Holy cow I love zombies . How's things with the publisher going? I wish you the best of luck with this hope to read your book one day ️
I find your writing to be un engaging, sloppy, and repetitive in a bad way. Also, why would you write a novel about such an overused idea? There must be at least 20 shows on tv about zombies and over 100 zombie apocalypse movies. Make up your own idea for a novel and stop beating this dead horse. True success is born from innovative minds.
@Chief_Thief Un engaging, sloppy and repetitive AND... In a bad way?!?! Talk about repetitive or maybe useless writing. You may not have noticed, but there are a lot of writers that have found success in this genre. A recent person is DJ Moles with his Aftermath series. It seems this genre of science fiction has a large enough fan base to take in many creative minds. So in short, to receive your criticism with any kind of value would be like finding the nearest homeless person and asking him to be your career councilor.
I'm not being mean when I say this, but the one thing all great authors share is a sense of originality.. Their words create a voice in your head, they draw you in.. Sadly this has not done any of that.. I would suggest using some paragraphs and maybe some simple grammar to organize things.. It's all over the place.. Just doesn't flow naturally.. Lacking that je ne sais quoi.... Good try though, keep at it and work on some small things and you can get there if you want to
So here's another sample, because I couldn't think of anything else better to do at the moment. Enjoy. Gary looked up at the sky and saw the buzzards circling around, waiting for another meal to devour. And watching them circle slowly, scanning the ground for a hemorrhaging corpse to feast on, the thought occurred to Gary that maybe they knew something he didn't, and that there was something nearby that he didn't know about, and they did. That sent shivers down his back. Not knowing every little detail about your surroundings lately was the number one killer. He had scoped out the area yesterday, raiding Gun shops, stores, finding anything that would be useful. And he had found a few things, mainly canned goods and surplus military items. Gary did ever so love surplus stores. However, what he hadn’t found were many bodies. There were a few here and there, but that was it. Most of them were not recently dead, either. They had been dispatched long ago. And although a single dead body in the street would have been extremely out of the ordinary before the outbreak, that was sadly no longer the case. But even those that were there, were not many. Definitely not the amount of dead one could expect from a large city like Phoenix. Unfortunately, that was a bad thing too. That meant that, wherever they may be, they weren't dead, at least not by the typical definition. But one thing was sure. They were still out there, and they were still walking around, waiting to score a kill. But Gary knew the buzzards couldn't have possibly been there for the dead bodies. One look around could tell you there were none out right now. Even smelling the air, you could usually tell when they were there. So why? His question was answered quickly, by a loud, roaring, scream. It was almost like a sort of battle cry, signaling the attack, and calling more allies near. It was a yell for dinner, and an announcement for the feast. He pulled his AK-47 over his shoulder and systematically pushed the safety, as the other members who had guns instinctively did the same. The scream came again, closer, louder, and with a vengeance. And then came the rancid smell of rotting flesh and death. People infected, even those who weren't yet rotting, had a very distinctive smell. A smell that everybody simply described as dying, and death. For a moment, it was calm and quiet. The group slowly began to let their guard down, but Gary signaled for them to stay alert. It was almost thirty seconds later, when the first of the diseased burst from the shadows like a phantom, and darted after their newfound prey. It led a group of nearly twenty of them, each one intent on reaching the survivors, that they might feast. When the horde was in full view, the survivors unleashed their barrage of mixed weapons. There were several AR-15's, Handguns, and Riot Shotguns, although the shotguns were mainly saved for close confrontations. The rhythmic firing of the AK rang out as well as the many other weapons, and various handguns. It was one thing Gary loved about Phoenix. There were enough guns to start a small army, but he hoped that the shots would stop soon, before they drew a sizable crowd. As a result of the constant stream of firing, the diseased fell, bullets ripping chunks of their rotten bodies away, until there was only a few left. The leader of the whole horde, stumbled along slowly. He was a tough one, due to a hole an inch in diameter in his throat, stomach, and chest. Gary pulled the trigger once more, then heard the panic inducing 'click', symbolizing the empty magazine, the sound that had caused many