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I'd like to become a professional writer in the next decade.

7 (29.2%)

Less than videogames.

6 (25%)

I am a professional writer.

3 (12.5%)

More than my health.

2 (8.3%)

I'm not sure.

5 (20.8%)

More than videogames.

0 (0%)

Not at all.

1 (4.2%)

Total Members Voted: 24

Voting closed: April 23, 2012, 11:42:36 pm

[silverskull39]

Thanks for the advice/critique guys. I know it still needs some work. I'd like to lengthen it a little, but I don't think sectioning is the way to go. I think it would do better to have a paragraph or two of willow soul's ramblings while he's stuck somewhere out of mans reach. I think that would kind of make the loss of momentum seem more natural. It's not a loss of momentum of the writing that way, so much as a loss of willpower in the sword as he slowly slinks further into despair. IDK, though. We'll see.

Tense is one of the trickier things in this story, since I don't believe it is solidly in one tense or another, but sort of an abstract tense caught in the sword's lack of an accurate perception of time. I'm gonna have to work on portraying that better.

The whole thing kind of came at me like a whirlwind, idea wise. I just had the idea pop into my head, sat down and wrote it out in an hour or two. Been doing a little revision here and there for a couple weeks, but it hasn't changed too much from the original.

I'll have some more writing to post later on, but it's not complete enough/revised enough right now.

Unrelated note, does anyone know a good, free way to copyright your work? I know mailing it to yourself works, but does email do the same? Technically it provides a verified date and proof the work is yours...but... I'm not too sure.

[Supermikhail]

What you're talking about isn't copyright itself (I've read somewhere on these forums, that as soon as the work's been written it's copyright to you), it's a way to prove the work is copyright to you, in case there is doubt. You know, even if you lawyer-stamped an online copy, someone could still challenge your right. I would think that an e-mail works, as long as the service is secure enough and independent, because someone else would have a hard time to come up with a similar proof. I imagine it's been typed into a computer straight away? I've heard that people rely on physical drafts sometimes.

[silverskull39]

Yeah, it's straight to the computer. I just can't get a good flow going with pen and paper. As far as the service, I can either use gmail or my dads private server, probably go for the second one. I'm not too worried about it right now, but I wanted to know for the future.

[Supermikhail]

For the dad's private server, I'm by no means a pro servers person, and not really a pro computer person, but couldn't you, say, manipulate date and time on your dad's computer so that for your e-mail they would be earlier than of another claimant? That's what I meant by secure and independent - that neither you nor any other interested party could change something to their advantage.

[silverskull39]

ah. then in that case gmail is probably better, unless google is out to steal my work, which I highly doubt. I guess I misunderstood what you meant.

[Fishbreath]

For future reference and current clarity: sending a copy to yourself does not in any way improve your standing. In the US, at least, there are two kinds¹ of copyright.

First is the sort you get simply by creating something. Once you have "fixed [your work] in a tangible form of expression", you have copyright on it. You're not even required to put a copyright notice on. It's good to include one anyway, though, because having a copyright notice on published copies makes it much easier to win a copyright suit.

Of course, you can't actually file a copyright suit regarding a US-originated work unless you register with the Copyright Office. That's more complicated, costs money, and is generally a bit of a pain. On the other hand, registration within five years of publication (that is, making the work available to the public, defined as people without an explicit or implicit restriction with respect to the disclosure of the material) means that your position in court is basically unassailable.

Regardless, there isn't any middle ground; the "poor man's copyright" doesn't have any legal benefit under US copyright law.

---
1. Not technically, but practically.

[silverskull39]

So as long as I have proof that it's mine and I copyright it within five years of publishing, I should be fine then? Well, that's nice to know. I'm a long way off from having anything publishable that would really need that. The most I've got right now are short stories like the one above, which, if I sell it to a magazine they get rights to use it according to the terms of the agreement, but shouldn't that serve as a way to prove the material is mine as well? I don't know as much about copyrights as I should, but that's ok cus writing is just a hobby for me anyway.

[Supermikhail]

For future reference and current clarity: sending a copy to yourself does not in any way improve your standing. In the US, at least, there are two kinds¹ of copyright.

First is the sort you get simply by creating something. Once you have "fixed [your work] in a tangible form of expression", you have copyright on it. You're not even required to put a copyright notice on. It's good to include one anyway, though, because having a copyright notice on published copies makes it much easier to win a copyright suit.

