Critique Thread

nice too much expostiion tho
just paste it into g translate lmao!
http://pastebin.com/pnwg2G2q
http://pastebin.com/S4DhvZv2
http://pastebin.com/RNAe7AV2

>>8908341
sorry, it's still pretty hard to make sense of it through google translate :/

>>8908378
at least you tried mate, at least you tried

>>8908295
That's a lot of fluffy exposition, just make precise cuts and j think it'll come off a bit gentler. Kinda has charm, though


I look around only to see so many faces that I cannot distinguish them from anything but a blur of grey. I'm on the stage, in the rural, terene state of California. The weather was so hot on this particular day, I remember. Every cap in front of me glazed with sweat, bodies only coming near each other because they want to.
They have to.
Half of them wore a shirt bearing my name, the other like some segregated community, wearing all sorts of simpleton garmets.
The stage shines back a dark black like a Stygian mirror, contrasting not only me but the lights that shone on the entire stage, despite there still remaining a few hours of sunlight.


//anything would be nice, will return any sort of constructive criticism

>>8908341
Can't read Odin

>>8908442
yeah, I agree, I just can't really think of how to communicate the same level of information without directly giving exposition as I walk the protagonist around in the beginning. Also imho it gets better towards the middle and end.

>>8908295
Tldr

Our blood will gasp for air and swell our veins,
in sinews clarify, and trickle down
a honeycomb of fleshy pores to rain
some sultry rivulets to ridge the frown
that, straddled barefoot, careful not to rake
with toes or ford with feet the bog
of our commingled sweat, a stump to break
it shall we drive therein, and soil unclog.
Where shielding plaster walls from coastal sprays
will make the coldest corner of the room,
our tethered hearts will rub in warm embrace
and spark a tongue to lick the hearth in bloom.
So long as stands the shaft that freed the soil,
there will be aged passions left to roil.

short story i've been working on this week , new years resolution is to actually finish a project

http://pastebin.com/X6x5Q5fJ

http://pastebin.com/WVKVpDGG
I am painfully, fully aware that this needs revision and almost certainly just needs a rewrite, but I was wondering if the ideas in it are salvageable. Fuck me up /lit/.

Mine:
Myrror Myrror

I dream of scalps of forest
hair and alps of elephants.

I see myself in silver spoons
and hope to see myself again,
Curved against that silver dome
and stretched into disfigurement.

I see myself in mirrored rooms
and see this is all of me to see
Flat portals of polished chrome
a portent and a filigree.

I dreamt of dancing well
and wearing artifacts.

I dreamt of dancing well,
but now I dream of elephants.


>>8908966
the enjmabments make this hard to read aloud
consider more frequent endstops as i doubt you want this read at rap-speed

some parts of the grammar are a bit tortured
>a stump to break it shall we drive therein
that's hard to read yo

also i have an issue detecting any sort of volta in this (which is a big deal in a sonnet)

>>8908295

Pretty long, don't have the time to read it all right now. Read the first paragraph and I liked what I read. I'm interested in where it's going and would like to read it all when I have time. I was quickly and clearing picturing what you were describing, which is refreshing compared to many of the harsh visuals that I'm used to dealing with. If your story stays on track as how it started, you may want to focus less on ambient details and make sure you're pushing the story forward as necessary and not fluffing with an excess of detail.
That being said, I didn't read it all, so I may be wrong. It's the best advice I could think to give at the moment. That, and after skipping to the end, the imagery, themes and metaphors seemed general. Which isn't always a bad thing, but with what I saw, I feel I can mentally fill in a good amount of the story inbetween.
I hope this helps.


I'm reporting this because I had one person give advice on it and it was hardly advice. The story is quite short, and is more of a representation of addiction than a real story. All I ask is that you please take your time when reading, because it'll be easy to miss the idea and "point" behind the story if you push through. Thanks in advance.

http://pastebin.com/PchZbyDn

I climb onto the bed. Mina is spreading her legs as wide as she can and her eyes are closed. I get to her, treading the sheet with my knees, and touch her pussy lips with the head of my dick. Mina flinches at the sensation. The hole is already wet, gaping slightly and drooling.

I tell her, "Open your eyes."

Mina opens her eyes and her gaze moves right onto my huge Celtic dick teasing her vagina.

I hold the shaft with one hand and rub the head on her clitoris. The pace of her breathing is escalating and her cheeks and pussy redden at the same time.

I ask her, "Is it big?"

"Yes."

"Is it bigger than your boyfriend's?"

"Yes. Much bigger."

I bend over her body and steal her lips. I slobber and make her open her mouth with my tongue and taste her saliva. It's sweet like tree sap.

At the same time I finger her. I slide a finger into her hole and sense that it's already hot and slippery with her pussy spit. I straighten my body and aim her hole with the tip of my dick and apply pressure. My full, pinkish dickhead starts to bury its head in her disgusting brown gook vagina. At first there is usual resistance. Then the tightening gets really intense as her hole senses this is something different from what it used to get. I manage to get the head and the beginning of my shaft in her but it is so tight that I have to keep applying pressure to keep it in. Mina squirms in pain.

I ask, "Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

I start moving the dick back and forth in her. She wriggles at the each movement and instinctively tries to close her legs but I gently press on her thighs with my hands and say, "No. You better keep it as wide as you can manage. It is going to hurt."

Having understood, Mina spreads her legs wide open again, closing her eyes. I see a hint of tears between her eyelids.

I keep moving the lower half of my body back and forth. My dick keeps moving, gradually increasing intervals. This will allow her tight gook cunt to adjust to my huge superior white dick. Although she is yet another cum dump, I don't want to hurt her.

I can manage a third of my length into her now. It's funny that I keep touching her cervix every time I push in. Every time her cervix has retreated a bit further, as if to be weary of what will come next. Her cunt is not used to anything like this. My shaft is glossy with her pussy spit. The flesh around her vagina is red.

"Tom. Stop. Can't take it more." Mina moans.

"No. Think about it. Babies come out of this hole. You can surely take the entirety of my dick." I push it in a bit too hard this time. The head of my dick rams into her cervix and she cringes but does not say anything. She knows that resistance is futile at this point. She can't move, impaled by my young and virile superior white cock.

>>8909717
I am pounding Mina. I am plowing her. I surround her little body with my strong white man's arms and keep pounding, up to the hilt, into her gook womb fully tamed to the whole of my masculinity. Her cervix has retreated to the farthest it could but the head is pressing it every time it rams into. I know it adds to the sensation. Good for her.

Mina is crying. She is wincing and frowining and her face is messy with tears. Then, when I least expected it, she cums. She squirts hard several times, showering my crotch with warm and slick liquid. I stop, letting her enjoy the first fews spasms of pleasure without interruption. The wall of her vagina contracts all around my dick at each burst of pleasure. Then I start plowing again. She screams at the heightened sensation. I know that her cervix is open due to the way it feels softer against my glans. I accelerate my pace. Each trust stronger and quicker than the one before. The springs of the bed are moaning all around us. I see Mina's face and her eyes are all white but before I get to worry, pleasure sweeps over me and I close my eyes and drive my cock deep inside her and I cum, cum, and cum with each tsunami of pleasure. The powerful jets of my cum hit her cervix, flood her pussy, and fill her womb through her open cervix. I cum and cum as if Mina is nothing but a plastic masturbation doll. I fill her inferior gook womb with my thick and hot superior white man's cum, gracing her inferior body with superior genes. If she gets a baby, which I am sure she will if she's ovulating, the offspring will be a less inferior being thanks to my mercy.

I keep my dick insife her even after I deposit all my seeds into her, to make sure that most semen gets to rest in her womb.

I embrace her with my whole body. I squeeze hard the little gook slut's body with my arms and legs and lick her face and whisper into her ear, "You are mine now."

She answers faintly, "Yes."

>>8909717
>>8909723

Edginess is not a substitute for quality
2/10, try again

>>8909723
>>8909717
Didn't cum but am getting there
6/10

>>8909717
>>8909723
This is the only thing in the thread that's competently written and it is first person present tense cuck smut with typos. Everything else in English has been garbage.

Keep it up, everyone else read more.

>>8909740
Idiot.

I, Glancing at my jagged finger nails with peeled skin, found myself to be shaking again. It was snowing. However, I’m inclined to believe that what falls upon Brooklyn is nothing I previously knew. Each bit of snow was never white. It was yellow, grey, and a crimson red. If I were to taste each of the spicules, my tongue would be spliced.

Very beginning to my novel

>>8908341
moonrunes
>>8908442
way too sporadic
>>8909717
>>8909723
retarded, erotica also has no literary merit

>>8909740
>2017
>still going on about edginess

>>8909975
that was edgy

>>8910561
What if I want my paragraph to drone to create a mods you fucking hack

>>8910561
>don't say very bad
>say terrible
I hate writing advice from idiots

>>8909975
>>2017
>2016

Once more round our celestial circuit.
Perhaps this time we'll get it right,
And so progress towards fuller beings
But to what end does mankind march?

Conflicted intrests curate chaos,
Convection cells of pro and re gress.
And so we pivot with little translation,
And so we fade with light transmission;
Perverse reflections of mankind's wonder,
In eternal echoes Jerry Springer reruns.

>>8910747
bruh, gross
Lrn2imagery and stop abstracting so much as to be impossibly vague
lines 2 and 4 need to be cut for being both redundant and cliche

the use of head-rhymes and parallelism means your learning though

sincerely,
>>8909339

II
There is nothing so commonplace as a high school talent.
Cooly rolling off the tongue of cheery eyed teachers who may
Wish to forget, or if not forget, believe in that tossup of chance
The hundreds and thousands of unwashed pimply faces
Making scenes and drama things to say "Oh, you could." I could. You could.
But do you remember when you were a student
In this bustling world, this twittering world
Embittering and embattling the tadpoles to ideals, worn ideals
Ideals of revolution and reaction, passivity and inaction
Lenin, Marx, Bakunin, etc, et. al. - all old men. All old men.
Not children, not the everyday man, all old men, pitifully old, halfway senile
Backs breaking under potbellies and beer taken on Sundays. The tree bears fruit.
Such an irony that it bears fruit only when our skeins of time shoot
Up into a spread, starry sky.

Here is the world now. That's how I made my millions. Some made billions.
Some made trillions, quadrillions, iron, steel. Silicon
Computer chips, the transistors, the wheel. So many. How many
Saw it? Not the end goal, because anyone could see it, the vague defined ideal.
Did someone see the numbers, though? Hitler was only seventy years ago
And his ideals have gone through the revisions and decisions of not TS Eliot
But ten thousand men, a hundred thousand, skinheads, Fascists, race realists,
Picked up his banner, liberalists, Marxists, Leninists, were there
to deny it. But even such a monstrosity as that, the wars, the years, the genocides
The meatgrinds, Rzhev, Verdun, could not impede the mass. The ever growing mass
Added onto by millions of life changing innovations and reinnovations
Every path growing more complicated and more moribund, and now, barring a disintegration-
Where do we begin? And how do we end? The twitter grows into a buzz.
The buzz into a screech. One can only wish for the tin-hush
The cessation of vibrations, the utter calm
Utterly lost in all our qualms.

>>8910774
thanks for the tips. I agree with you on the vagueness. I just cant help but lose sight of the fact that other people cant see inside of my head when they read what im writing. i find it tough to read through others eyes. what parts seem overly vague to you exactly?

as far as yours go i probably couldn't give much useful feedback, but give you an idea of what someone with no knowledge of poetry might see in it. parts of it come off to me as being about a man that once wanted luxury but now craves to return to a more challenging adventurous life. if thats way off i wouldn't be surprised

>>8910837
>Conflicted intrests curate chaos,
no imagery generate, it is more than a bit tell-y without warranting it really
>Perverse reflections of mankind's wonder,
this could literally mean anything, and although broadness can easily be confused for universality, it just isn't broham.
my advice for you is to write at least a couple haiku, real haiku, not just a 5-7-5 vomit
take 2 very concrete images, very seperate concrete images and press them together to highlight some subtle similarity and generate meaning through their differences.
don't worry about metaphor, don't worry about meter, worry about images and then use what you've learned to go forward with much more power.
imagery is the key, because whether or not you give it focus, how you handle will show your grip on writing.
here's a haiku i wrote that you can look at, but i encourage you to read imagists like Williams and H.D. to see how someone who is actually good does it:

riverrun psst the
green green holy;
bright-eye child

again, read people who are better than me. just went through all my haiku and remembered how much i hate most of them, but they taught me a lot.

This is me: >>8910778

I know nothing and only offer criticisms so that someone can read the poem that could use a tl;dr.

>>8909339
Good stuff. But then again, there's not too much to comment on. Very end-rhymey.

>>8910837
To convey a sort of emotion or an abstraction, just use a concrete situation that gives off the same feeling or concept.

Plato could've just said "We may not see the whole truth.", but he used an allegory, the cave and chained people, to describe it.

>>8909956
Anything at all on this one? Too meh?

>>8910973
Eh, probably, the only things that get looked over here are the short things or the things which stand out. Or you can self whore yourself out, like I am and like you have done. >>8910778


As for yours, the analogy is a little... disjointed. I don't quite get the tone you're trying to convey.

