Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Apr 10, 2012 18:24:55 GMT -5
Hopefully this doesn't come off too harsh, but I know I personally get nothing from everyone telling me how good my RP is or what they liked about it. The only constructive criticism is, well, criticism. So here's something of the things I saw in your RP:
- "i" should be capitalized. I know it's a minor thing to nitpick, but every time I saw it that thought went off in my head. It distracted me the entire time I was reading your RP. There are other small grammatical flaws, if you're interested in them PM me, but the "i" thing is the only that actually distracts from the writing.
- If Baby Bling is a world-renowned star of pro wrestling, why is he wrestling in a small regional promotion like FGA? This is never addressed anywhere in your RP, and is the elephant in the room. If Baby Bling needs no introduction, why is he in a promotion that works in community centers, bingo halls, et cetera?
- Show, don't tell. This is something I make the mistake of doing all the time, but you refer to Beth Heaven as "beautiful" and "vivacious," but I still have no idea what she is supposed to look like. Blonde, brunette, redhead? It's a small thing, but without any actual description of the character, she's just a talking head floating in space to a reader. (As an extra note, this is less important with Bling because his appearance is not quantified, and doesn't need to be. We're more interested in his personality)
- Back to the "show, don't tell" thing: "long, passionate, and uncomfortable for those watching, type kiss." Why not just describe the kiss and make the reader feel uncomfortable instead of qualifying it as uncomfortable.
- Another elephant in the room: Beth Heaven mentions in passing she hasn't "been with" Baby Bling in four years... Given the way they're behaving together, that's kind of an atom bomb you just dropped. Why weren't they together? I've been assuming they're married given that she's in his house and they're making out all over the place. Granted dropping these sort of twists in can work really well if done subtly or with a tiny bit of explanation, but to just drop that sort of bomb in there and move right along is distracting for a reader.
- I'm not sure what the scene watching Benny Starr's matches adds. You've already established that Bling is an established star, you've established that he's arrogant (and will do so more in the meat of the RP), so I don't see the reason for including that scene.
- Another small note regarding the formatting and transition, that's not worth mentioning here but if you're interested, again, just PM me.
- About the transition, though: are we still in the nameless room with the 72" TV? I have to assume so because the scene "quickly shifts," but then the question is where did Beth Heaven disappear to? And since that previous scene was her last appearance in the RP, I'm not seeing why she needed to be involved at all.
- Adding that the company you were challenging for a title in has been "defunct for going on two years," doesn't really help the case you're trying to make. You can brag a lot more by lying through omission and omitting the fact that the aforementioned promotion no longer exists.
- For the trash talk, Baby Bling shouts a lot. Constantly, actually. Which is fine, and works for some people. My only question is if Bling is shouting now (all the exclamation points), what is going to happen when he has an opponent that he really has a beef with and not just some "no name asshole?" You've already tapped out your volume, unless the hypothetical promo is going to be all in CAPS.
- There's a point to be made about "no selling" the competition, but it's harder to articulate when you have a heel vs. heel match like this one. It's also not fair to nitpick it in your RP, because it's only a problem because it's so pervasive in FGA. The only guy selling right now is Blaine Harrison, and everyone else is just saying how much everyone else sucks (myself included, but that's actually part of Fallon's gimmick).
Sorry if I rambled a bit there, especially on the last point. Hope some of these things are helpful. Feel free to PM me if you have any questions, or ask them here. I'd be happy to elaborate on any of the points.
Peace, - V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Apr 10, 2012 17:44:33 GMT -5
The Irish Curse
Atlantic City, New Jersey.
A solid two hour drive south of the Monroe Township in New Jersey, is the "Las Vegas of the East": Atlantic City. The city is famous for its legalized gambling, mafia ties, glitz, grime and vice. In other words, a perfect encapsulation of the state of New Jersey, thoroughly doused in glitter. Two blocks from the Tropicana Casino on the famed Atlantic City boardwalk is 2600 Pacific Avenue, the only pink building in Atlantic City: A.C. Dolls.
The building is painted a gaudy matte pink with life-size posters of scantily clad women decorating the exterior like movie posters along the side of a cinema. Flashing neon lights and scene advertise the “Live Nude Dancers” and the Atlantic City motto of “Always Turned On.”