other survivors to die before. “Dammit!” Gary swore. He sat the gun down, unbuttoned the holster for his pistol, and pulled out a Springfield Armory Nine millimeter handgun. The Springfield was swift and deadly, and each time he fired, he hit. They were close now. But, the closer they were, the more accurate the shots became, until finally, the leader was the only one left. It fell to his knees, but crawled on. Gary took aim, and pulled the trigger, hitting the crawler right in the head. He fell to his face, with a red puddle on the pavement, and didn’t move. The buzzards above had already floated lower, waiting for the group to move on so they could enjoy their latest meal. “Stupid things.” Gary muttered. The Disease worked on animals too, not infecting them, but turning them into carriers. It could, in turn, be transferred back to humans, although it was unlikely a buzzard would bite a human. But Gary shot them anyway. Bodies of Diseased and buzzards lay everywhere, and as the hot Phoenix sun beat down, he had a pretty good idea of what would happen to these diseased when natural decomposition took it's toll. And he didn't want to be around when it did. “Alright, let's move out.” Gary ordered as he turned to walk up the I-10 on ramp. “How many d'you figure that was?” asked Robert. Rob was an old friend of Gary's, who he had met in college. He was from West Texas, so he naturally went to the college in Dallas, and later got a job as a police officer. That made him the most qualified to kill diseased, as he often said to the others. “Maybe twenty, twenty five. Why, what does it matter?” said Gary, “They're all dead anyway.” “Just wondering how many notches to carve on my gun.” joked Rob, chuckling. He had a habit of laughing at his own jokes. “You're still carving Notches?” Gary asked, annoyed, “Notches are for humans. These...things” Gary spat, “aren’t humans anymore.” “I was just kidding. Jeez.” Rob muttered, holstering his pistol. “Right.” shot Gary, and to the group, “Alright! We have about five days to get to Tucson, and then another five to get to Fort Grant!” he began. “We need to get to Tucson, get supplies, get ammo, and get some rest for a few nights. From then on, we hustle to Benson, get some more supplies, and stay one night there, then on to Wilcox, for a night, and after that, Fort Grant in three days, unless,” Gary held up his finger, “We find a worthy vehicle. Then we can make it in no time.” There were various nods of agreement around the circle, as everybody added up the amount of time it would take to make the journey. Their plan was to get to Fort Grant, and set up a sort of safe haven in the prison, provided it wasn't already taken. It was a natural choice, as it was on a hill, it was walled in, and it was easily defendable, among other things. They started walking, mumbling amongst themselves, as the got up onto Interstate 10, and began the journey towards Tucson, walking around cars in the middle of the road. There were hundreds of cars on the highway, all of them headed out of the city. None were headed in, as that would have been suicidal. These cars were most likely from the first wave of the Epidemic, when everybody tried to escape, often rioting and busting through the quarantine roadblocks, and escaping, although they let the disease through with them. Hardly anybody was successful in their escape, as the humans were jut as dangerous as the diseased. When the riots and looting were in full swing, it was all but impossible to drive through the city without being stopped, shot, and looted. That was, of course, the way that most people died off, provided that they were unarmed. Those who had guns, and used them in self defense, often made it a little longer, until the hordes of infected caught up with them. It was only those who used their heads, as well as their firearms, who made it through the worst part. They carefully, for fear of people who had turned while buckled in, looked in each car window as they passed by, looking for goods, and supplies. Occasionally, somebody would see something handy, and grab it. There was the occasional pack of cigarettes, for Johnny, the Indian man who worked for Gary before the outbreak, a few knives, and once there was even a cowboy hat, with a rattlesnake skin for the band, and rattlers on the side, along with a few feathers. Gary enthusiastically grabbed this one, and handed it to Chris, the kid, who was almost fourteen, and already could shoot as well as most of them. His father was, after all, a cop. He put the hat on his head and jokingly punched him in the arm. The hat was enormous on Chris, but he would grow in to it, eventually. Then he looked at the sky. It was a little after noon, and in the middle of summer, Gary knew that it meant there would be a Monsoon, soon. The thunderclouds were already gathered in the sky, and growing larger, occasionally letting out an ominous roar. But they still walked on, hoping to make good time, and make it to a shelter before the clouds opened up, and drenched them, and their supplies, to the core.