>>8910939
I can see how that line about reflections seems vague, i was actually thinking about tv signals bouncing around in space being the lasting remnants of humanity. I was trying to refer to the light transmission from the previous line but i guess that double meaning with the word light wasn't clear enough.
anyways thanks ill try that, seems like good practice. i never liked writing haikus cause i could never think of anything to say with so little, but i can see how thats a plus

>>8910973
my rule for poetry is to always have one of mine available to allow someone to gauge the worth of the critique they receive so here's some prose i've been working on that'll hopefully do the same

Lie down and let the flood wash over you (as it often does). You’ll feel the weight of firmament press down on you, only to press into you, only to press through you, only to lift you upward. Yes Here We Heal is a fountain nailed to a telephone pole, leaking manna all over the streets. Come and let me show you what I mean. I hold in my hand a piece of bread, torn by ducks and vultures, crumbling in so many ways. This bread is your flesh rent. Collect it and you can live forever. March through the Nile and you can find some morsel of heaven spilled from a careless ship. The maw of the ocean lay shattered at the delta, where the largest bread shards are found. These shards are your flesh rented out. You suffer weak bird-gods to peck at you, and that pains me. I’ve been around for a long time, and I’ve watched many things. I’ve felt the curse of Enoch once before, and when Uruk dried, I found him and cast him up into heaven. This time, I am too tired to swim.

now >>8910973
as for the critique :

>I,
the only person i've seen do this well (off the top of my head) is Charles Olson in his Maximus poems. It greatly ricks setting up a stammering rhythm that is nearly impossible to make work.
>Each bit of snow was never white.
work on this tonal turn, make it stronger
>yellow, grey, and a crimson red
crimson red is unnecessary,just say red. although the only color i felt did something interesting was grey
>It was snowing.
don't like this as its own sentence. feels like forced import
>If I were to taste each of the spicules, my tongue would be spliced.
the strange language is destroying your attempted tone.

>>8910952
the cadence in this is way too stereotypically spoken word for me, especially with the sporadic rhyming. try gorcing yourself to rhyme more words that don't have the same suffix
(illion, ist, ations) and you'll find your honestly freer in ways to turn the work and understand rhyming without meter is probably the hardest possible thing to do well.

>>8910995
Thanks, I can't believe I missed such obvious flukes. Whore for whore, then. I tried to amend my mood.
>I lay subject to concrete smiles and fleshy warmth upon this sidewalk. Glancing at my jagged finger nails with peeled skin, I found myself to be shaking again. Snow came down like offal shavings. However, I’m inclined to believe that what falls upon Brooklyn is nothing like other cities. Each bit of snow was never white. It was grey falling, yellow on the ground, and red in some parts.

Honestly I can't give a super great critique on this one. There are some bizarre references and analogies, maybe it's hard for a layman to get.

>You suffer weak bird-gods to peck at you, and that pains me

That seemed clumsy in my opinion. It didn't flow so well compared to the rest, I guess?

>>8910603
There's literally nothing wrong about that pic though. It's actually telling you how not to sound like shit

>>8908979
first sentence metaphor bad sorry man but its bad

>>8909316
this shako shit reminds me of dishonored 2 in a bad way. DUDE EASTERN ORTHODOOOOOXXX!!!

I didn't take this one seriously but what I saw seemed capable. Sorry not my thing, but that's just me

>>8909339
Bro I liked this!

>>8909686
I'm not gonna push through your story m8, sorry, you gotta tune up the accessibility. What on earth kind of a thing is that to say anyway? "Ya it sucks and hurts to read but it's actually super deep cause I'm cool and filled it with deep cool ideas keep reading." Like comon man. My advice is to write something interesting.

>>8909717
>Celtic dick

anyone who thinks of dicks and pussies in these terms is fucking insane and shouldn't be writing erotica at the very least. Erotica is the opposite of abstract it is fucking cONCRETE cummies right there, the realest thing there is, next to death, essentially. So don't describe the real parts with colorless abstractions like nationality, especially if those abstractions are merely descriptive and add nothing. Go on f-list for 400 more hours before u return! Ok too harsh but ya

>>8911423
I lold but I was a little crestfallen when I realized that the Brap was portrayed negatively. And I think it would be funnier if you made the loud pungent girl fart somewhat positive somehow, as that would tease out the absurdity and make the story a perfect cube. But then again, that would also destroy everything.

>>8908442
Not train of thought enough or too much. Stuck somewhere in the middle feeling very forced. Also some of it is just nonsensical like seeing so many faces that you can't distinguish them from a blur of grey. I know what you're trying to say but it's just off. Like why grey? Why would you need to distinguish them from a blur of grey? Surely you mean to say you can't distinguish them from each other, not some "blur of grey" found nearby. Also time, you fuck it up a lot. Just the whole thing feels dishonest like you're trying to squeeze your own simple vision of things into fancy language which you imitate poorly because you haven't read enough of it for it to come naturally to you. The Styx comparison feels completely phony. The sort of information about the time of day tagged on at the end. Just try to write naturally, the way you think rather than what you think you need to write.

>>8909717
This is really poor erotica mate, reads like a doctor's report. Also poor choice trying to assert racial dominance over the lesser races by focusing on the enormous size of your penis and animal concepts like impregnation.

It is no secret to the residents at Apartment Block C (in Complex X, a stone’s throw from the city centre) that Harry Potter’s place smells like total, total, total, shit. It isn’t a smell you smell so much as a smell you feel and, hot dog!, it feels like a cocktail between dampness and lushness, that special composition felt only around the local sewage plant, or the disused outdoor bathrooms at your old school, or a farm, or that Scottish homeless man who wiped his ass with his own hands (who you met whilst on Ketamine at SEVEN IN THE MORNING). The residents know his place reeks of shit (but Rex Johnson does not but -- believe me -- he’s going to find out as soon as he gets his ass out of his automobile, walks across the parking lot, into the apartment block; he’ll probably smell it from the fucking elevator or in the elevator on, like, floor five (Harry Potter lives on floor eight so for Rex Johnson to ostensibly smell Harry’s shithouse apartment from three floors down is still monumentally impressive -- the point is Rex probably won’t smell it like straight away but when he smells it oh boy will he smell it)) because most residents have been within a three floor proximity of floor eight, at least at some point (ergo: visiting friends, getting off at the wrong floor accidentally, going to floor eleven to access the apartment block’s roof in order to jump off and die, meeting a work colleague, etc.) The residents of Apartment Block C, however, it is worth noting, have not seen Harry Potter and, candidly speaking, most of them do not know his name is Harry Potter, or even which apartment he specifically lives in (there is an exception to this rule (at least one I know of) which was when Former Basketball Professional Suicide Jackson, who lived on the eighth floor, went on a coke-fueled rampage, hell-bent on sourcing the smell of the shit -- he broke into every apartment, eventually landing on Harry Potter’s. Suicide Jackson never left Harry Potter’s apartment. He hasn’t been seen since. He was heard screaming Harry Potter’s name, that’s about it. He sounded happy, apparently. I hope he was), all they know is his apartment smells like shit.

>>8908295
You are doing something, rather than nothing, but you are trapped within a generational snare of movie and film. Take a cold, clinical look at all those nanotubes, then ask yourself whether they come back at any point to matter to the story.

In the movie of the opening scene that you see in your head, you can see how the pipes are blocked out, and what they are made of, but the only technique you are aware of to get them to us is to languorously word them out, one by one.

Then the sky mythology. It's like when directors and screenwriters can't think of any way to clue in the audience besides voice-overs and screen titles.

Read the Lottery (Shirley Jackson) forensically. he story, yeah, but look at how she handles what you need to know. Look at what dialog does, in the context of emerging conflict, versus 3rd Omni expo.

Read Sleepy (Checkov) read it in translation, everybody is a pleb where Russian is concerned. Take a look at how societal scenery and conditions get woven in the context of conflict and dialog between characters.

Written word is not primarily a visual medium.

Take another look at To Build A Fire - every element of scenery becomes an element of the crisis - the snow, the sun, the wind, the boots, the dog - all the description is really exposition of the conflict. That's the narrative expectation of those nanotubes - you put them there to substitute for the lack of a screen. Readers expect them to have some meaning beyond that. The same should be true of all description.

"Sky the color of a television tuned to a dead channel." That places us in the character's milieu. That's how he thinks of it. Translation: "You are about to meet a character who is the kind of character who conceives of the natural world in image-rendering technological terms. Also, you are now aware of what the sky looks like right now in this scene."

That's Neuromancer, btw. In which the entire world is recreated in image-rendering technological terms. So introducing a character that way - see?

>>8908295
plase critique my piece of shit.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-5sUPn_Cs3nZHt-fzxS5DR_zYCmWanYOBgXFvAlU1os/edit

>>8913494
I don't do google logins. Give me a paragraph. Or two.

>>8913545
Rob’s face was something out of what should be possible. According to the very few people who’ve ever seen him, five girls have killed themselves after seeing his picture. The FBI interrogated him twice thinking he was an online predator pushing these girls to suicide so he just had to explain how his ugliness has that effect on women. The whole neighborhood spent their lives living close to him, believing the government had spent tax dollars investigating his otherworldly ugliness.
Whether it was true or not doesn't matter just that he was incredibly ugly, looking like some fat abomination that just happened to have a name and a few basic human rights. Most of them including freedom of speech which should totally be abolished as all he does is go on the internet making rude remarks on other’s posts and writing down lengthy paragraphs of his opinion on women which is MISOGYNISTIC and even RACIST ( if you look at it from another angle). This future rapist had just about finished mowing down his last chicken tender (which he'd autistically call tendies when the need for them arose and he had no choice but to call for mommy)

>>8913621
This is the worst I've ever seen out of any of these threads. Nobody will EVER read this shit.

Here's a hefty section that makes more sense in context:

I am sailing downstream through an incandescent channel, as the seraphic waves tower motionlessly above my head, like glaciers hewn from glittering stardust. There is something in the distance. Something intangible. An inescapable truth. I am being pulled towards it, and as I am pulled I see a tear in the fabric of existence, which splits further and further, each thread shredding apart from the seam, until everything falls away and I hurtle through to the other side. Here, it is as if the outer shell has been stripped back to reveal the circuitry beneath; the graph paper onto which the concepts and mechanisms of reality are drawn. What I am now made aware of, and I feel I am perhaps the first person to ever be made aware of it, is an intersection of logic and circular entropy that is superimposed over all things; a system of ratiocination and uniform chaos that is before all else. These two states exist in dissonant equilibrium, two instruments of fundamentality, their notes erupting into the void; a constant, endless stream of conflicted, isolated tones that coalesce into one conscious fervour of sound and fury.

One revolution of the universe occurs as I wait here. A formless, pointless repeating pattern, a blast of white noise, sampled and looped forever.

Two revolutions, and I am no longer able to remember that infinitesimal shade of existence that I fell from.

Three revolutions, and I’m able to follow and predict the pattern. The trajectory of this monumental cacophony is one of rising and falling in a writhing, chromatic mass of impenetrability.

Four revolutions, and now the individual elements become more inseparable and singular, one shattering chord of shapeless misery

Five revolutions, and I’m unsure if the pattern is repeating at all, or if it is one howling drone, screaming without end. Time no longer functions, all is instantaneous. I can no longer distinguish each cycle, I don’t even have the numbing certainty of the inevitable to grasp onto. I begin to sympathise with the crashing disarray of everything, how the sound now seems like an expulsion of sorrow, an unfathomable longing for some absolute end. I can’t help but marvel at this; despite the intricate futility of all things, each individual anomaly in this crushing wave of insanity unites, in a perverse harmony, in order to call attention to its own ridiculousness. It is self-aware, and helpless; a total, boundless embodiment of the deepest fundamental emotion, exploding perpetually across the backbone of totality. It yearns for its quietus to be made. It cries out: ‘no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more no more nomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenonomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenonomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenonomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenonomorenomorenomorenomorenomorenomoreno’

>>8913643
plz critique

>>8913652
It's basically Pynchon desu pal

File: 10thAni.png (2MB, 1920x1080px) Image search: [Google]

2MB, 1920x1080px

>>8913621
2/10. Too much /pol/. Needs more lulz.

>>8913656
i don't think this is a compliment

>>8913644
Uh. Ok. Experimental is fine, but what do you want me to get here? You should be aware that massive stacks of abstraction which attempt to summarize the meaning of all existence is a thing. Maybe not a meme, but a stage. The archive is full of them.

This is not as completely out of control as is typical, but if the point is to communicate that "I" is having a cosmic experience of despair, then you've communicated, though not in any way that I would shell out for.

"I am trying to write out what it looks and feels like inside my head. I am trying to write an experience that I have had, as a series of mental images."

Got it. The only - I mean the one time in history ever - that this kind of thing succeeded, and only then because of everything around it, was when Clarke did it in the novel of 2001. And I think we all know how that turned out.

One of the five things that have never changed, since the dawn of language itself, is the character. (The other four are act, scene, agency, and motive.)


Act: What happened? What is the action? What is going on? What action; what thoughts?
Scene: Where is the act happening? What is the background situation?
Agent (Character): Who is involved in the action? What are their roles?
Agency: How do the agents act? By what means do they act?
Purpose: Why do the agents act? What do they want?

When you take any of these things away, you are doing something else.

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http://pastebin.com/apBaqGNs

This is part of a much larger story. For context, it is a city that has been under siege for many years, so this is near the end of one of the books. So the idea is one last all-out attack so that the city does not go quietly into that good night, so to speak. I'm trying to make this better because I hate it right now.

>>8913700
Thanks for the criticism. The context around this passage makes that a lot more clear. Our protagonist has a sort of fever dream and I looked at writings on hallucinogenic trips as inspiration. The novel makes it very clear that the protagonist is confused at all points, confused in terms of his past and his present and his beliefs and confused about the nature of existence. I'd say you hit the nail on the head with what I was trying to achieve but if it didn't work for you then that's fair enough; I tried to use music 'imagery' as a way into thinking about the formlessness and entropy of existence (as the character perceives it in this instance, at least), I was listening to a lot of free jazz at the time as inspiration which accounts for it somewhat. And yeah I guess I wanted to capture something that is sort of impossible to explain coherently with words, which is a bit of a paradox and pretty ambitious but there you go. I could post more of the context but I'd basically be putting the first few chapters up and I don't know if it's worth it. Thanks anyway!

