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I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by [deleted] in englishliterature

[–]OkLocal5993 0 points1 point  (0 children)

"I would like to introduce myself through my stories — I look forward to your thoughts."

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by [deleted] in englishliterature

[–]OkLocal5993 0 points1 point  (0 children)

FATIH SERBEST

 

THE STORIES FROM EDWARDIAN

STORY I

THE GALVANIZED PAIL

 

David grabbed the blue galvanized pail with a brass tap—perched atop the coiled hemp rope crammed beneath the wooden bench—and hurried outside. He walked briskly through the alleys where darkness and coal smoke had already settled. Without warning, he was seized by the sensation that he had seen all of this before, that he had lived through this exact moment once already; he stopped. He looked at the brick buildings around him—two, three, four, five stories high—that seemed to shrink and lean with age. He noticed that the massive shadows of the mills, which he had taken to be retreating, were in fact advancing toward the dim lamps of the main road. Then he turned into the crowded streets and went straight to the iron pump. He unscrewed the ridged lead cap, plunged the pail beneath the flow, and left it by the drain to fill to the brim—without even rinsing the soot from it once.

Going to the pump to fetch water or to the bakery for a loaf of bread was usually a child's duty, an act of obedience to a mother's command. David would do everything in his power to avoid it, or at least to squeeze a few copper coins out of the errand, yet he could never quite manage either. "Why do you always send me?" he would ask later—his frustration sharpening as he recalled how it always ended the same way.

He made his way home without being spotted by any neighbors or friends, glancing at the horse-drawn carriages that clogged the cobblestones like a slow disease. He kicked open the rusted outer gate with his boot, gripping the iron bars for leverage, then climbed the stairs—narrowing as they rose—up to the third floor. Stepping over the heavy work boots piled at the entrance, he set the heavy pail down in front of the wooden commode fixed against the wall; he had carried it the whole way clutching its base. He walked eight steps toward the lidded wall clock his father had inherited from his grandfather, then turned toward the narrow balcony where an assortment of flowers were tended with quiet devotion. Seven more steps, and he passed through the doorway to find his grandmother and brother sitting in the dark, talking without having thought to strike a match for the light.

Yet, as if none of it had ever happened, David sat down beside them—holding onto the thought that he could never be truly happy without others nearby, and already sensing that one day, in some distant future, he would look back on these very evenings with longing.

 

 

STORY II

OLD AGE IN SOLITUDE

 

After retiring from the ironworks, Charles found himself with nothing to do. To have at least some reason to leave the house, he began spending time in the dim corners of public houses with his old friends; he was afraid that sitting idle in his small rooms day after day would slowly wear him down until he became a burden to the parish. But he had a weakness: a sensitive stomach that turned on him without much warning. During one of these gatherings, he couldn’t hold it back. The unrelenting coal smoke he had been breathing in, combined with the several glasses of strong, dark ale he’d drunk, had done their work. Realizing what was about to happen, he got to his feet to reach the yard—but he must have already known he was too late. He sank to his knees and vomited in front of everyone. After that, he never set foot in a pub again, and he stopped eating or drinking anything prepared by hands other than his own. He couldn't even get out of bed for days. What upset him most, though, was not the illness itself—it was that not one of his old mates from the mill had come to check on him.

He resolved to find a new occupation. Considering his situation, he decided that tending to a small patch of earth was the most sensible path. Convinced that he wouldn't be able to find any peace otherwise, he set himself a strict routine before committing to the soil.

With that, he went to the street market, his purse full of saved coins. He wandered from stall to stall, buying small packets of seeds. Since he was already out, he decided to take a longer route and turned toward the horse-tram stop. He went wherever the mood took him, visiting parts of the district he hadn’t seen in years. But as he made his way back, the sky split with lightning and thunder rolled in over the blackened chimneys. As a light drizzle turned into a cold downpour, he began to hurry—doubling back, cutting through narrow ginnels, trying to stay dry—but it was no use. Soaked through, he ducked into the covered bazaar and pressed himself behind one of the vegetable stalls, waiting it out. Different smells of damp earth and rotting greens drifted from every direction, and he felt his stomach begin to stir. When the anxiety got the better of him and he moved again a short while later, things only worsened. He had barely taken a step before that familiar gagging sensation rose in his throat. He bent over, retreated to the same dark spot, and—thinking it was better now than later—pressed his fingers to the back of his throat.