Inside, Warrant's “Cherry Pie” is blasting over the sound system as a redhead in a white bikini works the main stage. Lights flash in white, blue, yellow, green and pink. A bar sits directly inside the entrance, despite the establishments acceptance of B.Y.O.B, and the stages sits off to the right surrounded by a few faux-leather couches and chairs. The strip club is as busy as you'd expect for 7:30 on a Monday night; in that it's almost empty.
However, there is one man sitting in front of the center stage on one of the couches. A tall thin brunette in a tasseled, neon green outfit that looks like some part-bikini, part-fishnet hybrid sits to the man's left, and a slightly chubby, short blonde sits on his right in a tube top and denim shorts, running her hands through the man's dirty blond hair. The man for his own part, is attired in a slate-gray sports coat over a black hooded sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, bright white Adidas sneakers and large aviator sunglasses. A self-satisfied smirk settles in on the face of Sean Fallon as he admires his surroundings before taking a quick sip from a bottle of beer.
“Greetings, True Believers,” he begins in earnest, “and welcome to the victory dance. I've never been much of a dancer myself, but these lovely ladies obliged to pick up my slacks... I mean slack.”
The smirk transforms into a wicked grin before Fallon dismisses the blonde dancer with a quick slap on the ass.
“For those of you uneducated troglodytes at home wondering, the Sean Fallon Experience is broadcasting to you from A.C. Dolls in Atlantic City, New Jersey; the only part of New Jersey that isn't an open cesspool of decaying Italians and rub-on tanning oil. Of course, it is still New Jersey and I'll have to remember to burn these sneakers for having set foot in this God-foresaken Guidoverse, but duty calls. And since FRONTIER can't seem to pull any markets that aren't located in states filled with putrid mouth-breathers even with my gorgeous face gracing all their banners, I find myself once again subjected to plying my craft in front of slack-jawed yokels.”
With his free hand – the one not around a stripper's waist – he removes his sunglasses, tucking them into the top of his sweatshirt before continuing.
“But much like I'm doing with FGA, I'm making some good out of something lousy. I get sent to New Jersey, I make swing through Atlantic City and see the lovely A.C. Dolls. I get stuck wrestling for a backwater promotion against talentless hacks, and I slowly but surely turn it into a legitimate reputable promotion. After I wiped the floor with Johnny Brave last week, he came begging me for pointers backstage. Don't believe me? He said so himself earlier this week. I gave him the only pointer he could possibly use: quit. Quit wrestling and open up a chain of discount laundromats. It's not my fault the idiot didn't listen. But putting aside Johnny Brave and the two nameless cowards that didn't have the cajones to show up and get their asses kicked by me at Spring Breakage, I'm ready to move on to bigger and better things. At least... I thought I was, until I found out I'd be facing Micky O'Reilly on Wednesday night in the Monroe Township.”
With his glasses now removed, Fallon makes a big show of rolling his eyes.
“Micky O'Reilly? Really? Hey, FGA, you didn't notice that I WON the my match at Spring Breakage, right? You've finally moved me up the card to the second from the top – not the Main Event, where I belong, but I digress – yet you stick another curtain jerking jobber in front of me? Do you want me to give permanent brain damage to your ENTIRE roster? Or do you just want me to put the lowest of the low off your payroll? I mean, at Spring Breakage I draw a kid who was maybe born with ten functioning brain cells, and now I get a guy who killed the fifteen he was born with via alcohol poisoning.”
As if to add an exclamation to his point, Fallon takes a quick swig of beer before continuing.
“And what does Micky O'Reilly have to say about all this? Unsurprisingly, nothing intelligent or intelligible. He shot his little promo in between shots at – what else – an Irish bar. You can take the Mick out of the bar, but... oh wait, I guess you can't take the Mick out of the bar, after all. So Micky says that he and I are in a 'special' match this week. What kind of match is that, sunshine? A 'Fall Off The Wagon' match? Because honestly that's the only match you could ever hope to beat me in. No one is more adept at falling off the wagon as Micky O'Reilly. When it comes to being a complete failure, Micky O'Reilly is the heavyweight champion of FGA. And that's saying something.
“Seriously, Micky, how long did that sobriety kick last for you? I think it was over faster than your blind date with that trainer you had there, Earl Grey or whatever his name was. The only thing shorter than your sobriety will be the amount of time you spend upright in our match at the Monroe Community Center on Wednesday night.”
Fallon rolls on, ignoring the stripper who has begin fidgeting with her hair, uninterested in the on-going promo-cutting.