>>8913733
First line: gravely

Aside from general admonitions against adverbs, which I generally endorse, with notable exceptions that prove the general rule, dialog tags should be limited, in nearly all instances to "said." Any inflection should be sufficiently carried by the dialog itself. This is always the case. There are cases to be made for "whispered," "hissed," "screamed," etc., but even then, those arguments are best had after the fact as editing questions, rather than composition questions. Until the last draft - "said."

Now consider this question, and consider from the standpoint of "drama." What is the most dreaded part of most working people's work day? If you answered "attending meetings" then you get one gold star. If you answered "reading or writing the minutes of a meeting you get two. See what I'm saying?

I understand - the characters are discussing matters of galactic import for the future of etc. But it's still the minutes of a meeting for the whole first section. Can they, I don't know, refer to the action happening on a screen? A three dimensional holographic record of a battle taken by bodycam, so there can be the information, but in the form of some kind of actual action that we can take an emotional stake in?

Note - No less a genius than George Lucas populated his prequels with: characters having meetings. You are certainly on board with those spectacularly memorable scenes of the Jedi Council deliberating the fate of...

You see what I mean.

The last part, it's not the worst thing ever, and not even the second worst. So let me ask you another framing question- Do you, or anyone you know, ever really go around having perfectly self-aware and honest emotional dialog with yourself? Because if you think about how thinking works, I bet you'll see another opportunity here. Internal mental dialog is kind of a, well, a crutch. I bet, if you get up, and walk through your dwelling, imagining seeing those people, under those circumstances, you can figure out how to do this briskly and sharply. I bet you can see how to make hay out of a finger twitch, an eye blink, a change of stride. I bet you can also think about the tempo you desire the reader to fell, as mimicked in the length of sentences.

Think about that.

I've been in a rut for the past month or so. This and a dozen or so poems is all I've been able to write.

>>8913955
...and I'm retarded. This is the link:
http://pastebin.com/BrVpayie

>>8913955
I've been
In a rut
For the past
Month
or so.
This
And a dozen
or so
poems
is all I've
been able to write.

You got yourself some contemporary poetry right here family

>>8913973
Damn nigga
Send that shit to a publisher right now

>>8913644
Here's a different, more normal paragraph:

I was allowed to leave a few days later. Exiting the hospital, I felt like a dreary grey sketch discarded and thrown out by the illustrator. The street around me was desaturated, a seeping cauldron of insipid decay, precariously balanced upon itself in a heaving, misshapen mass that felt like it might fall apart at any second. Thick heat stuck to the air, viscous and incendiary in the turpentine night, folding itself into the gaps between flesh and fabric, between corduroy and seersucker and leather and lambswool and between car hoods, where it flared up under gristling, throbbing engines and discharged against iron and steel and aluminium in electrifying bolts before climbing to meet the run-down apartments and the office blocks and factories that lined the streets of the city, and lingered on the vestiges of metal and concrete and rust before seeping in and setting on the people inside like Propofol, omnipotent, willing them to submit to it in a surrender of powerless delirium.

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>>8908442
You should probably vary your sentence structures more. This is a bit of a boring read. The first sentence is kind of weird. "only to see so many faces" is oxymoronic but not in a super clever way.

>>8909339
This will get significantly better if you take of all the Is.

Me:

R8 my rap lyricism pls

Listen along

https://soundcloud.com/kolstinguyen/the-identity-theory-pt-2

Uh, the buildup is long but the payoff is medium
Full version coming soon, when? Don't be greedy dude
I'll never run out of money as long as my mother loves me
I should probably be a better son or something
Ah, fuck me; feel like Gordon Ramsay
Grown child with pubes don't shave but eat candy

Well-meaning white devils acting like they're Macklemore
Fratting with some actors getting wasted like an apple core
Fuck you think I'm rapping for? To crash the fucking SAG Awards? Uh
Is that what you think all the bragging's for? Uh
Like there's a million hapas tryna smash down the back door?
Dad said work smart, not hard like a ten speed
Took a few shots I'm fading, Nowitzki
Damn I feel like David Lipsky, that was in that movie with Jason Segel
You know I've fucked your girl if you catch her doing kegels
Hegel. Hi-gel. Hegel. Bagel?
I'm the Big Dipper you're a fucking ladle, bitch
Know your niche, at best I'm a 6 and I talk with a lisp but hey
I feel like Marco Rubio, the closet is the studio
Now here we go

And I know what I need and what I want
And I know what I am and what I'm not

Uh, semi-pro meme lord bitch call me Igor Stravinsky
Flowing nimbly as if I'm footspeed of Frank Kaminsky
It just hit me, I feel like Jo Embiid, TRUST THE PROCESS
Strawberry skim milk TRUST THE PROCESS
Lai See money bought some carbon offsets,
Le becomes se that's the indirect object, uh
So is he novelty or Socrates, the hapa on the Flocka beats?
White girls on their knees like Aca-please
And it ain't sexist if I only hate white bitches
Yellow light, intersections bitch know the white difference, uh
Is he Pachelbel or Taco Bell, the hapa jock Bianca Del? Uh
Rap game Ricky Rubio, go under on the pick and roll
I need to know what I can't do just turned 19 I'm getting old

I've been uninspired since Big Chen retired
If you're looking for the one now you're done kickin up tires
In the closet studio kicking back with some me time
But who am I kidding, shit it's always me time?
I fuck with cheap wine but not with weak rhymes
When I first heard the beat I said to P, "bruh, that beat's mine"
My raps were coming flat as asses on Boston girls
Closer to Common than Earl I needed to get higher
To tap into the part of the mind that breathes fire
I managed four bowls from one round in my grinder
When I found her on Tinder I was home for the winter
It was 15th of December, damn right I remember
Getting lit with K and cough and her and her tall dude and
Almost ended in lawsuits, she was all over my girl
Next thing you know she's all over me
Next thing you know man they're saying shit about me

>>8913973
Exactly! That's what I meant. Don't click the link, it's drivel.

>>8913304
dude poo lol

pynch me i'm dreamin looney toon

>>8910603
"Very" tends to be nothing but fluff, and simply removing it from a sentence is an improvement just about every time.

The reason is that "very" forces a reader to think in terms of a gradient rather than a clear-cut fashion which is both more concise and more impactful. E.g., if you say that a person is honest, then the reader will accept that she is honest. But if you say that a person is very honest, then one can't help but wonder where on the honest end of the sliding scale of honesty vs. dishonesty she is. Thus, you are actually weakening your claim that the character is honest.

Besides that, it's just adding a needless syllable. Cull all needless words.

In the vast majority of cases, strong nouns and verbs are preferable to adjectives and adverbs.

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Green and red
As red as the blood in my veins
I did all I could
But all my work and love was still was washed away in the drain

She pin-pricked my skin and put some love in
Made me feel like a priest ‘cuz she was an angel but I was still full of sin
I am not holy - nor devout but I wish for her to burn in hellfire
As hot as the love we had while i’m as cold as a soldiers feelings before gunfire

Doesn’t matter now, I gotta get away
Tip-toeing through my own mind like i’m playing ballet
I’m an emotional time bomb - no, more like an emotional minefield
Wheel me to every doctors office but my brain won’t be healed

Because i’m sick, and i’m lost, and I thought it was love
Not a praying man but I still threw my wishes to the man above
Just hoping for once I could get a miracle
But that shit never works, and I had a right to be cynical

Tired of this bullshit, everyday life
Always depressed, feelings strike me like knives
I sing, I dance, same old escapism like it’s in my rights

Wanna get away, don’t know why you blocked me from your page
It’s not like I was the one that did the bad shit anyways
I’m better off without you and I know that to be true
I just wish it wasn’t so hard getting rid of the thought of you

Get out of my mind, you annoying self-entitled bitch
Can’t care enough about other people, always giving a bait-and-switch
Dropped so many bombs on me right before the bombs dropped
I had every reason to leave but in the end it was you who left me when the rain dropped

I can’t handle the good, sure as hell can’t handle the bad
They say you never know how important something is that you have
Until you lose it and it’s gone and you’ll never get it back
But honestly you were a burden so i’m a little bit glad
Your a back-stabber, whispering lies in my ear like a snake
Get the fuck away from me, you can’t even chew what’s on my plate
You can’t understand me, I don’t understand either but I understand that ‘we’ were a mistake

Tired of this bullshit, everyday life
Always depressed, feelings strike me like knives
I sing, I dance, same old escapism like it’s in my rights

every hour of gaming is another bottle of gin
And i’ve got a problem, an addiction to escaping this life I can’t win

Can’t tell you to back off enough but you aren’t even coming on to me
Left me in the rain and took the umbrella and car keys
All I could do was lay down and start pondering
On why I thought you were a good idea, I knew you weren’t but I kept wandering

Don’t talk to me again, because you obviously don’t want to
Apologize to me and i’ll explain on why it’s not necessary
I gave up on your lies, you and your weak-ass fake love too
You aren’t even a chapter in my book, you were a line
And ultimately ? you were insignificant in my library
I’m a real page-turner but you made me into a depressed wreck like alchemy

>>8913816
Thanks good advice, thanks for that. I have been trying to avoid "he thought this" and "She felt this" as much as I can, and write almost cinematically. Same with my rule against ever describing characters. Saying "he was a quiet man" is sacrilege to me. But I will work on makign the meeting more interesting, and the internal dialogue a little less... perfect, i guess. Thanks man. I'll have to read your post more indepth tomorrow when I get back to editing.

Do you listen any kind of music when you write? Post suggestions if you do.

>>8915126
I listen to myself

To the people who pitched story ideas, and were summarily shit on by me as I compared you all to "The Girl on the Train", I am sorry.

http://pastebin.com/t43YBuTu

>>8908295
gleam darkling adown surface of affluvial flowandflow as again might seem garments of laundry reposing a leasward close at hand in full expectation. And as I was jogging along in a dream as dozing I was dawdling, arrah, methought broadtone was heard and the creepers and the gliders and flivvers of the earth breath and the dancetongues of the woodfires and the hummers in their ground all vociferated echoating: Shaun! Shaun! Post the post! with a high voice and O, the higher on high the deeper and low, I heard him so! And lo, mescemed somewhat came of the noise and somewho might amove allmurk. Now, 'twas as clump, now mayhap. When look, was light and now 'twas as flasher, now moren as the glaow. Ah, in unlitness 'twas in very similitude, bless me, 'twas his belted lamp! Whom we dreamt was a shaddo, sure, he's lightseyes, the laddo! Blessed momence, O romence, he's growing to stay! Ay, he who so swayed a will of a wisp before me, hand prop to hand, prompt side to the pros, dressed like an earl in just the correct wear, in a classy mac Frieze o'coat of far suparior ruggedness, indigo braw, tracked and tramped, and an Irish ferrier collar, freeswinging with mereswin lacers from his shoulthern and thick welted brogues on him hammered to suit the scotsmost public and climate, iron heels and sparable soles, and his jacket of providence wellprovided woolies with a softrolling lisp of a lapel to it and great sealingwax buttons, a good helpingbigger than the slots for them, of twentytwo carrot krasnapopp-sky red and his invulnerable burlap whiskcoat and his popular choker, Tamagnum sette-and-forte and his loud boheem toy and the damasker's overshirt he sported inside, a starspangled zephyr with a decidedly surpliced crinklydoodle front with his motto through dear life embrothred over it in peas, rice, and yeggy-yolk, Or for royal, Am for Mail, R.M.D. hard cash on the nail and the most successfully carried gigot turnups now you ever, (what a pairfact crease! how amsolookly kersse!) breaking over the ankle and hugging the shoeheel, everything the best none other from (Ah, then may the turtle's blessings of God and Mary and Haggispatrick and Huggisbrigid be souptumbling all overhim!) other than (and may his hundred thousand welcome stewed

And the winter moves about Illinois
When my sister picks a fight with the Alexander boy
And my father locks the car by the store
Still we figure out the keys and follow him once more

Oh my God, we see it on the floor
The woman on the bed the ankle brace she wore
Stones and sled it could have been some other
The mind that knows itself has a mind to serve the other
And we run back scratching at the door, scratching at the door

If I'm hiding in the sleeves of my coat
When my father runs undressed, he's pointing at my throat
And my brother has a fit in the snow
And the traffic stops for miles, we take him by the elbow

Oh my God, the shuffling at the floor
Oh my God
A mind that knows itself is a mind that knows much more
No one came to our side
So we run back, scrambling for cover
To carry us away from danger
A mind that knows itself has a mind to kill the other
Oh my God, no one came to our side

Oh my God, he left us now for dead
Oh my God
He left us now for dead

>>8908295

This is not meant to be in any way malicious, just (hopefully) constructive criticism.

>Then one day Zipper felt the unique pain of losing a father to the siren call of a dopium den. That was a fresh realm of pain. His mother comforted him as much as she could. She kept him away from the chaos. She tried to make his world small. But he did not want his world to be small. He wanted the world to be expansive and explosive and glorious. He wanted his father’s knowledge. He wanted the stories. He decided that since he did not have a father to look up to, he would to look up to the Sky instead.

This was hard to read. I get a very "anime protagonist" vibe from that paragraph, like One Piece's melodramatic first chapter.

>Zipper did not think of himself as a criminal, but the omnipresent police drones reminded him that he was one.

I'm sure I don't have to explain this one.

>Break-ins and thefts were the most common job for Zipper, and the easiest at that, but his repertoire of skills included sabotage, surveillance, and information extraction, making him an attractive specialist in the eyes of Karadashi’s business elites, who never faltered in their perpetual struggle to gain the upper hand against their competitors. He took the gladly accepted the jobs, as they served as an outlet for the creative energy that naturally bubbled between his ears.

