I hope im posting this in the right spot, it was a toss up between the off topic discussion forum and this, but in the end i wanted advice in relation to my writing 
Here is an excerpt from the beginning of a story I am writing about a guy who runs a cafe. I am part of a writing forum, but unfortunately the admin is akin to the Gestapo and it is nigh impossible to get anything posted, so I have turned to the Escapist for advice on how to improve my writing
note this is before I've edited the clunky sentences, grammar etc, So feel free to tear into it as much as possible so i can sit back and let you do all the editing for me- I mean enjoy
Quirke Cafe
Blurb: Cheery twenty-something David runs the eternally misspelt ?Quirke Cafe? along with his hedonistic lifelong friend Sarah. David?s natural charisma and eloquence is countered by his selfish nature and weakness for woman which serves the basis of many of the unusual misadventures the couple find themselves thrust into. Sarah?s sharp tongue and endless pursuit of all things pleasurable does nothing but deepen their troubles as they are blunder through their mostly idyllic white Anglo Saxon lives.
Chapter 1: The Cafe
Waking up on a Monday is akin to having your skull bashed open by an angry biker with a pointy plank of wood. There?s no clever punch line to that analogy, I just hate waking up on Mondays.
Groaning I rolled over in bed, covering my ears with a pillow, willing the noisy alarm clock to disappear. This course of action had a success rate that could be described as ?less than stellar? considering every Monday morning I willed the clock out of existence yet the little smug bastard remained sitting on my bedside table gleefully ticking away with its four number disarm combination. Bleary eyed, I clumsily pawed for the clock, and thumbed in ?1-9-9-4? the year of my birth.
The alarm clock defiantly continued to ring. I sighed with frustration. My approach to technology was adopted from my fathers, who in turn adopted his approach from his father. It went something along the lines of this ?Don?t touch it. You can only make it worse.? What I had not taken on from my father however, was his patience and level headedness. I was sick of this bloody alarm clock ringing in the middle of the night every Thursday, before sheepishly wishing me ?Good Morning? on its small screen like nothing had happened. So mustering my knowledge, I tapped the button that all members of the general populace fear to touch on all electronic objects, the ?function button.?
Five minutes later I exited my room, ?Sarah! Um, Can you pop out and buy a new alarm clock sometime today??
Silence echoed in our dishevelled apartment. I knocked on Sarah?s door whose room was opposite mine in our short hallway.
?Sarah! I?m coming in! Call out if you have company!?
After a moment I opened the door revealing an undisturbed bed, surrounded by a very disturbed cupboard, couch, and set of drawers. Sarah?s diary was irresponsibly and rather temptingly laid open on her bedside table. I waved the thought away, I might breeze through it later. I walked into the main room of our apartment. There was a clear divide in the apartment where the my folded pieces of paper and half read books ended, and Sarah?s clusters of wine bottles and DVD?s began.
We had a small kitchen that might be considered functional if it wasn?t for the empty packets and utensils which clogged its every pore, and a lounge which might be considered comfortable if it wasn?t for the gutted sofa which neither of us had been bothered to get rid of. The couch had sustained its grievous injuries when myself and Sarah made the rather disastrous mistake of minding Andrews mean spirited cat while he went overseas.
Between the lounge and the kitchen was a polished table that?s gleaming surface had unfortunately not seen the light of day since I had started to utilise it as my back up writing desk on days when my room felt too far way to bother using my proper writing desk. I swept aside the layer of papers and then poured myself three glasses of water, and sat them in a row on the table. I spent a minute scrabbling around for the cereal, before making myself a bowl. I returned to the table, sat down then stood back up forgetting my newspaper.
Sarah had left it at the door to my room. I picked it up and checked the date ?March 20th 2016?
?Aha! Naughty Sarah! Giving me yesterdays paper eh?? I called out to no one.
I took it nevertheless and idly flicked through whilst devouring my cereal, stopping only to pick out the little plastic alien that came in the cereal box. I set it on the kitchen bench smiling to myself. Sarah collected these toys and kept them in a box under her bed. After I finished my cereal I drank all three cups of water in quick succession. I promised myself I would wash the bowl up later, and added it to the growing pile of crockery on the side of the sink filed under ?I promise I?ll wash up later.?