“And it's not even just because you're a useless, gin-blossomed, boozebag... though, that's certainly part of it. Even when you're not poisoning your liver with booze, you still don't have your mind anywhere near where it needs to be. Allow me to use this strip club to illustrate my point to you, Mick. This strip club to me is a distraction. Come Wednesday night it will occupy a tiny postage stamp of real estate in the furthest recesses of my mind, filed somewhere in Memories under 'Skanks.' Your strip club is named Michael Tomkins. On top of that being a terrible name for a strip club and putting aside all the obvious jokes and the fact that you and Mikey clearly love each other and should go run away to San Francisco; unlike this joint, Mikey Tomkins occupies enough space in your brain that you could land a 747, towing another 747, on it. With enough room left over for a Starbucks, a McDonald's and the entire Mall of America.
“And the proof is in the promo. You spent the better part of your time penning an oral love letter to Mikey-boy, and then did what? Told a few short jokes? That's the best you could come up with? I'm sure they were hilarious to you while you were three seats to the wind, but those of us with functioning cerebral cortexes who don't make a regular habit of falling off barstools and pissing ourselves were not amused. Even the sub-85 cameraman tried to save you from rambling on like a baboon, but either you were too drunk or too stupid to catch it.”
Fallon gives a dismissive snort as he eases back into the couch.
“And you've got the audacity to refer to yourself as the 'Irish Giant?' What Internet Nickname Generator did you pull that gem out of, slapnuts? Irish Giant. Sounds to me like somebody is overcompensating for a little case of the old 'Irish curse.' Not that I'm sure it would matter all that much, because even you do drag home some three hundred pound slampig you're probably too sauced to get it up anyway. The only thing left to figure out is when Big Bertha takes a gander does she ask 'Is it in?' or 'Does it exist?'
“That tells you all you need to know about you and I, Mickles. You look at me and all you can come up with is that I'm shorter than most of the neanderthals in the locker room. That's all you've got on me. You on the other hand, are a barely-walking, barely-talking trainwreck of humanity. I haven't even mentioned your sad little arm that I'm going to snap like a twig with my Chimera arm-lock. I haven't mentioned the lack that you've gone from contender to pretender in the span of a few weeks. And frankly, I don't have to. Because after Wednesday night at the Monroe Community Center in Monroe Township, no one is going to ask who won our match. The only thing left to figure out is if they'll ask 'Is it over already?' or 'Did it even begin?'
Deuces, booze-bag.”
With that, Fallon throws up his “deuces” and turns his attention back to the stripper on his lap, before standing up after her and following her to the VIP room.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Mar 28, 2012 21:49:20 GMT -5
That's Spanish for "The Feedback."
If you've taken the time to read my first RP, "We're Gonna Need A Montage" (http://fgawrestling.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=rp2&action=display&thread=483&page=1), and if you have any thoughts I'd love to hear them.
This character is new(ish) for me, and I'm still trying to feel out the balance.
Thanks, True Believers. - Vinny
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Mar 28, 2012 21:47:32 GMT -5
We're Gonna Need A Montage #001 – 3.30.2012
Roanoke, Virginia.
A fifteen minute drive from Salem, Virigina is the city of Roanoke; a city most famous for being named after the “Lost Colony” of British settlers. In the center of Roanoke sits the ostentatious purple and yellow façade of a Planet Fitness exercise center.
The inside of the gym consists three rows of treadmills, stationary bikes and Stair-Masters; various purple and yellow Nautilus and weight machines; weight towers and rowing machines; and free weights. In open lobby area, just beyond the reception counter, is a small round table with two chains in the shape of giant open hands (one in purple and one in gold).
Slouching in the giant purple hand is Sean Fallon. Fallon is dressed in a color-coordinated workout outfit of Adidas classics; black track pants with white stripes along the side; a black and white track jacket, half-unzipped over a black T-shirt; and white sweatbands around his wrists and forehead. A water bottle with an unnecessarily long drinking tube sits in the center of the small round table.
Fallon straightens at the sight of the camera before bounding to his feet, water bottle in hand.
Sean Fallon Greetings, True Believers.[/color]
His face contorts into a self-satisfied smirk.