This is when you could've used the fancy, sort of roundabout descriptions that you used for the scenery. The story as is focuses greatly on inconsistent and poorly stitched imagery, while listing off the protagonist in a style akin to that of a work resume. There doesn't feel to be any tone to your work, however I get the impression that you are definitely going for an atmospheric story about a hero caught in a large world around him, one that feels almost ethereal in nature.

The awkwardness of prose instead just leads a bunch of half developed images. There is no connection for the reader.

>>8915484

further stuff, I don't know what the word count is.


>The second blow sobered him, but he was still perplexed. This couldn’t be right. It wasn’t until she hit him a third time that he understood what was happening.
“You dumb piece of shit,” she said. “There is no Sky. If the Sky were real then life wouldn’t be like this. I’m getting tired of hearing nothing but goddamn stories. This is real.”

I'm not a fan of this because it feels very convenient that she just snaps when you decide to introduce her to us. Shouldn't we instead see more of his routine, and not the time when she finally gets fed up, considering all of what was written before and after this? It
also has no real significance to the rest of the story, besides making the setting "grim," but the dialogue is forced and the actions of the characters are abrupt and also forced.

Also, don't try to throw things at us. If you want to make the story natural, introduce things one at a time. Every paragraph is a new list of crimes, lifestyles, tech, and political systems, and the random adjectives only illustrate further how your writing resemblances a grocery list.

>“You must have missed the part where I was passive-aggressively sarcastic towards you.”

Why does everyone talk like teenagers in this story? I mean this for dialogues before and after this line.

>“Ha-ha. Notice my sarcasm.”

>“It’s probably the riskiest job I’ll ever take,” Zipper continued, “but it’s also the smartest given what I stand to gain. I don’t know how this guy found you. If I got any brains at all I won’t even ask.”

Why is everyone monologuing?

>Moments later, Zipper was in the hands of another villain. He didn’t understand why, only how. He bit a hand and bolted out of grasp. No time to think. Hide. Hide. There.

Well, there definitely doesn't feel like time to think. There's also no time to feel anything, either. This reads like an unnecessary part, like you're eager to write the next paragraph, but it is so sudden and poorly executed that I feel no worry for our protagonist, because I have no clue what's going on. The image in my head that I picture is of a silhouette in some murky gray area moving. That should not be your desired intention, I believe. I don't feel anything from this, be it disgust, worry, excitement, etc.

>“Ready to go, kid?”
“You’re only three years older than me,” Zipper groaned.

>“Yeah and it shows.” She smirked that smirk Zipper knew well enough. Pelly was already exceedingly strange in Zipper’s mind, and she constantly gave him reasons to think about her.

Show, don't tell. We don't require all this mindless exposition. Instead of having her say kid (psh, nothing personal), how about she jokingly says "hop on," and winks, for example?

>>8915512
continued

That would show her merry personality, and still hold some sexual and incomprehensible behavior? Say something about how she typically does stuff like this all the time, and that Zipper blushes or something like that every time she does. Everything that you desired to convey is achieved, and you incorporate imagery, style, character, and give a much-needed tonal consistency and contrast.

>“Shit, dude, I don’t know. Show them some technology or something. It’s like magic to them, probably.”

How about you shorten up the sentences? Play with speed. As she would say it, her uncertainty would lead her to perhaps saying quicker or more thoughtless sentences, and this is where you can work with character development. How does your character unconsciously act? We can see that she swears, and does it on reflex. Then, why does she only swear once? Here's what I personally would've wrote:

"Shit, dude, why're you asking me?" she paused, " show them some tech or shit. Shit's like magic. Like, they don't know it"

Of course, I go for a longer overall dialogue, because I feel that your story goes too fast. Other people have handled the later parts, and I mostly agree with them.

nobody critiques anyone else general

A Poem on Being Sick, Sleeping All Day, Masturbating, and Abusing Drugs

I spent most of the day in my bed trying to have a prolonged conversation with at least one person
And I’m writing this poem on a computer running Windows Vista at the tail end of 2016
And it sounds like it will eventually explode and/or give me cancer

I saw a post on /lit/ the either day that was a guy complaining that modern poetry is just prose with more line breaks
But, Bob Dylan has the Nobel Prize for Literature
I hope I never win an award

I had a dream this computer began to break
In exactly the same way as my last laptop did
My brain seems to enjoy repetition and cycles
My brain seems to enjoy repetition and cycles
I should get into cycling, show it who’s boss

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I want to write a book that reads like a biography of a fictional, relatively normal family. This is my attempt at an opening, how is it?

>>8915759
I guess the merit here is that it's occasionally self-referential. On its own it isn't particularly poignant, but I think I could genuinely see a collection of these having some profundity, like an aphoristic journal.

>>8915305
I think you need to sort out the rhythm of the first paragraph desperately. Don't be afraid of using commas and, throughout the piece, don't be afraid of using simpler words.
Overall, it's pretty good. The opening gives off an overly scientific and almost cyberpunk-y tone, which isn't carried throughout the rest of the piece and so fits in kind of awkwardly.

>>8915781
I feel like this has a lot of telling and not enough showing, as like high school English class as that sounds. For example, the thin road, the tall house, the mother, the money-earner, the monarch of the house. Pound was wrote, about poetry, "Use no superfluous word, no adjective which does not reveal something." and "Use either no ornament or good ornament." which I think would both be helpful to consider. I did get the biography sort of vibe you were going for tho.

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First time faggot /lit/ poster.

Need feedback for a script I'm writing that'll eventually be read by a friend for a youtube video. The terms won't make much sense, but I'm writing to a crowd that should have base-level knowledge of the lore. I'm also expecting this to be about half done. Maybe I should've waited to write it all out before asking for help? I'm a dumbass biz student so I haven't taken many writing classes but I am finding out that I enjoy it.

http://pastebin.com/B6PgG1Lt

>>8915809
Thanks, very helpful advice

>>8915405
these are just sufjan lyrics cucko

>>8915759
A Poem on Sleep

I will not take a xanax to fall asleep
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep
I lost twelve pages of poetry to negligence
And now I post it all anonymously
Trying to see if another human being will just tell me it's okay
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep
I love you, earnestly, anonymous
You are me, I am we
For a site where every user is identity-less
Lots of people seem to care about other people's identities
I didn't even vote, and I live in a swing state
When you take xanax it floods your dopamine receptors to make you think you're having a good time
Or so I'm told, I'm wasting my life away on a literature forum, I'm not a scientist
When I take it makes me fall asleep
So does drinking a lot, and smoking pot
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep
Finnegans Wake is the fever dream of the day of Uylsses
If I finish it all right now, can I go finally fall asleep
And stop writing anonymous poetry
At least when I die I won't have any fart-based poetry for my offspring to profit on
This isn't much of a poem is it
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep
I wrote this on my iPhone at 4AM
Because my computer is shit
If you're going to be vulgar in poetry, make sure it based on anatomy
Cock, cum, and cunt all have good syllables
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep

>>8913733
dude sam hyde loves ur shit lol

>>8913644
>>8914015
I'm not the best person to be responding here because I'm such a bad writer than anything remotely well-written impresses me, but I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed reading both of your excerpts.

>>8913966
the object of "was one of the few periods of my day where I could say I was truly happy" is the behemoth "sitting in the cafe across the street from the steakhouse"

I know its just housekeeping, but you gotta keep things a little more ship shape imo mane.

>>8913644
dis is gay man. stop showing off you noob peacock. and I don't say showing off with a positive connotation, not in the least. Write something actually meaningful or careworthy. Or else write poems.

>>8915946
Not so mad on this one. There's no pattern to the repetition, and the fact that there are no stanzas makes it a chaotic mix of unidentifiable feelings as opposed to recognisable concepts -- if any of that makes sense.

Now with his cheeks flushed red, the keeper gave a grunt of satisfaction and lit his pipe.The spark burned an orange circle into the tobacco. When the grey smoke started trickling away he allowed himself a long drag that shook his body. The fire grinned, the pipes clanked and with the cosy pitter patter of rain lashing on the window panes. The lighthouse seemed like a home. But now it was time to go upstairs. Where he'd been hearing the creaking of wood against footsteps. He lived alone, he lived hundred of miles out of shores way. He knew that there was no possible way for something to be in the lighthouse. But, the keeper was also a pragmatic man.He'd realised that something was waiting for him up the stairs. There was no answer for what or perhaps the prospect that sent the shivers higher up his spine, why?

III

First, he steadied himself to the daunting task by slugging down a tot of black rum. The alcohol spread a golden courage in him and the keeper paced into the living room. Above the fireplace was the gaping skull of a shark.The bone gleamed angrily at him as he approached it. In its mouth rested a harpoon-gun. The keeper picked out the slab of iron and felt its weight strain his arms. It was well kept, lubricated properly and without a single spot of rust within. From a leather bag he pulled out a barbed harpoon, it's tip smiling in the fire's light. And slid it with a click into the gun. A long breath in...and he went to confront the upstairs.

The stairs were plunged in darkness and un-invitingly steep. At the very top of them, the keeper's door. The heavy oak slightly ajar. And though there was no lights lit, some dim yellow presence was casting shadows. He swallowed hard, feeling the rum press against his stomach and lurched onto the first step. The wood creaked in protest. He did so again, and again and again. With each step getting closer to the door. The sounds from behind the door growing louder and louder. Creaks and scuffles and bumps.

He leant against the knob and with a powerful kick sent the door flying in its hinges. Something leapt off his bed. At the sight of the creatures scurry he skipped a breath and discharged the harpoon in fear. The mechanism slammed and sent the steel six inches into the wall. The thing didn't react, but he did once he saw what it was.
A girl, barely out of infancy. Six or seven he would have said. With a gaunt skull covered in papery skin. Wide black eyes with pupils so huge they barely flickered to look around the room. Her body was frail and her bones on display. Her hair was golden and tumbled from her head to her feet. She glowed. It was the only way the keeper had to describe the flickering, ever-changing aura that surrounded the Although she was very nearly human, looking closely at the imperfections made him nearly convulse in repulsion.

>>8916159
I appreciate it, thank you!

>>8916210
Sorry I wasn't trying to I just chose a pretty abstract and weird passage but the more regular one I posted is a bit less flashy if that floats your boat.

>>8915781
The first word that came to mind was "studied."

Are you now or have you ever been, involved in an MFA program? Just sayin.

To my ear, it sounds like the beginning of a Henry James novel, with less intricate lace and less precise period psychology. James, for example, would have pointed out the feminine contradiction that mothers always exhibit between their fear of their daughters marrying wrong, and their simultaneous compulsive desire for grandchildren.

It is an interesting problem. MFA work always bears the scars of having had all traces of anything that could be called "style" beaten out of it with whips and mauls; but then we have the famous "stylists" like McCarthy, who become enslaved by their babies.

Write ten knock-down-drag-out sock-off blower synonyms for "inherent tradition" and work over the implications of each alternative in the context of "who do these characters become by the end?" For example, if one or more ends up in prison, then an incarcerational synonym would be more appropriate, if their fate is to be linked to the mother, in some way. All the threads in the skein should connect, no matter how knotted. That's where "style" used to come from, before we turned it into a thing, instead of a dimension of the thing.

>>8917539
I've ever been involved in an MFA, not that that should discredit your criticism at all. It is interesting that you should bring up style predominantly; I was trying to remove any over-stylised character from my writing and just show things for what they are.

Your advice in the fourth paragraph is particularly helpful, thank you.

>>8916593
You have a compass and a map, and have learned by trial and error how to follow them to a point. This is well.

Specifically with regard to descriptions of bodily sensations, it my belief, and agreement with Chandler, that they should never be attempted by one who has never had them. So, unless you have smoked at least one pipe and tossed back at least one good dram of black rum, you should either change those details to something you know more authentically how to describe, or go do them both then revise accordingly. "Shook" - to a smoker - sounds like he's coughing. "Spread a golden courage" skips at least one step. Somehow. There is a connection to be made that resides in the fact that the esophagus, which perceives a sensation of heat when ardent spirits pass down it, is also the closest tube to the heart.

Does the bone gleam angrily, or the skull? Or the teeth? This is another problem with adverbs - they are easily set adrift from their referents, at the cost of the rendered image. "The shark's teeth angered at his approach." Or something.

I have no objection to a simple "long inhale" - this might even involve the otherwise suddenly disappeared pipe (bodily experience again - if he is old, and smokes a pipe regularly, he is not going to let it just vanish. It's in his mouth, his hand, or carefully placed in a really nice stand/ashtray.)

Infancy, a state of neophyte helplessness, does not resolve with "six or seven" if those are years. An infant would be "six or seven" months. A toddler would be 4 or 5 or maybe 6, but a "six or seven" year old would be an adolescent. Given "leapt off" I would venture that "infant" is the wrong word here, since infants' most athletic form of locomotion is to crawl on all fours.

It's always in the details.

And by the way, though I appreciate the resistance to a time and weather report, which is always a good instinct to obey, I confess that I am missing here a visit to so novel a setting as a lighthouse, because I love lighthouses, with not a single shot-between-the-eyes slug of imagery of the ocean. Maybe from through a double-paned window.

I'm too scared to post here but realize I need criticism because despite my best efforts I can't get anyone to read anything I've written.

Maybe I should go somewhere gentler for my first time...

>>8909956
Have you ever been to Brooklyn?

>>8917688
do you write poetry or prose?

>>8917712

Both, but I care about the prose more. I write shitty poetry as an emotional outlet and nothing more.

>>8917722
nvm

>>8917700
lived there for 3 years. Hellhole

>>8917688
Let's see your best 200 words, and I'll read them to you as would a grandmotherly retired NYC book agent with nothing left to prove.

I'm:
>>8917633
>>8917539
>>8913816
>>8913700
>>8913453

>>8917768

http://pastebin.com/dyMiwxCa

First three paragraphs from the last short story I finished. Maybe not my best, but should be indicative of my standard ability.