Of course, you can't actually file a copyright suit regarding a US-originated work unless you register with the Copyright Office. That's more complicated, costs money, and is generally a bit of a pain. On the other hand, registration within five years of publication (that is, making the work available to the public, defined as people without an explicit or implicit restriction with respect to the disclosure of the material) means that your position in court is basically unassailable.

Regardless, there isn't any middle ground; the "poor man's copyright" doesn't have any legal benefit under US copyright law.

---
1. Not technically, but practically.

Then how about these sites that claim that if you publish a creative work on their pages you have copyright on that work? I even have to choose between different sorts of copyright (usually GPL or somesuch) for my Scribd account.

[mendonca]

Hey bjlong, thanks very much for reading my writing and giving me such feedback, I really appreciate it - it's great to see another angle and it definitely opens up my own writing to me.

I thought, as soon as everybody in here tends to like fantasy, I would have a crack at this, for fun and practice - an opening to a story, based on the DF world.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

In the dark fortress of Ear-torn, an old brown-skinned and wrinkled Goblin stood on a grey slate dais in the middle of the central temple. He stood with squinting eyes, chewing slowly on the stalk of some cave wheat, and he turned slowly around on the spot, carefully re-arranging the positioning of his feet and spinning his upper body and head – separately – as if they were linked to different control systems. Lumps and bumps – the tokens of battles won and lost – were littered across his bones, raising skin and casting shadows, denying the day-light to below from the mosaic of glass tiles set in the ceiling. A fresh kill returned by the hunters was hung to a joist at the back of the temple, bleeding out in to a zinc bath. The old goblin was Zathrut, the fortress priest, and he spoke:

“Tis twilight ‘afore the wolves will play amongst us, young goblinfolk. While then, take this here toy, a bone figurine of a dwarf, and play with it.” He raised the toy upwards, and shook it dramatically, widening his eyes and juddering his head for extra effect. The arms and legs of the toy shook freely.

“Look, see how the joints move? Joined through wi’ a tiny strand of adamantine – huh!” The old goblin smirked.
   
“Much like the real bones of the little mountain dwelling bastards, I can tell ye. There are many amongst us who could testify to such things, oh yes.” The oratory was harsh - a guttural belch of a voice and it was music to the ears of a young Goblin, Grax, on his haunches listening intently to the wise old man in front of him. It continued and the rest of the temple were in silence.

“The chief lasher, Ungolt, of what – 2 hun’erd years whence? He came back fa’ battle with the look of a startled Elk-bird, his rich vermillion hair grown puce – a sorry sight, I’ll tell yer.” He paused, shaking his head and drawing the captivated audience deeper in to his tale.

“WHY?” Zathrut boomed. Grax at the front nearly fell back, the force of the delivery surprising him.

“I’ll tell you why. But Ungolt, he can’t. The poor bastard is dead. And he nearly couldn’t tell us what happened to him on that fateful day, I’ll tell yer” - on that word, the old goblin delivered a loud, stray belch to the audience. Grax smelled fresh meat and sunshine on Zathrut’s breath – his wide eyes and admiration grew.

“He took a force twenty-goblin-strong. The best team of lashers this ‘ere tower has seen. They traveled NORTH for twelve days and nights, feeding solely on th’hearts and liver of lizards, such that by the time they would arrive at their ultimate destination, they would be SOAKED wi’ anger and venom. The warriors preparation – blood, vigour and physical exercise”. Zathrut held the bone dwarf out to the crowd at arms length, moving his arm with an arc and showing it to all present. Grax was twitchy at the talk of these fine warriors - anxious to know how they could possibly have come to be defeated. Zathrut was about to enlighten him and his fellow audience:

“BLOOD! VIGOUR and PHYSICAL EXERCISE!” Grax felt that maybe the old goblin was milking the crowd somewhat.

“And these goblins arrived at the place – the mountain retreat of vile creatures we know as DWARVES. And the goblins sought what was rightfully theirs – the children. And the goblins swung the silver-laced scourges around there heads and struck – SNAPPING at the short little BASTARDS with the crack of their whips. And these fine folk, who had the accuracy to snuff candles, and the strength to snap the bones of a horses back leg with their chosen tools – they cracked at the air.” Zathrut paused, he was content that he was getting his point across and always took pleasure in seeing the young goblins at the front gawp, spittle and gums and bottom lips; he knew how to hold a crowd’s attention. Grax sat gawping.