Sean Fallon I assume by now you've all had the great fortune to watch or hear what the critics are calling the “Debut of the Century,” where the superior Sean Fallon made his presence known to the world... and to a lesser extent, to the dregs of FRONTIER Grappling Arts. Now while I possess an intellect, strength and wrestling prowess far surpassing anyone else in FGA, this promotion does hold its challenges for me as it does for the other... well, let's call them “wrestlers.” [/color]
Fallon's mouth twists into a look that is half disgust and half disdain. He shakes a shudder through his shoulders before continuing.
Sean Fallon You see, I've never had the misfortune of wrestling in such squalid conditions and in front of such inbred, neanderthal fans. Nor have I had to wrestle against such a caliber of competition. And by “caliber of competition” I mean “shameful, barrel-bottom-scraping gutter trash.” But fortunately for me, the... uh... “wrestlers” here in FGA have all the experience in the world with these issues. So I said to myself: 'Self, how does one train for a vastly inferior, borderline handicapped cavalcade of graceless miscreants?' And then it hit me: you have to TRAIN just like said miscreants.[/color]
He beams with a shit-eating, toothy grin; filled with self-satisfaction.
Sean Fallon So I spent my down-time since the “Debut of the Century” analyzing the... well, let's call the “promos” from the FGA-holes and I've noticed one recurring theme. Training! None of them seem to ever stop training. I'm sure they'd call it dedication. I'd call it hopelessly praying that those mosquito bites they call biceps finally reach the level of an under-muscled 12-year old girl. But whatever you want to call it, the fact remains that they are in the gym twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, or so it seems. Now in the case of Johnny Brave, I'm confident the reason behind that is because he's too stupid to find the exit, but regardless I, too, am going to give you a glimpse into my rigorous training regiment. So... hit the music![/color]
Fallon stretches briefly and does a set of 5 jumping jacks as Billy Conti's “Gonna Fly Now” - better known as the theme from Rocky – begins to play over the footage as a training montage begins.
The opening shot shows Fallon's face covered in sweat, straining from effort, as his arms pump and shoulders bounce. As the shot pans out we see he's running. He reaches just out side the shot and splashes a huge blast of water from a water bottle onto his face and chest. As the shot pans out further we see he is standing on a treadmill, that is barely moving above a brisk walking pace, despite the vigorous motion of Fallon's upper-body. On the treadmill next to Fallon, an older woman in her sixties, in an all-pink sweatsuit, is slowly jogging and occasionally glancing over with a bewildered look at Fallon. Fallon glares back at her before furiously pushing the “increase speed” button on his treadmill until it matches the older woman's pace. Fallon begins screaming and taunting the woman for about five seconds before he slams the “stop” button and slides off the treadmill, resting his hands on his knees and panting for breath.
The next shot shows Fallon from the waist up as he is ripping off a series of chin-ups. He counts along with his tally: “...98... 99... 100!” He switches to just his right arm and begins performing one-armed pull-ups. “1... 2... 3...” The camera slowly pans out to reveal that Fallon is standing on a bench, bending his knees up and down to mimic the pull-up motion.
The next shot shows Fallon from the chest up, slowly struggling through a set of free weight bench presses. The camera slowly pans out again, and in each of Fallon's hands is a five pound, pink running weight. As he pushes up his tenth press, Fallon lets out an exaggerated grunt, before dropping the weights onto the floor. This act causes Planet Fitness's “Lunk Alarm” to go off. A pimple-faced teenager in a black “Staff” polo shirt comes over and meekly asks Fallon not to slam his weights.
As “Gonna Fly Now” reaches its crescendo – the scene where Rocky scales the steps of Philadelphia Art Museum – Fallon trots up a much less daunting set of ten steps, rounds a corner at the top of the staircase off to his right and goes straight into the Men's restroom. The camera shows a bathroom stall door, with Fallon's shoes sticking out the bottom. He grunts loudly before hitting flush on the toilet and bursting out of the stall right in time to hit the freeze-frame closing celebratory shot.
Salem, VA
Just down the road from the Salem Civic Center is the meager Salem Days Inn. Sean Fallon sits on the edge of a queen-sized bed in one of the less-than-immaculately maintained rooms. The walls are covered in an off-white wallpaper that is frayed around the corners and near the electrical plugs; the television is no more than twenty inches with a thick back, perched atop a composite wood dresser with chipped paint; the carpet is blue with worn paths from the door to the bed and from the bed to the bathroom; and the curtains over the windows are too flimsy to fully block the mid-afternoon sun from streaming through in uneven bands that cast shadows along the room.