>>8917745
Depends on the neighborhood.
But okay, your writing has some strange choices which I think hurt it. "I'm inclined to believe", so this is just a belief or is it really the case? "...nothing I previously knew", I don't really understand the word choice of "previously knew". It makes sense in that you're communicating that snow in Brooklyn is not like snow anywhere else but the actual word choice is very strange, and not in a stylistically interesting way. Why "Each bit of snow was never white" as opposed to "The snow was not white" or "The snow flakes were not white"? Again, an example of very strange word choice without much reason. "spliced" is this really the word you meant to use?

I'm guessing that you're wanting to say the evaporation element in Brooklyn changes the snow to yellow, grey, crimson red, etc. and that it is harmful to your tongue and while that's a commonplace enough idea to get from your writing, you're not doing yourself any favors with some of those choices.

>>8917795
First three sentences:

Exterior action is always the better option for beginnings than interior action. This for the very good reason that before we can internalize and empathize with internal emotional states, we first require some idea of where we are, who we are supposed to be empathizing with, and most cynically and importantly, why we should care.

As a writer of anything, whether bodice rippers or speculative sci fi, you are actually engaged in a life and death close quarters combat with The Enemy Whose Name Is Boredom. The agent, the editor, the publisher - they have a stack of others as high as your head. Even worse, readers have whole stores, plus Amazon to turn to, as they turn their backs on us. Like professional golf, you must play the course, not the field, but still, the lowest score wins. These are the precincts of pain. An angel lives here. And her name is victory.

Second paragraph:
The equivalent of film titles. Remember when Morpheus tells Neo about the War by taking him on a tour inside the Construct? That's a way of doing exposition. It's called "surrogation." Neo becomes the sufrrogate for the audience listening to the exposition. And since Neo is the hero, and we, the audience, are placed in Neo's position (of audience) we feel like we are immersing ourselves in the Hero's role while we listen to Morpheus. It keeps us interested. Everybody wants to be then hero.

Last paragraph:
The good news is, you've buried the lead. Take a look at this, without a word changed, and see if you can detect by intuition how much more easily you can immerse your interest into the narrative world:

http://pastebin.com/QfNUQ8FA

Let that really sink in, then ask yourself about ways Grane can interact with another character in order to learn about the sand blizzard thingy.

"I close my laptop screen and stand up, reaching out for my headphones. I grab my sweatshirt, adorned with burn holes and bleach stains. The zipper has been long gone for some years; easily replaceable, but unimportant. The color was a much sharper shade when I originally bought it, but it has since darkened into an army green. Stitches furbish the cuffs of the sleeves, but the stitches on the right sleeve have mostly come undone, allowing the tear to break open once more. As I am putting on my sweatshirt, I open my music player in my cell phone. My headphones are plugged in, and the volume is cranked three-quarters way up. There’s a certain playlist I always listen to on walks. I tap on it, and let it play. Passing out through my door, I notice my cat sleeping in her usual spot – in front of the linen closet next to my room. I bend down and scratch behind her ear, then make my way down the stairs. The clock on the oven reads 2:32 AM in neon green font. My roommates are surely asleep at this hour. As I reach the back door that leads towards town, I push my feet into my old, black shoes, laces double-knotted."

I need help from this point on. First time actually writing, and I want to get better at it.

>>8908295
A BRIEF WORD on the text:

This fragmented work, first published in the "Journal of Recorded Prehistory," was first compiled by editor Theodore A. Böhme, made possible by a generous grant from Oxbridge University. The notes were first discovered by an anonymous source who left the document in Professor Böhme's office without preface, heading, or return address. To the best of the editor's ability, the veracity of the text has been independently verified(1). Here, the editor would like to thank Professors Francis and Clare Asisium of the University of Bologna, Professor Augustine H. Regius of the University of Paris, the venerable Mr. Eckhart of Avignon, and—of course—the profligate Syrian and my dear mentor, P. Denys of Mars' Hill.

(1) As goes without saying, the verification process of prehistorical documents only ensures that the text itself is wholly original and predates its contemporaries by some millennia, not that the observations within the text is faithful to events. The characteristic feature of prehistoric work is its sudden appearance in modernity that violates known and unknown laws of spatiotemporality.

According to several sources, the text first appeared in various copies of the Common Book of Prayer during Sunday service, with the bulk of work interpolated in the lectern copy of the King James Bible. This error was noticed by the few attentive parishioners during the recitation of the Nicene Creed(2), which went as follows:

OOO-EE REE-LEEV EEENUH WUH-UHN AAD AAAH-A AAAH-A AAAH-A AAAH-A AAAH-A EE-AAAH-A

(2) Unlike Catholics, a member in attendance of the service in question stated, Anglicans do not generally memorize the liturgy but rely on their pew's Book of Common Prayer. Like Catholics, however, Anglicans pay little attention to their recitations, which explains how this remarkable phenomenon went unnoticed by so many. The source postulated they were instead thinking of easier ways to prepare their weekly pot roasts.

Underneath this nonsensical statement was the following entry by the author:

The attention span of the man-apes is sorely lacking, but their ritual adoption of the English language shows promise.

>wrote this entirely in the 4chan post box, no bully
>promise i'll critique someone else's idea soon

>>8918063
Here's a revised version that you may or may not prefer, but I think a slight change in the structure to be more coherent and varied is useful, as well as removing some of the more superfluous details.

"I close my laptop screen, stand up, and reach for my headphones. I grab my sweatshirt. It is adorned with burn holes and bleach stains. The zipper is long gone, too unimportant to bother replacing. The sweatshirt has darkened to an army green, a far cry from the vibrant hue it had when I first bought it. The cuffs of the sleeves have been furbished with stitches, though the right sleeve's have just about come undone, the tear breaking open once more. As I put on the sweatshirt, I open up my phone's music player, plug my headphones in, crank up the volume to three-quarters, and select my usual walking playlist. As I pass through the door, I notice my cat asleep in her usual spot in front of the linen closet next to my room. I bend down and scratch her ear before making my way down the stairs. As I walk through the kitchen, I notice the clock on the over reads 2:32 AM. My roommates are surely asleep at this hour. I reach the backdoor, and as I set off towards town, I push my feet into my old black shoes with the double-knotted laces."

>>8918063
At this early stage, I recommend going backwards. I'll give you an example:

Let's summarize some famous short stories and novels into bumper-sticker length pills, then give a second pill that says what the story is about:

A town stones a girl to death in an ancient harvest ritual. (The Lottery) It's about resisting progress.

A man freezes to death because he can't build a fire (To Build a Fire) It's about lack of imagination.

A man loses a giant fish he caught (Old Man And The Sea) It's about the essence of tragedy.

A ship captain wrecks his ship while hunting a white whale (Moby Dick) It's about obsession.

Ivan Illyich dies (Death of Ivan Illyich) It's about grief.

A nanny strangles a baby (Sleepy) It's about poverty.

Start with that, for your story. The crisis; the theme. Then write it backwards. Write the ending first. Then write the beginning such that everything that happens can only possibly lead to and be pointed toward, the ending.

>>8918188
This makes more sense formatted on a page, but I'm game. I read that we are being set up for a "found text" and this is the initial frame. It looks generically academic enough to escape unfair comparisons to DFW, and since the footnotes function as actual footnotes, the generic academic-ism is further preserved.

The pot roast gag totally kekked for me.

Now if you can equally well evade unfair comparisons to Will Self, once the thing actually gets going, you might have something.

>>8916147
why?

>>8918063
do you have a story idea, or are you just trying to write prose for exercise's sake? i'm not sure how attached you are to first-person narration, but i think it would work far better in third person omnisci. let's say the character's name is Trevor:

Trevor closed his laptop screen and stood up, lazily waving an outstretched arm toward his headphones. He walked over to his dim closet and looked nostalgically at his worn sweatshirt. Once a brilliant (and nauseating) shade of green, the fabric had settled into an army drab—that is, where it was not molested by burn holes and bleach stains. Trevor almost reached out for the zipper, but recalled that it had been gone for years and his extraordinary laziness prevented him from repairing such an easy fix.

and so on. ideally, if your character acts, it should reveal something about their personality, ditto for dialogue. i've found it easier to accomplish this in third person, but i'm a reader, not a writer. also, in my example above, a good editor would castrate all the unnecessary descriptive words and have them condensed in the text—good writers can convey a visual image without necessarily visual language.

>>8918246
thanks! the idea so far is that an unknown author set out to observe some cavemen and dropped his notes and translation table, which they found.

i was gritting my teeth waiting for the DFW parallel, but they'll only be in the preface and/or editorial commentary. don't know who will self is (i just looked him up), but the ideal goal was more "a canticle for leibowitz" meets calvino. i'll need to read a lot more before i'm able to write this.

was afraid that the pot roast gag was too "douglas adams-y", so that's good to know!

>>8918205
Aren't you the stoic INTJ guy? lmao

>>8918205
i haven't read To Build a Fire, but doesn't he cut open a wolf carcass and snuggle in it for warmth? that sounds pretty imaginative desu. i thought it was (again, without having read it) more about trusting people who know better than you slash the arrogance of impatience.

>>8918335
That's something like the Boy's Life magazine version, but in the adult version, the dog lives. The other important differences are: Adult version, no name (Vincent in the youth), adult the old timers dialog is not spoken but remembered, adult the snow collapse from the tree is the structured metaphor for the whole crisis, adult the dog abandons him before he can do that, and adult he dies. In the youth, he loses some toes and a piece of his nose, but lives.

>>8918318
INTJ?

I'm not 100% on what that stands for, but I have definitely never even remotely been mistaken for Bill Murray. And I don't believe in ghosts.

>>8918295
>don't know who will self

For your project, take a look at Great Apes. You cans safely ignore everything else, including his media commentary, which is just there for the paycheck.

>>8918388
FUCK! that's close to my idea, but not close enough because that seems more like social commentary, right?

>>8915847
halp

>>8918434
i'll start in a second

>>8918420
Yes, it is social commentary. Completely. And comic. And it's really funny, because back then he was still Will Self, and not The Will Self.

If it is valuable, it is for how he handles the usual suspects of narrative connundrums; exposition, the flashback, the problem of idiodialect (also handled by Anthony Burgess, Clockwork Orange to excellent effect, and Keri Hulme in Bone People, all three of whom were happier to be paid while alive, as opposed to "muh Joyce" who, I have always believed, was just showing off), and how to dump scientific information without putting our feet to sleep. Neal Stephenson also figured out clever ways to do that in Cryptonomicon. Especially where he manages to give a crash course in statistical analysis, in the context of a codebreaker who has to graph out his masturbation versus ability to concentrate on codebreaking interval in hours, days, and fap frequency. Chart figure illustrations included, even in the paperback.

I think, though it is necessary but not sufficient, that reading forensically is the one thing I wish someone had explained to me way way back. The value of reading widely is that you develop a catalog of "how has this writing problem been handled and who did it well" examples.

>>8915847
some niggling things:
>just as much as preference
if they're subservient to the emperor, how would they prefer to be autonomous? wouldn't it be his preference for their autonomy, not their own?
>to make the arch-traitor Horus answer for his crimes
"to bring [him] to justice" would be better, IMHO
>bestowed Corax with the scientific knowledge needed to rebuild his legion at a far faster rate than using traditional methods.
consider revising, it's a too wordy and not punchy enough to be spoken

assuming the audience knows the lore (because i sure as hell don't), it's fairly well-written. if your friend doesn't have a powerful, sonorous voice though, it's game ogre. keep at it, anon

Addiction-
___________

...here you are. Dumbfounded that you've found yourself standing here again. After you told yourself you would not do it. You knew how it would end. Yet here you stand, peering over the ledge. Staring into a swaying sea-canopy.
Does it please you knowing the fall could release you from the promises you've made? Does the thought ever cross your mind to recall the answers you had to find? To rewind time and see what you've seen in that swaying sea-canopy?
No.
The wind slips those dreams away as it drifts through the knots in your hair. Your feet, they leave the edge, and the sun evaporates you from condensing to the sea. And temporarily you are free. Reveling in bovine royalties revealed by the radiant star as it sparks the forest canopy and ignites your senses. A release from gravity. Weightlessness--stoked by waving leaves and risen by that radiant sun.
But you knew. Don't you remember? Before you took that step, of the promises you have made? Of the realities realized before stolen by the breeze?
In a moment, you condense, gripped tightly by the gravity of that churning canopy. Your head flooding with the memories waked by that swaying sea. Chilling you to your solidarity as that radiant star sharpens to a dull, glowing husk-of-a-face, shrouded in darkness, and mouthing to your mind the promises you had to hear. Spoken so clear, so long ago.

Your eyes close lightly as you're wrenched to the earth, the sea consuming your sight as it hungers for your entirety...


When they reopen, you see a swaying sea-canopy, far below the cliff resting at your feet. Relief flows through as you stare into the trees that are waving in the breeze. Was it just a dream? Was nothing as it seemed? With fear fleeting, you found believing that you'd be leaving was all but leaving you living.

Yet...
__________________

Until you decide to step away from that sea-canopy, a dream will always be your reality.

>>8918473
i appreciate your reply, especially since the issue of how to construct a comedic idiodialect (nadzat was brilliant, especially if you know russian) that is novel yet consistent is one of my big problems.

i don't expect to run into too much science (only behind the scenes to inform the setting, e.g.) but rather christian mysticism and philosophy in an applied sense. allusions to folk and their ideas is difficult for me without going full-"wacky tommy p."

as for the issue of reading intelligently, would you suggest that it develop organically or that it could be taught by literary analytic texts? i already get a sense for some of these tropes and subversions from people like flann o'brien—but as a reader, not as a writer.

i have to say, Will Self doesn't seem like the kind of author to whom i'm attracted (also, i'm neither british nor anglican), but i'll put him on the top of the backlog if you full-throatedly endorse "great apes." i'm almost worried about reading too many "deconstructionist" (for lack of a better word) novels in fear that i won't maintain originality.