“And when they did strike – when they could hit? WHEN OUR FINEST WARRIORS STRUCK?! With the force to snap a mules spine? THE TOUGH LITTLE BASTARDS SHRUGGED IT OFF.”

Zathrut continued “All twenty of our kind returned, without the children they set out for. Only four of them did not go to the catacombs for a long, long rest before that day was out, but those sixteen were the lucky ones – for the fear and torment was to take the other four in short time.”

Grax had heard and read about Dwarves, but never had he considered them to be such fine warriors. Zathrut summarised his oratory, with a carefully delivered footnote:

“So, young Goblins, those of you planning to venture outside, and perhaps find a trade outside these walls. A message to you, from Ungolt and the nineteen of his brothers and sisters that bravely set out from Ear-torn on that fateful day. Don’t fuck with the Dwarves.”

On that point, Grax knew full well what he must do. He must bring a Dwarf child back to Ear-torn, for the glory of the tower, and he must do it as soon as he could.

[silverskull39]

Hey bjlong, thanks very much for reading my writing and giving me such feedback, I really appreciate it - it's great to see another angle and it definitely opens up my own writing to me.

I thought, as soon as everybody in here tends to like fantasy, I would have a crack at this, for fun and practice - an opening to a story, based on the DF world.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

snipped

That was pretty good! The only thing I have to say aside from grammar Nazi nitpicking is that Zathrut had a rather large vocabulary for a goblin, in my opinion. It's much better than I can ever do with DF based stories. My prose tends to fall flat when it's based on something else.

[Willfor]

Disregard my earlier post, I think I have this somewhat presentable now. This isn't my published stuff, this is practice, and it's going to be ongoing. I am, however, not going to fix any of these up. I am putting more work into their writing from the outset rather than relying on drafts. Because, like I said, these are practice. Criticism, and comments are welcome. No blurb yet as I will leave that for later.

Spoiler: Constructs: To The City (click to show/hide)

✥ ✬ ✥ Constructs: To The City ✥ ✬ ✥

There are parts of my life that are strange to think about. I've spent too much time around people who were born. I remember being born too. I sprang fully formed from the earth. There were men around who were killing everything. They had swords, and they had armor made from my sisters. Looking back, I remember they were new to everything as well.

There were things I knew right from the beginning. I knew I was part of a great undertaking. There was a passion flowing through me for destruction. It was the greatest joke of all. We were born to mock the invaders. I remember the line I was supposed to say when one came near: "Die Evil Plantkillers!" I was so naive at the start. I would have proven myself as a good little gaming construct back then.

I was beside two of my sisters when one of the adventurers came up. I wasn't the one he challenged, but he got too close. Understand that our compulsion is a never-ending whine that tells us to attack. I got the scream of fury ringing in my ears, but I didn't need it. I had been waiting for him to come. I felt destiny calling. My sisters and I chorused our lines in unison as we rushed to him.

"Shit, help me guys!" he said as we approached. He'd bitten off more than he could chew. All of his friends were busy with our other sisters.

Players can't ever truly understand what they're doing. His sword bit the sister to my right, and then my sister to the left. We were wearing cloth like idiots, and they started spurting their thick sap. He was surprised. He'd been fighting our allies closer to the edge of the woods. They were Dread Elves who had allied with us, and they were just as nameless as were. The player was spattered and soaked with the blood of his own kind. He was cutting into creatures who only looked like Dread Elves at that moment, and he was about to get a surprise.

I forget which of my sisters jumped on top of him, but he was quickly on the ground. The other one cast Fungal Rot, but it hit the ground. Treekiller, she took damage for that. I saw the rot appear on her through her shirt. That was when she decided to stop casting, and attack. The one on top of him quickly had a sword run through her belly. I saw it emerge from her back, and then slowly pulled back out. It was stuck in her for a little too long. Chunks of his leg were being bitten off by the still-alive sister, and he was roaring in pain as my dying sister tried to claw his face off.

My dying sister became dead, and my other sister took a swipe to the head. There are no cures for a nameless one's head injury. The sword took it away from her at any rate. He stood, but he was still bleeding from many wounds. Our claw attacks were good. They couldn't get through his mail, but only his chest had been covered with that.