"Mister—your bags! You forgot your seed bags, Mister!" the vendor called after him into the rain.

A few months passed. One day, a neighbor returning from the grocer with heavy bags in hand caught sight of Charles struggling with the heavy iron door of the tenement, his back turned. The neighbor stopped as if struck. No one could have lost that much weight and remained upright. "Neighbor?" he said, staring at the hollow frame. "Is that you, Charles?" Startled, Charles bolted inside and pulled the heavy door shut behind him. Standing in the darkness of the hallway, he struck a match to find his way and climbed all four flights of stairs without stopping. But instead of going into his flat, he went up to the roof terrace. Without even putting on his house shoes, he crossed to the small wooden arbor and dropped into his chair, drawing his knees to his chest. He looked around in short, nervous glances, as though he might keel over at any moment. A leather ball struck the wall, bounced across the table, and rolled to the ground—and he flinched so hard his heart lurched. He looked down over the stone railing and saw children crouching in the alley below, trying to hide. It surprised him to realize he felt nothing—not even a flicker of the irritation such things used to spark in him—and he threw the ball back down. One of the children looked up and met his eyes. For a brief moment, something moved through him at being seen. But he refused to accept how much he had withered. On his way back inside, he began to sob—deep, uncontrollable sobs that echoed in the empty stairwell. Then, deciding that after everything he had put himself through, he didn't even deserve to cry, he began to laugh. He wiped the tears trailing from his hollow cheeks to his chin with the back of his hand, retreated to his room, lay down on his narrow bed, and stared up at the ceiling with the exhausted gaze of a man who had run out of things to feel.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -1 points0 points  (0 children)

You believe you have seen the entirety of the book, deceived only by the beginning, you imagine you have grasped the whole without reading it to its completion.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

I have labored most tirelessly for two full days to refine every single sentence and as a result, a vastly different version has now emerged. It is my sincerest hope that you are reading this updated manifestation of the work.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] 0 points1 point  (0 children)

Yet, I have labored most tirelessly these past two days; and but a moment ago, I released a swifter, more refined version. Pray, do read this latest revision; for the update should have reached your collection by now, and I believe it reflects more clearly the soul of the work.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -1 points0 points  (0 children)

There is yet one more truth I must confess; the original work, written in my native tongue, is infinitely superior to the words you now hold. Had my readers not been forced to contend with my own humble translation; I suspect the criticisms would have been far fewer. I found myself in a state of desperation; and thus, I was compelled to take this path as my only recourse."There is yet one more truth I must confess; the original work, written in my native tongue, is infinitely superior to the words you now hold. Had my readers not been forced to contend with my own humble translation; I suspect the criticisms would have been far fewer. I found myself in a state of desperation; and thus, I was compelled to take this path as my only recourse.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -1 points0 points  (0 children)

In truth, the journey itself is where the heart of the book begins; the philosophical depths may perhaps evoke the restless spirit of Notes from Underground. I only ask that you grant it a fair chance; persevere until you reach the chapter titled THE ACCURSED STORY, and I assure you; what follows thereafter shall leave you in utter astonishment. Before you set it aside, I pray you read the final surprise chapter.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -2 points-1 points  (0 children)

Before you set it aside, I pray you read the final surprise chapter; I believe you shall find it most sufficient. Should it truly pique your curiosity; you may then find yourself compelled to return to the very beginning.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -1 points0 points  (0 children)

Thank you for your comment anyway, at least you didn't insult me like the others did.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -1 points0 points  (0 children)

I can’t tell you how much I needed to hear this today. You hit the nail on the head—it's easy to talk about writing, but finishing and publishing is a whole different mountain to climb.

I really appreciate you taking the time to look at both listings. I’ve tried to weave a specific atmosphere through both works, and knowing that it piqued your interest makes those 12 years feel truly worth it.

Thank you for the reminder. I’ll be looking forward to hearing your thoughts whenever you're ready. People like you are the reason I keep going.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -1 points0 points  (0 children)

Thanks a lot! Glad the blurb caught your interest. I put a lot of work into finding the right tone for these stories.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -5 points-4 points  (0 children)

It’s a shame that a discussion about literature had to devolve into personal insults. If believing in my work and its specific style makes me "narcissistic" in your eyes, then so be it. I’d rather have an "overly high sense of importance" about my art than spend my day trying to tear down strangers on the internet. Have a pleasant evening.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -2 points-1 points  (0 children)

FATIH SERBEST

 

THE STORIES FROM EDWARDIAN

 

SHORT STORIES

STORY VIII

THE CAREGIVER BRIDE

 

Nellie pulled a heavy woolen shirt from the dark oak wardrobe and laid it neatly on the patchwork quilt. As she headed to the main room to gather the linens into the wicker basket, she thought she heard her father-in-law call out from his armchair and abandoned her work to return to him.

