you just did what EVERYBODY ELSE in the thread was doing."

I keep trying to fit into the forums. Most of the posts are idiotic pap ("What's the best way to kill someone?" "How do you define 'emo'?" "What are you thinking right now?" bla bla bla), so I try fitting even harder into the writing forums. I can't even do that right. What does a writer do when they can't even fit into a writing forum without getting in trouble? This really makes me feel lousy. I can't even see what I did wrong but I still feel like crap. -_-

It just makes it feel like there are a million double standards out there that exclude me personally from things while allowing others in, and makes all that work I went to rewriting that chapter feel like a waste of time. You think in seven years I'd have found a forum I feel comfortable chattering in, but no, I haven't. I honestly don't get it.

I started replying to the e-mails I got today, but this rather fouled my mood for the rest of the day. I bet when I next visit there'll be a bitchy reply or else the thread WILL be locked just because of me. *sigh*