"Two down, and you still want to mess with me?" His voice sounded ten, but his face showed no signs of doubt. It did show signs of infection. Our claw attacks were good. I blasted him in the chest with my magic. He closed the distance, and he marked my face with a slash that was meant to take the whole thing off. The blade was dulled with the sap of my sisters, and my left cheek parted below my nose.

There was no apology for what he did. I dove into him with rage. I could see in his eyes that my Rot had found its mark. I punched him in the breastbone as hard as I could, and I felt the crack of brittle flesh underneath. He screamed, and I was still insatiable. I grabbed his sword arm, and bit deeply. Blood is a taste you remember, and you will remember it always.

The moment his life went away was the moment I was no longer a pawn. The other players noticed me. I could feel the transformation inside, but I was weakened from the battle. I didn't even find the slash across the side he'd given me until hours later.

That was how I was born. There is no doubt in my mind that the man I killed was resurrected promptly, and paid good silver to have the scars removed too. I let my first scars fester too long without turning to a fleshcrafter, and they're permanent now. It's the massive disparity between player and construct. We're the ones forced to live with the scars.

Do I even have to tell you that I escaped? It's a foregone conclusion, and my escape was as boring a running through the woods can be. I saw more of my sisters as I ran. There were so many of them, and all of them were pawns. It was what the players like to call a starting area. The pawns are always weak there because their masters are weak. It was a contrivance so vast that I could come to only one conclusion: I was going to end the parade of easy growth for the bastards. Somehow.

Some explanations are in order. I was brought to life in the Ecumenical Gardens of Erven. Great Druid Cadelwyn began using her resources to make pawns for herself, and I was one of those. The area was rich in magic, and that's why the Dread Elves had begun mining efforts there. The players had all kinds of minor threats. The most galling thing is that I wasn't part of the most annoying thing for them. Rock worms in the mines and excavation were the main threat to players. We were a joke. I was a joke. The punchline was delivered to me an hour after I stopped being a pawn. It was very funny, but I don't think you would laugh.

Cadelwyn was whispering to me through magic. She was congratulating me for surviving my christening. She wanted me to join her. I could lead the forces protecting her from the players. It was only a matter of time before the players joined forces to raid her ruin of a fortress.

I told her to go back to bed with her broom. I was greatly amused by her annoyance. What an easy way to be banished. It was for the best though. Two weeks later fifteen players got together, and lead an attack against her. The Sisters of the Ecumenical Gardens ceased to be. I have never been told who came after. There were a string of antagonists who couldn't put down roots for very long.

The world is not easy on the ones who ascend the ranks. I was in an especially bad position. I had no resources to call on except for my own body. Those of us who become elite can count on getting a share of resources from a superior. That bridge was long burned before I realised what I would have to do.

For a time I freelanced as an assassin. I found some quests that no player would have a chance to come across for a long time, and I did them. I found pawns who could craft, and tricked them into aiding me. Once my inventory was built I was ready. It doesn't sound like much, but it was months of hard work.

Tinus is a city two days from where I was born. Humans built it quickly, and it has never been clean. It was player designed, and mostly player built. Constructs began populating it when shops were needed. When the founding players turned it over to go further north it was taken over by the constructs to facilitate better quest production.

It was there that I found what I needed to move forward with my plans.

[Karnewarrior]

Posted this on the MSPA forums, but didn't really get a lot of replies. So here it is here, for review.

Spoiler:  Lemonsnout: Story of the Senator (click to show/hide)

BLIND JUNGLE

Struggling, he twisted in the air, the noose cutting ever deeper into his neck. He thrashed about silently, as he always did. Damn her! The bitch caught him again, tossing him out the window like some cheap toy.

Senator James R. Lemonsnout was NOT. A. TOY.

A sufficiently violent thrash, and the knot slipped. The rope spun Lemonsnout about and dropped him the full 3 stories or so to the bottom of the tree. The senator landed with a grunt, rolling to absorb the impact. Due to his small stature, the impact came out only as a soft squeak. The senator struggled to his feet, casting one last glance back at the hellhole that was the hive of Terezi Pyrope. Lemonsnout spat. The vile she-witch could go to hell for all he cared. He turned to the forest, his new home. Most likely the forest was no less of a hellhole, but at least it would be simpler than dealing with Pyrope. Lemonsnout limped off into his new home, a home of purple and white.

And, a land of primal danger.

************************

Lemonsnout was battered and torn. Quite litterally. He was missing more than a few scales and a bright yellow blood was dripping slowly from a few deeper cuts. He squinted deeper into the forest. This was rediculous, how far could one forest stretch?