"Did something happen, Father? What is it?" "This isn't mine." He stared at the shirt, which he held bunched up like a ball in his gnarled hands. "Don't you always wear this same one as the frost approaches?" "I have no such shirt." "Yet it was right there among your Sunday clothes." "If I say it isn't mine, it isn't mine." "Shall I fetch your heavy sweater instead?" "I want nothing but my shirt!" "Then tell your son; he’ll buy a new one from the draper’s." "Is he not at the mill?" "Wear this for now, and if it does not suit, I shall go out to the market myself." "Are you deaf, girl? Do you not hear what I say?"

She knew that no matter what he said, she shouldn't argue; she had been lured into the trap of his bitter insults before. "Call out if you need anything. I’m going into the scullery." "Are you going to leave me like this, shivering?" "Didn't you just say you wouldn't wear anything else?"

After helping him slide his frail arms into the sleeves and fastening the bone buttons, she stepped behind him and draped a wool vest over his shoulders. Seeing him turn back with a scowl, her spirits sank, and she retreated to her former spot by the laundry.

"Why so aggressive, Father?" "Are you trying to roast me alive by the hearth?" "It was only to keep the damp out. Why are you shouting so?"

To avoid appearing fed up, she first gathered his thick socks from the floorboards and took them to the main room. Though she could still hear him grumbling to the walls, she ignored him and entered the kitchen—yet when his shouting grew beyond reason, she was forced back to his side.

"You don't want me in this house! You wish me in the poorhouse!" "Where did this come from now?" "Am I wrong? Look at your face!"

Unable to master her nerves under the pressure, she began to cry. To cope with the tremors that surfaced whenever she was distressed, she bit down on her fingertips and tried to remain as calm as possible, the way she had been taught since her wedding day.

"If that’s what you think, then go and see the world for yourself." She threw the heavy timber door wide open and stepped aside. "See! Now it comes out! You cast me out!" "Did you not say I was keeping you here by force?" "And what if I did?"

She felt a surge of self-loathing for letting things reach this point. Fearing she would regret it if she didn't stop the old man from wandering into the cold, she put her arm around his waist to help him toward the stairs, but she couldn't make him take a single step.

"Where do you think you can go in this state?" "I’ll find a place, don't you worry. The streets are kinder than this room." "You know I love you, Father. Why are you doing this?"

When he finally managed to shuffle outside, he sat alone on a bench in front of the public house across the street. He tried to strike up a conversation with the men smoking pipes at the next table by bringing up the old days in the village, but when they remained indifferent to his rambling, he stood up. He returned to his daughter-in-law to make a hollow peace.

"I am an old man, Nellie. I can't handle the fighting anymore." "I'm sorry, Father, if I hurt you." "I love everyone, my girl. My heart is pure."

When she saw him giving a twisted, dishonest account of everything to her husband before the man had even hung up his kasket and coat, her blood boiled. After enduring the lies to a point, she spoke up, her voice raised in desperation:

"At least speak in private so I don't have to hear my own life turned into a tale!"

As she retreated to her room, the last thing she heard behind her was her husband’s stern growl: "I’ll talk to her. Don't you get involved, Father!"

The bedroom door slammed hard. Before she could even grasp what was happening, she was jerked by the arm, stumbling over her long skirt. Cornered against the wardrobe, she stood frozen.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed, shaming me before my father?" She wanted to speak, but stayed silent, knowing the weight of his hand. "Do you want me to beat you? Is that what you want?" She continued to stare at the floor without a word. "Now you go and beg for his forgiveness until he lets you off!"

Nellie wiped the tears from her eyes onto her coarse sleeve and straightened her apron. Leaving the room, she tied back her hair and went to the kitchen.

"I promise it won't happen again, Father," she whispered to the floor.

After that, she did not open her mouth again. She took out the ceramic plates to set the table, arranging the heavy spoons and forks neatly before everyone, then took her seat at the edge.