Here is an excerpt from the beginning of a story I am writing about a guy who runs a cafe. I am part of a writing forum, but unfortunately the admin is akin to the Gestapo and it is nigh impossible to get anything posted, so I have turned to the Escapist for advice on how to improve my writing note this is before I've edited the clunky sentences, grammar etc, So feel free to tear into it as much as possible so i can sit back and let you do all the editing for me- I mean enjoy
Quirke Cafe
Blurb: Cheery twenty-something David runs the eternally misspelt ?Quirke Cafe? along with his hedonistic lifelong friend Sarah. David?s natural charisma and eloquence is countered by his selfish nature and weakness for woman which serves the basis of many of the unusual misadventures the couple find themselves thrust into. Sarah?s sharp tongue and endless pursuit of all things pleasurable does nothing but deepen their troubles as they are blunder through their mostly idyllic white Anglo Saxon lives.
Chapter 1: The Cafe
Waking up on a Monday is akin to having your skull bashed open by an angry biker with a pointy plank of wood. There?s no clever punch line to that analogy, I just hate waking up on Mondays.
Groaning I rolled over in bed, covering my ears with a pillow, willing the noisy alarm clock to disappear. This course of action had a success rate that could be described as ?less than stellar? considering every Monday morning I willed the clock out of existence yet the little smug bastard remained sitting on my bedside table gleefully ticking away with its four number disarm combination. Bleary eyed, I clumsily pawed for the clock, and thumbed in ?1-9-9-4? the year of my birth.
The alarm clock defiantly continued to ring. I sighed with frustration. My approach to technology was adopted from my fathers, who in turn adopted his approach from his father. It went something along the lines of this ?Don?t touch it. You can only make it worse.? What I had not taken on from my father however, was his patience and level headedness. I was sick of this bloody alarm clock ringing in the middle of the night every Thursday, before sheepishly wishing me ?Good Morning? on its small screen like nothing had happened. So mustering my knowledge, I tapped the button that all members of the general populace fear to touch on all electronic objects, the ?function button.?
Five minutes later I exited my room, ?Sarah! Um, Can you pop out and buy a new alarm clock sometime today??
Silence echoed in our dishevelled apartment. I knocked on Sarah?s door whose room was opposite mine in our short hallway.
?Sarah! I?m coming in! Call out if you have company!?
After a moment I opened the door revealing an undisturbed bed, surrounded by a very disturbed cupboard, couch, and set of drawers. Sarah?s diary was irresponsibly and rather temptingly laid open on her bedside table. I waved the thought away, I might breeze through it later. I walked into the main room of our apartment. There was a clear divide in the apartment where the my folded pieces of paper and half read books ended, and Sarah?s clusters of wine bottles and DVD?s began.
We had a small kitchen that might be considered functional if it wasn?t for the empty packets and utensils which clogged its every pore, and a lounge which might be considered comfortable if it wasn?t for the gutted sofa which neither of us had been bothered to get rid of. The couch had sustained its grievous injuries when myself and Sarah made the rather disastrous mistake of minding Andrews mean spirited cat while he went overseas.
Between the lounge and the kitchen was a polished table that?s gleaming surface had unfortunately not seen the light of day since I had started to utilise it as my back up writing desk on days when my room felt too far way to bother using my proper writing desk. I swept aside the layer of papers and then poured myself three glasses of water, and sat them in a row on the table. I spent a minute scrabbling around for the cereal, before making myself a bowl. I returned to the table, sat down then stood back up forgetting my newspaper.
Sarah had left it at the door to my room. I picked it up and checked the date ?March 20th 2016?
?Aha! Naughty Sarah! Giving me yesterdays paper eh?? I called out to no one.
I took it nevertheless and idly flicked through whilst devouring my cereal, stopping only to pick out the little plastic alien that came in the cereal box. I set it on the kitchen bench smiling to myself. Sarah collected these toys and kept them in a box under her bed. After I finished my cereal I drank all three cups of water in quick succession. I promised myself I would wash the bowl up later, and added it to the growing pile of crockery on the side of the sink filed under ?I promise I?ll wash up later.?