Fallon has changed into a pair of dark blue jeans that hang over all-white Adidas sneakers; a black T-shirt with “Samurai Pro” written across the chest in bright blue lettering with white Japanese kanji underneath; and a belt with a large buckle in the shape of a wrestling ring. Fallon's dirty-blond hair is slicked back with water. He runs a thumb and forefinger along the stubble that dots his chin and cheeks before speaking.
Sean Fallon Greetings once again, True Believers. I hope you enjoyed that rigorous training regimen. I just hope I didn't overdo it. Don't want to push myself SO much harder than my opponents. No one likes a showboat. You know what else no one likes? FRONTIER Grappling Arts... At least, that was the case until the phenomenal Sean Fallon arrived on the scene and damn near burnt the place to ground with just one promo. Now the boys in the suits have done the only thing they can do: they've put my gorgeous mug onto the supershow – Spring Breakage, this Saturday, March 31st – at the Salem Civic Center, right here in Salem, Virgina.[/color]
Fallon winks at the camera after running through the necessary details of the event in an exaggeratedly over-enthused voice.
Sean Fallon I guess they figured the Salem sewer system was too high class for FGA, but that's what they get for booking a venue without mentioning that God's gift to wrestling would be there. That doesn't matter, though. One thing you will all soon learn about Sean Fallon is that I seize every opportunity put in front of me. So whether I'm wrestling on a worldwide pay-per-view in front of a sold-out stadium, or in some rec center in a po-dunk state in front of three hill-billies and their girlfriends-slash-dogs, I will make the most of my shot. One step at a time, no matter how small, I'm going to take it until I reach the top. And I don't give a damn rat's ass who I step on to get there.[/color]
As if to illustrate his point, Fallon stomps his foot and grinds his heel into the carpeted floor.
Sean Fallon Speaking of vermin and rodents, it's time for me to use this silver tongue to talk some double-wide asses into the seats. So let's sell some tickets and sky-rocket some buy-rates, shall we? Lord knows the only reason anyone with more than four functioning brain cells would come out is to see Sean Fallon. Who else is there? Xavier Johnson? I'd say that Xavier Johnson couldn't wrestle his way out of a wet paper bag... but he lost to Johnny Brave. Wrestling a wet paper bag is actually ten times more difficult than beating Johnny Brave. Kid, if you can't even take down a Special Olympiad like J.B. then it's time to hang up your wrestling boots. Or just hang yourself. [/color]
Fallon pantomimes wrapping a noose around his neck, and pulling it tight. He sticks his tongue, imitating a hanging. He smirks before continuing.
Sean Fallon Or maybe they'll come out to see Benny Starr. With two R's... and zero personality. Starr, I might like the cut of your jib, if I thought you even had one. That aside, you might be the biggest credible threat I have in this match. I mean credible threat in the same way a zombie apocalypse is a creditable threat. You've got about as much chance of winning this match as you have hairs on your head. But hey, when I'm involved there's no shame in settling for second-best. A very, very distant second-best. Hell, you might even make some extra scratch selling “I Survived Sean Fallon” T-shirts. That is, of course, if I let you survive. Stay the hell out of my way and maybe I won't cripple you. Try to stop me and I'll hit the Fallon Driver on you and snap your precious little spine in half faster than you can say “Male Pattern Baldness.”[/color]
For effect, Fallon runs a hand through his hair and shakes it out with a grin. The expression on his face sours again as he remembers the final participant in the Four Way match.
Sean Fallon And then there's Helen Keller's favorite wrestler... Johnny Brave. Johnny you're almost adorable when you get all fired up. I just want to pat you on your oversized, doofus head. But on a serious note to the FGA brass, am I going to get confirmation that this kid's not legally retarded before Spring Breakage? I mean if I rip out his giant tongue and slap the taste out of his mouth, am I going to get arrested for a hate-crime? [/color]
Fallon leans in close to the camera and says, almost in a whisper.
Sean Fallon Johnny... does your Mommy know you're here? [/color]
He leans back before continuing.
Sean Fallon Usually when English is someone's second language they try not to talk so damn much. But not you. Instead you just ramble on and on and on. Your promos sound like you just gathered a bunch of catchphrases and snippets from terrible promos, loaded them into a shotgun, fired the shotgun against a wall, gathered the pieces, had some drunk midgets rearrange all the words into a script and started reading that. Scratch that, because something that malformed would be infinitely more comprehensible than whatever the hell it is that you do.
