As a novice writer of fourteen, I've tried a few attempts at science fiction (military science fiction, to be specific), and of course my writing's got HUGE mistakes and shortcomings. But the most obvious one is the fact that I end up with massive paragraphs that are most likely have too much unnecessary detail or have to be plowed through to read. What's a few ways to cut down on the lengths of paragraphs while keeping precise detail or making it an enjoyable read? See:
The thick forest near Lake Baikal, Russia
January 25th, 2068
A Pilum rocket found its explosive mark on the ice-encrusted slab of stone Sinclair was using as cover, with the resulting fulmination violently throwing the Assault Legionary four meters backward with an invisible fist of heated, compressed air. Sinclair landed on his back with a loud clang, on impact his head whipped backwards so sharply a great spike of protest drove up his neck that nearly blacked him out from the pain and sent him into an incapacitating daze – the trees all around him spun like he was being held before a monstrous cobalt turbine of whirring scarlet blades from the radiant flashes of gunfire and missile trails both the struggling troops and the tentacled ghouls exchanged bullets and warheads, neither willing to give ground in their ferocious firefight. Sinclair’s head throbbed with pulsing intensity, his hearing only a faint, distant ring, and his vision streaked with shimmering, shifting splashes of color even when he shut his eyes tight. Giving all his effort not to utter so as much as a moan from his agony, he gave himself three seconds of reprieve…
Sure enough, in three seconds the mental assault subsided, if only to a tolerable level. Exerting strenuous effort, Sinclair rolled onto his chest, the ground below him uttering grinding cracks of protest, and his upper body burned likewise, then stood to one knee as he braced one forearm to rise up to full height, for a split-second watching as the Lutetian soldiers continued to valiantly hold off another flurry of the infernal hellspawn, then swiveled on an armored boot, retrieved his railgun rifle laying askew several centimeters away from where he crashed.
The next ten seconds, Sinclair sent three slugs bolting clean through more of the demonic menagerie, of spider-women bobbing and weaving through the net of bullets, of regurgitators unleashing more of the vile, bubbling acid as lead and iron sank into them without effect, and of ghouls blanketing the camp with their own relentless counterfire, only diminishing when the creatures needed to reload their captured guns.
Switching on his re-activated communicator, which Sinclair had forgotten to reactivate and had been somewhat damaged-but-still-functional by his proximity to the rogue missile’s detonation, he almost coughed out a small gob of blood from biting his tongue before swallowing it.
“Solace! God damn it, Solace, where are you?!”
Still the Lutetian forces fought them back, backwards into the unnatural forest they came from, even though Sinclair knew from too many operations this light and unprepared that the defenders were running dangerously low on ammunition – some of the soldiers that were not killed or grievously wounded were now using their handguns, but they might as well have been hurling pebbles for all the damage it did.
Well, we all knew we’d die someday, wouldn’t we?
The Mantises would not be able to sustain their osmium barrages for long, nor could their ammunition-chewing machine guns, likewise for the Scorpions – their seemingly endless torrent of grenades (and autocannon shells, in the case of Thomas’ Scorpion) would have to halt sooner or later, and then their defences would collapse and the camp overrun.
Hell, personally I’m surprised I made it this far...
And now they were doomed. To be slaughtered, or consumed, or converted to one of these abominations, Sinclair didn't know. All that rushed through his mind, no longer caring about where his railgun slugs hit, was that he failed. He had led both his team, and dozens more soldiers to their deaths in a futile mission.
We'll all be paying for this in hell, I know it...
“Solace-One! Assist!” a hoarse, panicked cry with hints of barely-concealed relief reached Sinclair’s communicator headset speaker, echoing in his ear.
A simultaneous rustling noise, thunderous crashing, and the rumbling of engines alerted the battling forces – and with a headturn, double-take, and the elating feeling of a great burden lifting off his chest, Sinclair once more turned to the cratered, scorched front with a returned, rising, resurgent feeling of hope and gratitude as behind him, the lumbering, titanic adamantine monstrosity that is the C-88FV Scarab arrived (with some Courser members firing from a makeshift balcony while tossing ammunition crates atop the Scarab’s turret, Sinclair saw with another surge of relief) and immediately accomplished in two minutes what the entrenched Lutetian troops could not accomplish in the past two hours – the oncoming creatures were decimated by the tens and twenties from the deafening, earsplitting blasts that came with every slug the Scarab’s twin coilguns fired. An independently piloted laser cannon atop the Scarab fired sudden, radiant beams of red fury that incinerated any mutant unfortunate enough to enter its gunner’s crosshairs. Just in bloody time! Sinclair mentally snorted.
Within minutes, the camp, now having been relieved of intense pressure, reorganized its defensive pattern. Riflemen who had any ammo in their assault rifles left, both on the breastworks and some emerging from within the Scorpions, arranged into two rows, in the process flicking a pin on their rifles so that they fired only in three-round bursts – the phalanx formation used so commonly and effectively by Lutetian ground troops, as Sinclair had witnessed and participated in so many times in his many tours. Bombardiers, those given the task of wreaking havoc on enemy vehicles, stood behind the two rows of riflemen and aligned themselves like the riflemen, their Spiculum missile launchers held high and launching their deadly warheads. A trio of grenadiers capped the formation on both ends, spraying shards of shrapnel wherever their canisters detonated. Two snipers and their accompanying spotters positioned themselves within the Scorpions and picked off what they could, with the occasional crack as their precision aims sent tungsten rounds with pinpoint accuracy.
Thank you for bearing with me, and for your time to type a potential feedback.