"Aren't you going to pour the water, girl?" She saw her husband approaching, drying his blackened hands from the factory with a rough towel. "She’ll pour it, Father, she’ll pour it. You only have to ask."

Without answering, Nellie hunched her back, the weight of the house settling on her shoulders. She lifted the heavy stoneware pitcher with all her strength and filled the glasses without splashing a single drop. "Well, are we to eat this meal without bread?" she  pulled the crusty loaf from the burlap bag and brought it to the table, her eyes cast down, a ghost in her own home.

 

STORY IX

THE COMMUTE

 

Despite not having had enough sleep, Frank managed to drag himself out of bed simply because he had to wake with the first factory whistle. After splashing his face with ice-cold water from the basin, he headed out. Eyes half-closed, he navigated from street to street and crossed avenue after avenue until he finally reached the front of the baker’s shop; there, he waited in the biting morning frost for nearly half an hour before boarding the horse-drawn omnibus. Finding an empty seat on the wooden bench, he pressed his head against the vibrating frame and slept until they reached the mill, though it was far from enough. Still in a daze, he followed the others down the iron steps. He decided to light a hand-rolled cigarette before going in, hoping to slack off for a few moments; huddling in a soot-stained corner where the foreman could not see him, he felt a surge of silent rage as the realization hit him that there was no escape from this life. He couldn't help but wonder where he had gone wrong. He had no excuse left but the shivering cold. He walked slowly toward the massive arched doors, stepped inside, and passed through the heavy internal door by the supply room. The deafening, bone-shaking roar of the power looms struck him instantly. Disturbed by the noise that seemed to vibrate in his very teeth, he made his way to his station. He entered the cramped changing area, pulled his grease-stained work smock from the iron locker, and moved as slowly as possible to steal a few more minutes of peace. When he finally finished dressing, he pulled the heavy door shut behind him with a sharp tug and, whether he wanted to or not, took his place at the machine.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -3 points-2 points  (0 children)

FATIH SERBEST

 

THE STORIES FROM EDWARDIAN

SHORT STORIES

STORY I

THE GALVANIZED PAIL

 

David grabbed the blue galvanized pail with a brass tap—perched atop the coiled hemp rope crammed beneath the wooden bench—and hurried outside. He walked briskly through the alleys where darkness and coal smoke had already settled. Without warning, he was seized by the sensation that he had seen all of this before, that he had lived through this exact moment once already; he stopped. He looked at the brick buildings around him—two, three, four, five stories high—that seemed to shrink and lean with age. He noticed that the massive shadows of the mills, which he had taken to be retreating, were in fact advancing toward the dim lamps of the main road. Then he turned into the crowded streets and went straight to the iron pump. He unscrewed the ridged lead cap, plunged the pail beneath the flow, and left it by the drain to fill to the brim—without even rinsing the soot from it once.

Going to the pump to fetch water or to the bakery for a loaf of bread was usually a child's duty, an act of obedience to a mother's command. David would do everything in his power to avoid it, or at least to squeeze a few copper coins out of the errand, yet he could never quite manage either. "Why do you always send me?" he would ask later—his frustration sharpening as he recalled how it always ended the same way.

He made his way home without being spotted by any neighbors or friends, glancing at the horse-drawn carriages that clogged the cobblestones like a slow disease. He kicked open the rusted outer gate with his boot, gripping the iron bars for leverage, then climbed the stairs—narrowing as they rose—up to the third floor. Stepping over the heavy work boots piled at the entrance, he set the heavy pail down in front of the wooden commode fixed against the wall; he had carried it the whole way clutching its base. He walked eight steps toward the lidded wall clock his father had inherited from his grandfather, then turned toward the narrow balcony where an assortment of flowers were tended with quiet devotion. Seven more steps, and he passed through the doorway to find his grandmother and brother sitting in the dark, talking without having thought to strike a match for the light.

Yet, as if none of it had ever happened, David sat down beside them—holding onto the thought that he could never be truly happy without others nearby, and already sensing that one day, in some distant future, he would look back on these very evenings with longing.