Lemonsnout had been walking for almost a week, weaving through the forests, feeding on the slimy sap that was revealed when the trees were cut by Lemonsnouts claws, gorging himself of the meagre fare. Unbefitting of a senator, yes, but when faced with the choice of life or death, Lemonsnout chose life. The bark also was good to chew on, giving off a soft minty flavor. Lemonsnout could sypathize with the she-witch there. He did enjoy the trees.

Brambles, not so much, He thought, picking thorns out of one claw as he weaved his way through the forest. To be sure, the forest was a beautiful sight, but Lemonsnout wouldn't reccomend anywhere nearby as a recreational facility. First things first, he would have this forest chopped to peices, ground up, and made into a nice box of inscense for his office.

Assuming he even had a office. Lemonsnout had been gone for a long time, being interrogated by Pyrope. Slapped just enough to sting, not to bruise. How nice of the she-witch to be so lenient on Lemonsnout. So forgiving. It made Lemonsnout sick to his stomach how vile and treacherous these trolls could allow their children to be. The trees bagan to thin, tempting Lemonsnout on. Faster, faster, faster! On and on, until the senator was almost at a full run, speeding through the forest as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. Just a little farther.

Just a little farther...

A little farther...

A little more...

There! A house, perched on a cliff, hanging precariously over the cliff. Perhaps it was abandoned, as massive spiderwebs laced the sides of the house like a spidersilk covering. Lemonsnout dropped to his knees, thanking whatever god had delivered this home, this safe haven. Surely, this was the place he was meant to be, not with that irritating, horrible, vile excuse for a prosecutor.

The senator slept there, just in view of the house he belived was a safe haven, just in view of his promised land.

*****************

HOUSE OF WEBS

Lemonsnout awoke to the admittedly startling visage of Vriska Serket looming over him. She smiled, fangs glinting in the rising sunlight. Her one eye looked over Lemonsnout like a buyer at a market, sliding over every rip and cut on his body.

"Aww, ikle Terezi lost a dragon! Come here, little guy, I'll fix you up!" said Vriska in a overly-sweet tone of voice. She grabbed Lemonsnout by the tail and dragged him off into the hive nearby, the one covered in webs.

As Vriska opened the door, the faintest glints of starlight were just going out, giving way to the beating Alternian sun. In the background, the trees began to shrink and shrivel visibly, protecting themselves from the horrible heat.

Inside the hive was little better than the outside. A thousand little spiders drew their webs over every available surface, prompting Vriska to swat some away as she set Lemonsnout down on a side table, webs clinging to her hand. Lemonsnout waited, certain she was soon to bring some first aid, or at least food a bit more fitting than tree sap.

He waited for hours. He brushed the spiders off him frequently, scoring more than a few bites for his time. After a few hours, Lemonsnout decided that Vriska wasn't coming back. The senator stood up, brushed himself free of the spiders again, and hopped off the table in a trail of broken cobwebs.

Lemonsnout guessed that the kitchen would be upstairs, so Lemonsnout made the arduous beginnings of the trek, clibing on stair after another. This was the one thing about the She-witches hive that he missed, the simple rope ladders, and all the important things being on one floor.

But though the journey was long and difficult, Lemonsnout did eventually make it up the stairs. To the first landing, that is. At least there was what seemd to be a kitchen on this floor, complete with a meatlocker. Thank gog for blue-bloods and their high-class tendancies.

Lemonsnout wandered into the kitchen. There didn't appear to be any ways of reaching the couter-tops, though the smells of cooking meat wafted downwards to the senators hungry nose. No, Lemonsnout needed ingeniuity to get his meal. Luckily, that was what the good senator lived on.

finding a sufficiently large crate of spices, Lemonsnout dragged it acroos to where another, bigger box of salt lay. the make-shift stairwell was still not enough to reach the counter, but that would be rectified shortly.

Lemonsnout scuttled across the oddly spider-free kitchen in search of a can, any can. Lemonsnout wasted five minutes scuttling about the floor before finally finding a little paparika bottle that had been dropped without baking. Whoever cooked here was a total slob, it seemed, if he or she was leaving bits of food lying about.