>>8918488
Thanks very much! I'll revise and finish it up.

http://pastebin.com/QbEK4taQ
Non-native speaker here. I mainly write to improve my English, but I would still appreciate some criticism :3

Kissu, kissu

Sorry to stray off topic but did anyone just see the UChicago Maroon editor on Fox News? It was the most postmodern thing I've ever seen on television

File: IMG_20170101_142353.jpg (4MB, 4048x3036px) Image search: [Google]

4MB, 4048x3036px

http://pastebin.com/JgAh7c9V

I'm not very good

I'm not very good. Wrote this one afternoon and never returned

http://pastebin.com/JgAh7c9V

>>8918584
link?

>>8918606
Probably not up yet the program started at 7 pm est

>>8918606
Never mind already up

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=UDnT9wnLMo8

>>8918575
I don't like Self either, but I read GA way back, and always remembered that I should keep it for when I needed to revisit how he did a thing. Along with others. I think of my library as basically a collection of how-to's.

I once told /lit/ that the meme pair of pleb versus patrician was fundamentally flawed because in its memery induced inanity, it ignores the status of the Equestrians, who resided between.

It's been a long time since reading a novel seemed like work, or reading a bunch of novels in a row posed a risk to my aesthetic identity. I'll give you a better example. Take a look at the first chapter of an obscure spy novel called Tears of Autumn. Here is what I mean by forensic reading.

Maybe you hate spy novels. That's fine. Maybe you hate the United States politically. That's fine. Maybe you hate the Vietnam war. Fine. Set all that stuff aside. What we are after here is, how did the writer handle his project's goals. McCarry's project is to sell you a story about how espionage is like being in love, how being in love is like espionage, how men and women think about each other when falling in love, and oh by the way, who really killed JFK.

It only takes about ten minutes to scan through the first chapter. The first time I read it, I was so astonished that I had to go back and chart out how each paragraph handles pov, time reference, plot, dialog, and thematic intent. It is a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces, when assembled, picture a gorgeous tapestry. And it's a a pulp spy novel. But its written by a craftsman of superior technique.

https://books.google.com/books?id=JW4jCQAAQBAJ&pg=PT184&dq=tears+of+autumn&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjB2rGq2qTRAhWm8YMKHW8EAHcQuwUILjAD#v=onepage&q=tears%20of%20autumn&f=false

Identity is what happens when your devotion to the thing finally becomes stronger than your concern about who thinks its good. That's also the definition of the Equestrian order. Looking down on the plebs, and bribing the patricians.

>>8918641
Looks like /pol/ already got to the comments

Her dress, flowing in its satin, had that smoked-glass aesthetic of Vista: A very forced attempt at depth and texture where there was none (and I recall Vista being a performance whore, too). I imagined that I would touch my finger onto her painted red lips, puckered into a contemptuous X, almost, and she would disappear to... something better to do, I hoped.

So the cab takes me from the hospital that evening and drops me off in front of my townhouse, which is evidently luxerious and in a "posh" neighborhood of D.C., and I shuffle to the door, hoping to not make contact with any neighbors I might have neglected (or worse yet, creeped out) before losing my sense of past. The front door swings open at the light touch of the plastic radio-key, and I'm met with the rush of cold air that has, doubtless, been sitting stagnant since the smart-thermostat deduced I was on some sort of vacation. The floors are a milky-white marble, and the ceilings stand high on decorated walls. The crystal chandelier above the entrance sparks to light before the door is even entirely open, and I get that rush of sublimating awe that wealth can only bring you when you've never experienced it before.

What must have been my study appears to me through one of the hall's many doorways, and I feel obligated to make it my first priority to see, given that I can't remember anything else that needs to be taken care of. I'll admit that I'm fairly concerned, no, almost entirely convinced that any skill I had in writing is now gone, taken from me in everything but the worthless muscle memory of typing. The idea that I was supposedly about to begin my /magnum opus/ just before having my accident is an incredible bit of pressure, but maybe something will come back to me.

The room lights up for me as the entrance hall did, and I'm struck by how empty it is. A screen and keyboard sit on a desk in the corner, but that's the only furnishing there is. Do I not have copies of my own books?

There's a pad of paper next to the keyboard, though, with a metal pen lying diagonally across its lined surface. I pick it up, and read the single piece of underlined text written at the top, curved and punctuated in what is vaguely familiar to me as my handwriting.

"Onward!"

What do you guys think of when authors put reading sections within the book itself. like when a character is reading/writing in a journal or novel and it goes into a long excerpt?

Anyone else scared of pasting stuff you've written in these topics for fear that someone will steal your ideas?

>>8918567
What did you mean exactly by a swaying sea-canopy?
I understood the text but i'm trying to visualize this as well. Is this just demonstrating the entrapment of addiction? Can you elaborate? Thanks

>>8917633

dude i just saw this and thanks for the breakdown its much appreciated.

Long-Dong Visccarino was strolling down the streets of Kamun, Rojava, like he owned the place; faggot boy in a faggot army with his faggot friends, all paid for by US taxpayer’s money, run by those CIA coons- there can never be enough dead commies. Long-Dong was the first openly – G-D save his tight little ass- homosexual militant internationalist who joined the Daesh, sanctioned by the devils overseas, in their cute little suburban houses; those missionary-position-fucking senators and secret service agents and the journalists are in it – I bet you they are – too, like Hollywood, Washington, like Jerusalem…and Tel Aviv. Long-Dong and his faggot friends got promised 72 virgin boypussies, if they blew themselves up. But they declined. They’d rather just shoot the Kurds, and try not to die themselves. The queer-feminists love it. “Gay dudes fighting wars, dude.” They say it. “Now that’s what I call equality.” Don’t ask- don’t tell; you WISH! So now those faggots are over there, shooting our Kurds, and the Daesh -well- they aren’t throwing those homosexuals from their mosques’ roofs anymore and so on, but secretely they still hate them. And now those faggots are killing women, just like they always wanted; just like Jacques le bonhomme told them. Women are a spook, he told them that. And they are wiping their asses with Butler’s pages and also the bible, almighty lord forgive us. Long-Dong Visccarino and his gang are a bunch of violent murderers, gay islamist allies, and they hate us with every bit of their soul. Dugin knew, he knew and tried to warn us, but the west wouldn’t listen and know faggots are killing female US-Allies and the US is paying them to do so, because the US is a dirty bunch. Don’t believe imperialists lies- RT’s the only news outlet I trust. And Sputnik. Sometimes Haaretz, depending on how much I do or do not hate the kikes at the moment. Visccarino and his faggot gang have faggot orgies, and they enjoy it. Dugin tried to warn us. When I caught Visccarino in Kamun I beat his face to pulp; bloody pulp too, like you’d see in a splatter movie. I do not trust journalists, I am my own journalist. I do not trust a faggot to shoot a woman, not a Kurdish woman, not an American either. Now they are also wiping their ass with Duging, and Russia is doing nothing. If I catch Long-Dong in Kamun again I will shoot him. The Kurds, you know, the Kurds are our friends, our ally against the Daesh and their anti-white policies. I once met a dude who said he was with the YPG, he was kinda cool. But Long-Dong is on free foot right now and killing Kurds for his perverted homosexual desire. The Russians aren’t acting. One of these days the whole fucking thing will break down on itself and reveal the truth; the homosexuals will weep for for someone like Putin to protect them from their own agenda. The matrix will fall apart.

>>8919148
It's intended to be an ambiguous image that flickers between what is wanted and what is really there. Trees appear when the answer is believed to be hidden just below the canopy, a ground that certainly hidden just below. Yet the sea prevails over all the imagery, representing the crushing depth underneath what is desired through an addiction; something that will always certainly consume ones mind. Intertwining with the potential for the excerpt to be read infinitely, the desired image is meant to teeter on a fine line, almost too difficult to differentiate between the two ideas of escaping the addiction, and being unaware of being trapped within it.

There's also a small personal touch, where the sea and tree imagery was inspired from a friend of mine who gives anything to smoke weed, having no personal, outward ambitions, which he only insists on smoking from a bong. That specifically inspired the scene of stepping off the cliff and being 'evaporated' by the sun, trees and sea- fire, weed, and water.

>>8919284
This is essentially a shitpost so the only real thing I can say is the grammar needs some spotchecking to keep subjects in line with their objects

>>8919067
You're being waaaay too cynical about everything, like you're uncomfortable expressing anything with conviction. Further the character and his thoughts are so simple and bound by that anxiety that nothing sticks.
Needs a rewrite, at least for detail if not for tone (you may have been shooting for this style but it feels like it's forced)
If you are intentionally being closed, then remember that even a very sarcastic person is going to be open about things like basic details, remember your characterization and don't make everything a "well I guess you could say if ya know what I mean"

>>8919410
Thanks for the feedback! I wrote this right in the reply box in a couple minutes, but its an idea for a novel I've been playing around with in my head (famous writer wakes up from a coma with no memory of his career, but the expectation of an incoming magnum opus).

It would be really helpful if you could pick a couple lines as examples and fix them for tone. I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder a few months ago, so perhaps my thoughts and perceptions need to be tempered to fit a normal person's when I implant them into characters.

>>8919148
Sorry, I realize I took two paragraphs to basically say 'yeah, it represents the underlying mechanics of the entrapment of addiction'. I figured the extra details would help. I battled with using or not using that very image for a short while. It's perfect for the entire piece except for the fact that very thing it represents flys in the face of what is supposed to be a very visual experience. It's perfect because it's not, but I'm unsure if it's accuracy hurts the piece overall as it's experienced.

>>8919127
That should be a given. Either post a sample that doesn't give much away with regard to plot or two other ways to approach: only post things here sufficiently edited enough that you've gotten some IP ownership you can prove. Or assume that people on lit, while able to help you refine your work, are not good enough to actually take your idea and do it as well as you could.

>>8919486
Or, don't post any ideas you value here, and post throwaways. I've posted more than a few throwaways that I actually consider to be fairly good or unique, but I know I can do some greater with much more depth, so I don't worry about sharing it. Besides, I try to write things that may help people understand themselves better or relieve their cynicism and I could care less if the ideas are stolen, as long as they spread and potentially help another.

Apparently I write like Agatha Christie
http://pastebin.com/JgAh7c9V

>>8920608
I liked it. Maybe a few needed details, but the format almost makes it OK. It read smoothly, and felt polished, which is always incredibly helpful with enjoying a piece.

>>8921266
Unneeded*

>>8921266
Thanks for reading I've been looking for feedback for awhile. I'm relieved to hear you think it's polished although it's a first draft. A second reading has highlighted a few phrasing issues I would like to address.

>>8921303
No problem. I skimmed here or there, and didn't study it too carefully to where I'd start nitpicking you. But on a general reading, I enjoyed it, and only once or twice was I ready for a passage or description to end sooner than it did for the fact that I already had a clear idea of image of what was happening and the additional details were fluff.

>>8919127
>>8919486
Not the guy you responded to, but like I'm fairly certain this guy >>8919148 tried to rip off my story. He asked for a small detail and gave no criminal which tells me that he probably wanted to be sure of what the image was so that he didn't have to buckshot through explaining it to what is probably his highschool English teacher. So it's not that it doesn't happen. Totally justified to be concerned about posting here.

>>8921383
I am attempting to use the inclusion of details as an attempt of characterisation. This may become clearer when more perspectives are included but the two POVs in the text are from an Intelligence Officer (a spy) and a journalist, naturally these characters are more inclined to take in more superfluous details. If say the second scene was from the drug dealers perspective, different things would be emphasised.

>>8919102
That's just another version of a framed narrative. Happens all the time. What matters is whether the framed narrative is good, and why it's being done.

Please rate this epic poem of mine. I can paste the text if going to an external site is verboten on this board. It is based on Shrek, but it's all written in tight iambic pentameter blank verse.

https://www.docdroid.net/HTP8pRD/shrek-2.pdf.html

small excerpt trying my hand at making an unsettling scene

He hadn't bothered to look out his windows, as there they were. Sat happily on the beach. At first glance the keeper assumed but they were playing, But eventually he recognised the girl squatting down with the stick and saw that she was clawing the complex spirals into the sand and decorating them with flotsam. The boy followed her mutely around not helping. Something white flailed in his hands, a gull. His grip was tight around its neck and its wings were turned out on their sides. He's broken them, the keeper thought with a little disgust. The girl finished something and then pointing at it ordered the boy to lay down the bird and then with the rock...the keeper groaned as he watched the girl take her stick and drive it through the seagull's heads. The sand greedily drank the blood up and a number of the spirals were coloured a rich red.

His head spun a little. But something was re-assuring him pleasantly to not worry about it. That somehow this was right and to just relax and watch the children. Weakened his legs weak,he sunk down to the floor and tried not to think and to just watch the children.

>>8921444
Yes, but let me show you what I mean. I'm highlighting the first bit of your piece here (I'm not focusing on grammar or lack thereof since you said its first draft):

>Oscar Urquhart lounged languidly under the July sun; tall, or rather long, his lithe figure had developed a rather healthy tan from summer spent horizontal on various European beaches. A pair of white orbs shone on each of the lenses of his Ray Ban sunglasses as he scrolled idly through his numerous social networks, occasionally pausing to punch out a message with a flurry of thumbs. Drops of condensation slide calmly down the side of a glass of coke.