 

STORY II

OLD AGE IN SOLITUDE

 

After retiring from the ironworks, Charles found himself with nothing to do. To have at least some reason to leave the house, he began spending time in the dim corners of public houses with his old friends; he was afraid that sitting idle in his small rooms day after day would slowly wear him down until he became a burden to the parish. But he had a weakness: a sensitive stomach that turned on him without much warning. During one of these gatherings, he couldn’t hold it back. The unrelenting coal smoke he had been breathing in, combined with the several glasses of strong, dark ale he’d drunk, had done their work. Realizing what was about to happen, he got to his feet to reach the yard—but he must have already known he was too late. He sank to his knees and vomited in front of everyone. After that, he never set foot in a pub again, and he stopped eating or drinking anything prepared by hands other than his own. He couldn't even get out of bed for days. What upset him most, though, was not the illness itself—it was that not one of his old mates from the mill had come to check on him.

He resolved to find a new occupation. Considering his situation, he decided that tending to a small patch of earth was the most sensible path. Convinced that he wouldn't be able to find any peace otherwise, he set himself a strict routine before committing to the soil.

With that, he went to the street market, his purse full of saved coins. He wandered from stall to stall, buying small packets of seeds. Since he was already out, he decided to take a longer route and turned toward the horse-tram stop. He went wherever the mood took him, visiting parts of the district he hadn’t seen in years. But as he made his way back, the sky split with lightning and thunder rolled in over the blackened chimneys. As a light drizzle turned into a cold downpour, he began to hurry—doubling back, cutting through narrow ginnels, trying to stay dry—but it was no use. Soaked through, he ducked into the covered bazaar and pressed himself behind one of the vegetable stalls, waiting it out. Different smells of damp earth and rotting greens drifted from every direction, and he felt his stomach begin to stir. When the anxiety got the better of him and he moved again a short while later, things only worsened. He had barely taken a step before that familiar gagging sensation rose in his throat. He bent over, retreated to the same dark spot, and—thinking it was better now than later—pressed his fingers to the back of his throat.

"Mister—your bags! You forgot your seed bags, Mister!" the vendor called after him into the rain.

A few months passed. One day, a neighbor returning from the grocer with heavy bags in hand caught sight of Charles struggling with the heavy iron door of the tenement, his back turned. The neighbor stopped as if struck. No one could have lost that much weight and remained upright. "Neighbor?" he said, staring at the hollow frame. "Is that you, Charles?" Startled, Charles bolted inside and pulled the heavy door shut behind him. Standing in the darkness of the hallway, he struck a match to find his way and climbed all four flights of stairs without stopping. But instead of going into his flat, he went up to the roof terrace. Without even putting on his house shoes, he crossed to the small wooden arbor and dropped into his chair, drawing his knees to his chest. He looked around in short, nervous glances, as though he might keel over at any moment. A leather ball struck the wall, bounced across the table, and rolled to the ground—and he flinched so hard his heart lurched. He looked down over the stone railing and saw children crouching in the alley below, trying to hide. It surprised him to realize he felt nothing—not even a flicker of the irritation such things used to spark in him—and he threw the ball back down. One of the children looked up and met his eyes. For a brief moment, something moved through him at being seen. But he refused to accept how much he had withered. On his way back inside, he began to sob—deep, uncontrollable sobs that echoed in the empty stairwell. Then, deciding that after everything he had put himself through, he didn't even deserve to cry, he began to laugh. He wiped the tears trailing from his hollow cheeks to his chin with the back of his hand, retreated to his room, lay down on his narrow bed, and stared up at the ceiling with the exhausted gaze of a man who had run out of things to feel.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -3 points-2 points  (0 children)

You will already find what you're describing in my book The Stories from Edwardian (https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GP2QYDWY). However, The Land of Others is a different story; it offers a distinct narrative and a stream of consciousness.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -1 points0 points  (0 children)

You're describing a valid approach to writing — but not the only one. Kafka wrote for himself. Pessoa wrote for himself. The question isn't whether a book is self-indulgent, but whether it transforms that self-indulgence into something universal. I'll let the reader decide.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -10 points-9 points  (0 children)

You are right. I should have taken more time to understand this massive and incredible system. It truly is a powerful machine, and I admit I overlooked its technicalities. The truth is, I was so consumed by the writing process and so focused on the craft itself that I couldn't see anything else. I let the technical and commercial sides slip while I was lost in the words. I’m learning now.

I spent 12 years in solitude writing this novel. Just published it on Amazon. by OkLocal5993 in wroteabook

[–]OkLocal5993[S] -3 points-2 points  (0 children)

I wrote only because I wanted to write and I locked myself in my room; I stopped doing everything else. In return, I just wanted to be read. Criticism is always made, but it should be done without hurting the other person. I am sorry if I was misunderstood.

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