Lemonsnout dragged the bottle of paparika back to his little stair case, and with one massive heave, sent the bottle flying upward onto the first step. Lemonsnout dragged his bruised and torn body up the first step, grabbed the paparika bottle again, and repeated the motions. Then, stepping on the bottle as a very precarious top level, Lemonsnout grasped the edge of the countertop and dragged himself up there as well.

Lemonsnout wasn't done yet. making his way over to the oven the senator looked into the gargantuan pot at the simmering gray meat inside. Quickly, Lemonsnout dipped his arm into the boiling water and drew out the bit of meat, ignoring the burn in favor of actual food.

The meat itself was warm and succulent, simmered to perfection, for Lemonsnout at least. Trolls tended to like their meat a little less raw, but Lemonsnout wasn't a troll. He snapped the meat up quickly before burping and settling down to rest behind a box labeled 'LEGS'. evedently, the girl was fond of cluckbeast meat.

***************************

Lemonsnout opened his eyes just as the door to the kitchen opened. A very crazed looking Vriska entered, eyeing the pot. She muttered something to herself about someone probably wanting fresher meat this time, and moved over to the meat locker. With a flourish, she opened the meat locker.

The eyes of the dead trolls inside were glassed over. The noramally grey skin had been bleached to a white, save where the rainbow of different bloods ran down from where a hook had been jabbed in their left eyeball. The majority of them wore pained expressions, while some looked like they were still pleading for release. Some just looked resigned, they knew there was no hope, no escape. They were right.

Serket took one off the hook and hoisted the corpse over her shoulder. Then, she lugged the body to the door and down the stairs. It was dinnertime for her lusus.

[Fishbreath]

So as long as I have proof that it's mine and I copyright it within five years of publishing, I should be fine then? Well, that's nice to know. I'm a long way off from having anything publishable that would really need that. The most I've got right now are short stories like the one above, which, if I sell it to a magazine they get rights to use it according to the terms of the agreement, but shouldn't that serve as a way to prove the material is mine as well? I don't know as much about copyrights as I should, but that's ok cus writing is just a hobby for me anyway.

So long as you register it, at least. You should be fine even without that; if you were to sell it to a magazine you grant them usage rights but (generally, in my understanding) retain your copyright.

Then how about these sites that claim that if you publish a creative work on their pages you have copyright on that work? I even have to choose between different sorts of copyright (usually GPL or somesuch) for my Scribd account.

They're simply stating the obvious--under US law, when you create a work, you have copyright on it. They're asking you about various sorts of licenses, not sorts of copyrights. Licenses determine what the public is able to do with a copyrighted, published work; under the GPL the list of things they can do is quite long (so long as any derivative works remain GPL-licensed). For licensing free creative works I tend to prefer the Creative Commons licenses.

[Fishbreath]

Willfor, I thought that very clever.  I'm on my phone at the moment, and so it would be a huge pain to be more detailed, but I liked most of it.

[Supermikhail]

It's beautiful. Has anyone noticed how beautiful the sky today is?... Three amazing submissions in one day, and lots of action! I'm calling the Last Days.

Anyway, @mendonca: I liked it very much and cracked up at the end, although I'm not sure if the the power of dwarves is going to be explained in the further entries, or it's natural as I haven't played DF for a long time and don't know anything about the current balance. I mean it felt as if there's some ambiguity to whether the uber-dwarves are an important point, or that all dwarves are like that.

@Willfor: That's what I'm talking about. The action is so good (and it has characterization, too) I almost wept. Also, nice vignette in the title. Now, criticism. I felt as if there's some disparity of the pacing between the beginning and the end, specifically where the protagonist starts telling how he (probably she?) fared after the escape. It feels like a distinctly different part, and I'm going to insist on asterisks again.

@Karnewarrior: I liked your story. It could use some proofreading, but it's well-told, and I'm interested to see how it continues. What I see as its weaknesses - the protagonists has little characterization, he could use some expression, or voiced thoughts... Or maybe you need to slow down the pace a little, hold up a little in a scene. For example, some event in the forest, to break the dynamic, and admire the surroundings.
The beginning may need some exposition. I know they say you need to start in the middle, but that's too much - it feels amateur. Start a little slower, with a bit of description. With "Senator James R. Lemonsnout was hanging with his neck through a noose on a rope, the other end of which was tied to a branch of an old oak - which served as a home to Pyrope, a witch..." Or something like that.
Also, you overuse the protagonist's name - "he" could suffice in some places. Try replacing Lemonsnout with "he", but avoid ambiguity.