So what I meant was, when you have written:
>A pair of white orbs shone on each of the lenses of his Ray Ban sunglasses
I enjoy the imagery. I clearly see what you're describing here. But Ray Bans could be simplified to 'designer sunglasses' or even 'his tortoiseshell designer glasses'. But Ray Bans goes to sculpt a very specific image of glasses, which in turn can cause a sculpting of someone's face they quickly associate with Ray Bans, such DiCaprio from Wild of Wall Street in my case. So then later, if you describe the persons facial attributes, they may counter what the reader sees and cause a little disjunction there. Or, you could even describe the persons face as you describe their figure, so that when you say Ray Bans, there's already a face to put them on.
Or if you were specifically looking for the image of someone as was captured by DiCaprio in WoWS, it might not hurt to state that.

But all of that is just my way of saying that some details you have are simply too ambiguous or, depending on what you're trying to achieve, unnecessary in my opinion. But I am by no means an educated literary figure, but someone who reads a lot and believes in the art writing. So take my words with a grain of salt.

>>8921533
Bob Dylan circa 1967 comes to me when I picture Ray Bans, so I'll rephrase it when I go back over it. Thanks again for reading

>>8921532
Well, I mean, it's unsettling. But I can tell you wrote that right here in the Reply box. Or if not, I feels like you did.

>He hadn't bothered to look out his windows, as there they were. Sat happily on the beach.
This just feels weird to read. The way it's worded just comes off as trying too hard where there is little.

>Something white flailed in his hands, a gull. His grip was tight around its neck and its wings were turned out on their sides. He's broken them, the keeper thought with a little disgust.

Being from the keeper's POV, it doesn't make much sense that they couldn't make out what exactly was in his hands yet still be able to make out exactly what it is in the same thought.

>His head spun a little. But something was re-assuring him pleasantly to not worry about it. That somehow this was right and to just relax and watch the children.
>Weakened his legs weak,he sunk down to the floor and tried not to think and to just watch the children.

What reassured the keeper that children drawing ritualistic runes while blood-sacrificing a tortured seagull was 'right'? I mean, even if this is a fantasy setting, you can't keep information like that utterly in the dark. At least hint at a reason why they believe it's okay, you could do that by maybe explaining more about the term 'keeper' to start. Too much detail is distracting, but not enough and it's difficult to imagine.
The last segment just shows that you probably should've put a little more effort into something you were hoping to have critiqued, considering the glaring errors here.
I'm not trying to be ignorant, but straight to the point and why that point is. I hope I helped. I am by no means trying to discourage you, and would love to read more on what you're overall trying to convey here other than demon children and their 'keeper'.

>>8921834
That's definitely another iconic face to pair with Ray Bans.
But like I said, edit it or not. My main point is to try and put yourself in the readers place as not knowing what you're trying to covey, so to try and give the reader the most necessary descriptions so theirs no grey area where you don't want there to be.

No problem man, definitely keep writing, you've got a pretty good idea of what you're doing. Keep practicing and constantly thinking about how you can portray what you want in the best and most meaningful way that is intended. Good luck

>>8921477
Why not try pastebin for using an external host for your piece? It's more trusted in this board, and quite simple to use.
Yet on top of all that, I can tell you from experience that you're not as likely to be critiqued when hosting off site as compared to sticking it right here. I try to post what I post directly here unless structure is key or if it's longer than the character limit.

>>8916147
Okay seriously please explain what this means??

>>8922251
It's a meme. Best to just let it go.

>>8922012

>What reassured the keeper that children drawing ritualistic runes while blood-sacrificing a tortured seagull was 'right'?

> you could do that by maybe explaining more about the term 'keeper' to start

Thanks for the feedback and those two points are developed in the full story which if you want to read is right here.

http://pastebin.com/fw1d9g54

>>8913816
Is this any better?

http://pastebin.com/m5XSCnWB

I'm trying to preserve as much of it as I can. I just don't know if I am moving too fast. This is part of a really large and long story so i don't want to get bogged down in details too much. I need to introduce another character as well, but I'm not sure whether to put her in now or later on after they leave.

i've been trying to find a satisfying way of writing poetry lately. here's what i've been most pleased with so far:

Her milken hair; pregnant white in liquidic, graceful spills

All in circular puddles

All in mild bends and soft triangles, her cocoaic limbs

Lolling under amber-woven leaves draped to sky-bound arbor

Skin-taut patches of dull solar glow wind round her like sweet yellow spiders

In frantic, gilded motion

so the magazine i want to submit my short story too needs a cover letter, hows this?

Clarkesworld Magazine

My name is Gxxxxxxx Wxxxxxxx Mxxxx (G.W.Mxxxx)and it would be a great honour to have my short story published in your magazine.

My current publication history is rather non-existent, however, I was employed writing animation reviews for the blog " XXXXX XXXXXXXX". Where I wrote one thousand word reviews for about 36 premiering shows on a seasonal basis.

I'm exceptionally excited for "The Keeper's children" debuting with Clarkesworld as I've been following the magazine for some time.After my friend showed me the gorgeous cover for issue 109.

Yours,

File: Badass.jpg (16KB, 300x219px) Image search: [Google]

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5+ hours on this (what am I doing with my life?):

The names Wig; Big Wig.
Sir, to you, fool.
I'm known as the B Wizzle,
AKA Biggie Wiz,
B, I to the double G, W, I and oh, G.
I'm OG, and OP:
straight outta Owsla, fool; nothin' can stop me.
I saw a wounded seagull so I made it my slave, bitch cuck.
I put the bit in Hawkbit - I don't give a FUCK!
Captain Holley wanted to brawl me so I knocked him down -
BRAHLRAHL!
I see a fox and I lead it on to some bustas,
cuz I'm a hustla.
Rhududus tryna vuhvuhvroom,
aimin' right at me but I don't even flinch;
fuckin' chickens go right past me, I don't move a inch.
Wonderin' how I lived-out a throat-snare,
'n 'Wort's fare - that's warfare,
to be specific - how I 1v1'd him, and won'd and done'd him?
Bunniez is hard to kill
on my hill.
Yo, check this red pill:
Fiver is a lil' bitch, mentally ill, fulla shit.
He and his brotha,
such lucky fuckas.
On your knees, punks, thank el-ahrairah
you have me.
Word to Frith: Hazel-rah? Nah... bitch, please.
My "chief" told me to protect the burrow,
so I go, "fuck yourself, Chief, what do you know?"
Then did it anyway, to save the warren. Cuz das my turf.
And Imma gangbanga! I ate some grass then I beat all they ass out this Earth.
Hope it was worth it -
gettin' killed by the death I deal'd - for dem hoes I steal'd.
Nothin' personal
but you had to die. Cuz I'm fina be the Prince with a Thousand Does
And a Thousand Dead Foes.
Cuz that's the way it goes,
that's how I rolls down here, on Watership,
the gangster's warren. A paradise, it is not -
and that's a warning.

>>8923128
>My current publication history is rather non-existent; however, I was employed writing animation reviews for the blog " XXXXX XXXXXXXX", where I wrote one thousand word reviews for about 36 premiering shows on a seasonal basis.

FTFYIMHBCO

>>8923140

drop it to a dirty beat and I'll be impressed

>>8923128
>My current publication history is rather non-existent
With writing like that, I can see why.

>>8923186

whats the problem with it ? Too formal or verbose or what?

Woe to be a pleb like me
with barely a grasp of schemes and stanzas
I'll try my hand at poetry
but I'll never be great word dancer
It feels quite gay
to write like this
to fit these words so awkwardly
now I remember clear as day
why I never bothered with poetry

>>8922897
Are you trying to describe Storm under an arbor?

Either way, I'd suggest changing the order of images given. It just seems strange to start with describing white hair only to later reveal, after describing her entire figure, that's it upon a black/brown woman. I feel like stating that early would help ground the image more. After all, you'd notice skin color before you'd notice the structure of her pose.

Also, >pregnant white< might not be best to directly follow up with >liquidic, graceful spills< only because that description paints a sort of flowing white hair which curls at the ends. I almost image a young woman with white hair. Yet the following line states >all in circular puddles<, which throws off the description before as it seems now to describe curly, white hair if on an old woman (which then pregnant white would be an odd choice, unless you're implying that she's youthful in spirit. Certainly not a major oversight at all, more of a connotation on my end to keep my critique in order), or that it's puddled on the ground- but I know she's standing, 'right?'. Is the wind blowing her hair? It's pretty, but it's just shy of enough detail to make it concrete.

And lastly, if you can think of any other combination of the intended syllabic pattern and image given by 'spiders' to describe the solar glow, I'd go with that. Only because in a description of what is intended to be scenic and beautiful, spiders definitely create an anxiety there which counters the intended, though fitting, imagery.

If at all I'm wrong, and I'm mis-imagining the intended scene, let me know. I might be 'wrong' though I've learned that the mind of the audience is correct for writers. Otherwise it's very vivid, flows majestically and is overall incredibly pleasant to read, even with the forced words such as 'liquidic' and 'cocoaic'.

>>8923204
Well, since you asked.

There are a lot of typos and grammatical errors for such a short letter.

The first sentence is unnecessary. Whoever is reading this will see right through this "great honor" flattery bullshit, and apart from that, it essentially boils down to telling him that you want your story published, which he already knows by the fact that you sent the letter. You can delete it completely, and you would not suffer for it.

Nobody cares that you wrote reviews of Stephen Universe and My Little Pony for some blog. You also don't have to tell say that you haven't published anything before, since the fact that you haven't mentioned any already communicates that to the person reading it.

And the third line is more flattery fluff bullshit. Nobody cares about you or your friend following the magazine.

Essentially, you've given this magazine absolutely no reason to consider publishing your work. We don't even know the premise. We know nothing about the things we should know, and have been presented with irrelevant crap. This whole thing needs rewritten.

>>8923245
Not him but harsh but true.

>>8923245

Thanks for that,I'll admit I skimped on researching how to write a good cover and will do just that

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Here's some more Watership creativity. It may look like a /b/-tier shitpost but don't be deceived - it does so by design. It is deliberately absurd satire. Pic that goes with it was also wrote by me.


Reminder that BizzWizzle the Boss Rabbit straight up bit that faggot whiteboi Hawkbitch.

Ayyo listen up naw: ain't none ya'll muhfuguhs out deyre real enough to step to him, yo. He fucking 1v1'd Woundwort, dawg.

Woundwort. Aight? He wuz like, you know, da leader of all Rabbits. In the world, n sheit. All a dem bunnies, they was all enslaved by Woundwort!

He was the whitest, raciest fuggin bunny who ever was. Thas why I made this thread here for yall, we need to all take a minnit, pay some respects, to our homeboy Biggie Wiggs, aight dawg?

Oh and fo I fogit, jus amemba one fin: you know our lil homeboy, 'Wig? He stole all dem hoes from yo old racist ass pussy ass white ass bitch boy Wounwort! Aw yea white bun my nigga Wigga cucked the shit out you dawg. He fucked your girl dawg! lmao!

Yo check it dis some freestyle shit, dis goez out to you BiggaWigga:
They wundrin how he live,
wit a snare to da throat,
Bunnies is hard to kill
'roun hur

*claps* Awwwwww sheit. Ey yo, check it. dis nigga was ballin! Look at dat awesome hat he wear. That's like... yo dawg, yo, that's like some bling shit mang - dats, dat, dats dat chain dere, in them rabbit universe, yaknawmamean? Yea. Biggie's a fucking pimp!

Peace~!

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>>8923275

Here's something weird I wrote:
http://pastebin.com/r3bF3R9f

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>>8914047
I noticed this wasn't getting any response after a couple days so here's the video for it if you want a more multisensory text.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BwDsV3IaRg

I wrote this the other night, I doubt it's any god by /lit/ standards. I use "He" a lot because i think it's pretty obvious this is just me and I really hate myself too much to glorify my name in any way.

http://pastebin.com/YA4MW99U

>>8924310
The grammar or lack therein makes the whole thing feel lacking in structure. Edit it into a proper format and then there'll be room to actually read it. This feels like you just typed something straight out of your notebook

>>8923513
It immediately strikes me as sophomoric, your entire narrative is "he did X she did Y he did Z" with very little in between. Don't give us a cursory summary of what people are doing down a checklist - set up your stage with relevant details and then go in depth about what actions are or are not being taken.

Someone told me that it had too many descriptive adjectives and to remove them but I'm having a hard time with it. I don't disagree but it's just difficult to do, any help is greatly appreciated it. As well as any other type of critique.

The chair groaned in misery as the man settled his overflowing girth down into the seat. A single candle provided little warmth in the hovel. Shadows flickered across his bulbous nose and fleshy lips, ruddy cheeks and deep set eyes glancing around the room. A threadbare cot pushed up against the wall, half eaten food from days past littering the floor and a table sorely lacking company. Mice squeaked and insects scattered as the man leaned back, stretching out his legs.
“So, she’s gone. Run off with the stable boy” He said, staring at the hidden figure curled up beneath a pile of rags.
“Last tuesday. Got it in her to break off a good engagement and instead marry down. Her mother is distraught.”
A wheezing cough brought to life the prone figure as it sat up, the frail body unkempt, hair in disarray, nails filthy and long. “Elizabeth can rot in hell. She deserves it.” He rasped, fishing around for the bottle of rum, a constant companion.
The man in the chair sighed. “James, she is the mother of your daughter.” The drunkard let out a wet cough before taking a shaky breath.“Alcott, I never took you for daft.” The chair squeaked in protest as he repositioned himself. “So, do you deny she is yours?”
James shook his head. “No she’s mine, got my eyes and the stupid nose.” Alcott smirked. “Aye, that she does. Will you go visit her? She’s shunned you know, has no one.” He was met with an incredulous expression. “Damn it bastard, you really don’t know anything do you?” He shrugged. “I pieced most of it together, the maids were helpful.” James started laughing, then descended into a coughing fit. “Of course, the maids.” He kept chuckling as he stood up. He was taller than Alcott had expected and skinnier. “Her mother, may she be cursed by the devil himself.”