And who is this jamoke that you're running around with all of a sudden? Why does everyone in this dump have some two-dollar trollop or washed-up trainer who never won a damn thing tagging along with them? I don't know who this Tony Jones guy is – who would? - but one thing I do know is that anyone who calls themselves a “People's Champ” is a loser. You know what People's Champions are? They're just has-been's and never-was's that weren't god-damned good enough to ACTUALLY win something, so they had to stroke their own delicate egos by giving themselves a meaningless nickname. People Champ? That's a less credible champion than Shine-boy Harrison.[/color]
Fallon spits right onto the carpet beside the bed.
Sean Fallon But I'll get to him in a moment. Right now my focus is on this Four Way Scramble on Saturday. My focus is on cleaning up some of human garbage in this promotion. Trash like Johnny Brave who can't keep my pristine name out of his mouth. You think that roaring elbow was something, Johnny Boy? You ain't seen nothing yet, Sunshine. You're a green-as-gooseshit rookie who doesn't know the first thing about wrestling and doesn't have what it takes to make it in this sport. You think pandering to the idiots in the stands will get you anywhere? I'll tell you what it will get you? It will get you Fallonized. It's like getting posterized... but with permanent brain damage. So you can cut as many unintelligible promos as you like trying to tell the moronic marks out there how you're the up-and-comer and how I'm a coward and throw around your cute “LIGHTS OUT” catchphrase, but the only light that's going out is the light of your career when I extinguish it on Saturday. [/color]
Fallon pantomimes pressing out the wick of a candle.
Sean Fallon As for the rest of you FGA-holes, consider yourselves on notice. I don't care whether you're a curtain-jerker like Benny Starr or Xavier Johnson. I don't care if you're a mental midget like Johnny Brave. I don't care if you're a pothead or a drunk. I don't care where you went to college. And I don't care if you've touched MY belt before I got here. None of you are safe. As long as I'm forced to slum it in this dump, my goal is assume my rightful place at the very top of the food-chain. So take note, Shine-boy, or whoever may take that belt off you before I get there: I'm coming. And I can't be stopped.
DEUCES.[/color]
Sean Fallon chucks up the two-finger “peace” salute as the scene fades to black.
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Mar 23, 2012 8:56:35 GMT -5
You've got a solid character and talent. Stick it out. You'll be fine. And thanks. I wouldn't say I'm a guru, but I've been RPing in eW off and on since 1995-96 so I've got a mini-vault of tips and tricks I've accumulated. - V
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Vinny
Headliner
Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Mar 22, 2012 16:52:43 GMT -5
I haven't read all your RPs admittedly, but I think one of the major problems you have is that you switched directions too quickly. 4 RPs isn't really enough to fully establish a character or the depths of his defining characteristic (i.e. Micky's alcoholism). Also, from the record he had at that point (3-0 if I remember correctly) his alcoholism didn't negatively impact his in-ring performance. So why the sudden impetus to change - I ask both for the character, and for you as the writer?
Another facet that bugged me was how quickly Micky being a bible-thumper. Like I said, I haven't read all of your RPs so they may have been hints of this before, but it just seems like another massive and abrupt change. Not every recovering alcoholic needs to "find Jesus," and the fact that Micky both A. recovered and B. found Jesus - neither of which without any significant struggle - in the course of roughly 2 RPs completely undersells the significance of the character change, and consequently undersells the significance of the character.
This is all says nothing of the fact that character and the transformation are both buried in cliches and well-worn tropes. It is entirely possible for a piece to be well-written (as your RPs are) but to still ring hollow. I'm told that Micky is struggling, but I don't see it and - more importantly - I don't feel it through the RP.
Beyond that, I find the idea of a functional alcoholic MUCH more compelling than a recovering alcoholic. Not only is it more creative, it's more unique and I believe there's infinitely more potential there for you as a writer. If Mickey beats alcoholism, then what is there left to his character?
The dichotomy of an alcoholic whose alcoholism destroys his real life but whose fake life (i.e. his wrestling live) thrives despite it (or more compellingly, because of it) is a compelling, interesting story.
I guess to boil down the advice: don't rush your story. If you get frustrated and feel aimless with it, try to wait it out and let it tell itself. And don't be afraid to make your character weak. Weaknesses = humanity = sympathy. And sympathy is the single most important thing a babyface can have.
Peace, - V
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