>>8924419
The issue I see isn't that you use too many adjectives, but that you lack any real structure. The first few sentences especially, "his adjective noun and adjective noun did verb to adjective noun adjective noun"
Try some different structuring, especially more figurative language and personification so that you can describe without using simple descriptors.
Also, adverbs nigga

>>8924452
Ty anon, I really appreciate this.

I really appreciate everyone taking time out of their day to critique the works of others.

Thank you. :)

>>8924530
in that spirit, I'll make you a deal. if you go and give a decently thorough critique of everyone who hasn't been critiqued I'll match that and do the same

This is my first time writing, please be brutally honest
http://www.protagonize.com/story/untitled-fantasy

>>8924614
I'm not an expert at writing, but I can't say it's horrible. I felt some words were rather cliche and the pacing. I liked some of the humour. I'm not that good at critique so I'm sorry if it isn't that detailed, only thing I can say is. It seem YA styled and if that's what you're going for, not bad. It has a very teen-ish vibe to it, at least from the tone of the story.

>>8924620
appreciate it, i always gravitated towards YA fiction, dunno why

>>8924627
Well, lit isn't a bad place to start.
>>8924452
I went back and rewrote it. I don't know if I did better but would appreciate your critique again.


The chair had long gone without use until today, as the fleshy man gently set down his bulk into the creaking seat. The odd flicker of warmth came his way from a single candle on the table. Bushy eyebrows and beetle eyes looked around the room before settling down his gaze unto the prone figure half hidden underneath a pile of moth eaten rags. He grunted, wincing as the passed out man let out an ear splitting snore. Blimey, you don’t change do you James? He shook his head and fished an empty rum bottle out of one of the many pockets in his coat and aimed for the crotch. A loud yelp accompanied the injured man as he sat up, glaring at him between strands of greasy, unkempt hair. “Now who in the bloo- Oh, look who it is. Alcott. Now what on devil’s dick are you doing here?” James rasped, feebly standing up. Alcott shrugged. “I was in town, decided to come visit. Heard Eliza run off with the stable boy.” He heard a chuckle and then continued. “Her mother, you may remember her. If I recall, you were sweet on her once. Especially at night when her husband was away. Anyway, she’s now gone mad and is shunned by the high society.” Alcott grimaced at the sight of James smiling, teeth worn to nubs and blacker than a witch's cat. “Elizabeth deserved it, the high class whore.” He sighed. “Shame about the lass though, my blood after all.” Alcott raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” James threw up his hands. “Have you seen her nose? Longer than a man’s pecker. She’s mine alright. Ugly chit, takes right after me.” There was a hint of pride in his reedy voice. “At least the her mother, the cunt. Couldn’t hide it like she hid me after I spent my life savings trying to make her mine only to find out she was doing me, and the entire village.” James looked around and bent down, finding a bottle somehow among the filth and took swig. The sharp hawkish nose and enlarged pores were highlighted against the flickering light. “Her mother, may she cursed by the devil himself”

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Brother, let me tell you something. Many a day I have lumbered here by this fence and looked at this world. These fences which border this small plot of mud seem to be the edges of the Earth. But I have gazed many beyond the fence. I have watched the hills of green and the tall, slim, terrifying figures who lurk and haunt the strange barn on the far side of the hill, who appear as spectres as the sun rises at the break of day and refill the Oats, and float away without a word. Often I wonder why we are not like them, why we cannot give ourselves the oats, why we are limited and chained down by the girth of our bodies and the uselessness of our hooves. And indeed for many years this sad truth, that forever we would be trapped in this shallow frame, alone, and without purpose or direction, banished forever to wallow in our own filth, this depressed me. But yesterday I realized something. Who are we to be ungrateful for existence in the first place? Who are we to say that this life is not good enough? Instead of oblivion we have the warmth of the sun and the coolness of soil. We have fair conversations and a good night's sleep. Who am I to say that these simple comforts are no better than death? Should we not smile like the sun and bask in our happiness as the sunlight warms the soil without question or thank. So brother, let us share oats and smile and frolick as much as our girth might let us. Let us see this pen not as a prison or a hell but as a palace in which we might enjoy the best our existence has to offer. Give me some oats brother, and let us dine together. I love you.

hey /lit/ let me know how autistic it is and critique it please

Never has such charm been held over me
Dangerous sorts like you, bring great distress
With unequaled and wretched bittersweet
You seized quarters in a mind no longer
Branding it with grave and hopeful dismay
Terribly so, for I still feel the burns
As if I had just stared at the bright sun
A thousand years! Still grasping at the light
That shines from your laughter, a sound so sweet
That life itself must be gently questioned

Though your presence brings much needed union
And the lightest thought leads a tranquil warmth
I am now dependent, a corrupt soul
Feeding on a fantasy of the self
Where logic mindlessly escapes reason
Though I yearn to escape this deep abyss,
I would just as quickly live make-believe
If it always made me feel this cheerful
And if the opportunity was found
To become just as bittersweet as you

I do however, wish to forget you
Isolated are thoughts formed without you
How disparate I am to your prowess!
Of all angels on earth, you are the arch
That lights the lilac skies in my grey life
I won’t question the sky’s eerie hue
Or why violet rain burns through my pale skin
And why I am drawn once more to this pain
I like to say this feeling will soon pass
But these eternities are bittersweet

Though lightning does not paint the sky,
I remember the scalding flash
That was you, an afterimage
Shining bright in the darkest nights

Seldom be there people like this
Who deserve all that is achieved
And more; I am but nothing to
This gallery of toiled life!

I hope to forget, as my soul
Desires absurdity. I wish
To turn my head and burn away
Memories of you, the grand star

>>8924661
not the other guy, but this is MUCH better.

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>>8924713
damn, the first two lines are so goddamn good, but the rest is kinda cliche
>shining bright in the darkest nights
this is by far the worst offender
>Seldom be there people like this
2nd worst
>Memories of you, the grand star
3rd worst

>To turn my head and burn away
push the imagery of Lot's wife more

>>8924692
this has the same issues as above mentioned, but to a greater degree
i strongly encourage you to read more poetry, and if you ever catch yourself sounding vaguely like Sir Phillip Sidney, know you've gone too far (until of course, you can skirt the line of sentimentality)
also, imagery, imagery, imagery
it is your friend, your pointless abstractions are where your cliches are

Sooooo.... guys? i've been working on this for almost a year know (went through a bunch of forms) any advice beside suicide?

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>>8924863
this is second part.
does it need foot notes too?

The locked universiry cafeteria doors were blown away by an explosion. The Communist and Jews students watched the cloud of smoke,shocked. Ion,their leader, stood up bravely and asked:" Who goes there? Who dares to destroy this public propriety in which many student comrades eat and drink to replenish their energy and to survive to bring about a prosperous and peaceful era of our country?". Thirty-six young men, all dressed in student uniform and a green flat cap entered the room and their Leader began to speak:" We also need to eat and drink to survive and make this country great again! Should we starve to death just because we aren't commies?! If so, then we challenge you for the use of the university cafeteria, Ion Gorea!". His monologue promped his followers to shout enthusiastically. Ion wasn't impressed and responded: " You barbarian dogs! How can a dozen mices beat hundreds of cats?! We will gladly take your inferior lives! Prepare for your last battle, Corneliu Zelea Codreanu!". Hundreds of sheep charged towards dozens of lions...

>>8925594
mice

>>8924863
>>8924864
You can't publish gibberish if you aren't famous yet.

>>8924863
Pity

>>8927870
that's fair
>>8928070
that's vague

When wallace was born he came out weighing 9 pounds, he stretched his mommys tight little pussy wide open and made it reek. His first thought was “Dear me, i’ve turned into the object of my hatred.” Her head perked up, “Is it a girl?” she asked, “Well, is it doc?” The doctor turned his head slowly from side to side, his smirk hidden by his white medical mask. “ARGH!” She yelled, foaming at the mouth a little bit like the ocean on a rainy day. “Cut it off!” “Cut it off!” Her pupils had dilated. “I wanted a little girl, prim and proper, I wanted to teach her how to spread her pussy lips wide open for money; and how to shoot up.” At this point the doctor’s eyes were wide with delight. You see he had always dreamed of fucking a little girl’s tight hole. “Well,” he spoke softly, “perhaps...that can be...arranged.” The doctor glanced at her wild eyes, and walked over to his medical table; he picked up a pair of sharp scissors. “With these my dear, anything is possible.” First he sniped the umbilical cord, then with a special precision honed from many many fantasies, he snipped the little wallace’s cock right off. “Yes. Yes!” A wild look in his eyes. “Now then, onto the main event.” The mother was transfixed as the doctor pulled his 8 inch cock out of his grey slacks. He positioned it at the hole where the little penis had been, and thrust with the power of a deprived starving man. Wallace screamed loud, “Ahhhh!” Blood poured from the little hole, leaking around the doctors cock. “I'm going to cum!” He shouted, and like a firehose, shot his seed deep in the little boy. “Beautiful,” said the mother, “absolutely beautiful.”

>>8928421
what in the fuck

Short excerpt from an exercise I am doing, based on the poem Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Tennyson.

http://pastebin.com/HWgZhDYt
http://pastebin.com/HWgZhDYt

Main goal of this was to practise pace and action. Although do read it as you would any story and take into account vocabulary. I was never good at writing fights or battles...

>>8928440
It's just Bret, shitposting again.

>>8928500
not bret
but yes shitposting

>>8928491
Overusing commas and semicolons.

Reminder that there's an unofficial 4chan writing discord.

https://discord.gg/6AwKHGF

We could use a bit more of the /lit/ crowd, actually.

>>8924863
thanks for honest critique
just starting out and will work on removing clichés entirely

A flower may bloom with strained conviction
To make more of himself, a legacy
That outlives him for short generations
(short as they are)

At his greatest peak he is plucked (almost
effortlessly) by a cruel, obsessed fiend
For a purpose greater than his own
(his objection is silent)

His dreams were stolen, and soon forgotten;
Much like himself, though admired for moments
He slowly wilts with soft, silent screams
(i can still hear the screams)

He is slowly dying, light is absent
He suffers, gasps, chokes for water and sun
The flower longs for a life without life
(he cannot hope to hope)

This dead flower will not be forgotten
As long as it binds an ignorant heart
(that is, from falling apart)

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It was an out-of-season snowfall:
A flurry of seeds, whisked by the air,
Sink and bob, as sunfish eggs
Rafting down a spring-thaw rill.

Sub-lime sunlight streams about the seeds,
And channels their sinuous meanderings.
Like the humble land’s supple bough^
To the sky’s sighs and the sea’s pleas.

The easterly ebb of slowly zephyrs
Tickles stems and trickle pad rapids.
As a prowling kingfisher ever years
For (up)drafts to rest his rowing wings.

Cumulonimbus plumes drift on the-
Breeze atop the westerly horizon;
Frothing on eddying cirrus wisps,
And stead’ly dousing the rising sun.

To avoid the lightening and thundering rain^
I hurriedly march to my nearby car.
I drive straight home and straight inside
Where I pace along my everyday.

Two days passed ‘til I return to wander.
Walking the water-felled woods, I wonder
Why I wore nice shoes,
And fear their sheen a thing to lose.
Quick to spring the waterlogged trees,
Brainstorming of my weathered boots,
I fail to see, sailing aeronautically,
skimming over hundreds of emerging dandelions.

^lightening/lightning
^bough/bow

>>8929348
the prose is consistent and pleasant to read

however the lack of closed form hurts what would be a brilliant end product

implementing meter in your poem will make it flow a lot better

>>8928940
no problem, not sure which one you are or i would be more specifically encouraging

you can do it!

>>8929526
I'm slowly starting to realize that's my main problem with poetry. I start off strong with a meter that I like, but then I get so wrapped in trying to find just the word or image that I start to slip around the structure I wanted. By the end, it's text of logic wherein I've lost the music. Hopefully now that I'm realizing this more, I can really step up my game.

I'm glad you think the prose is good. I put a good amount of effort into my prose and consider myself fairly good at. I love good poetry, but never practiced much or had a tuned ear for it until recently. So when I write poetry, it ends up coming out this mutated noise composed of poetry and prose.

Thanks for the words. It's like pulling teeth to get any advice at all here, let alone some decent.

>>8929526
But one thing I have to ask, what is this that I've written then? Just prose with some rhythm? I know it's not as structured as poetry, but I'm curious.

>>8930149
>>8930266

without meter, you've written an open form poem following a simple narrative

for most open forms to be successful, it usually takes advantage of not being held back.

you did not write this with the intention of it being open form, so it isn't as effective as it could have been

for closer examples i would suggest reading e.e. cummings as a reference

you wrote something in the middle.
you limited yourself to quartets and an ostet while ignoring meter.

the shakespearean sonnets are a good reference for

brush up on iambic pentameter

not very good at writing poetry myself, but i feel you could create some beautiful masterpieces if you worked at it

good luck

>>8930266
>>8930149

for your reference this is the poem i wrote
we are all trying improve on our writing which is a nice thing in itself really

have a blessed day

>>8928955

>tfw better than all of /lit/ and ready to get published.

James hated sleep. Loathed it. Cursed it and fought it. He knew what waited for him there. The repeating film reel of nightmarish memories still fresh. The dead weight of Jackson straining the muscles of his arms and the sounds of bullets pinging off of metal and rock. The tumbling humvee heaved from the mountain road and twisting down down down along the slope in some horrible dance in which it spun itself apart. The smell of gunpowder and sandy dirt and gasoline. The stick of drying blood on his palms and the pistol grip of his rifle. Then he would blink and the battle on mountainside would be gone and replaced by darkness. And in that darkness the faces of his fallen brethren would slide out from the black and appear bloody and pale with lips roiling wildly in whispers and eyes stark wide with pupils engulfing their irises. James would scream and that scream would rip him from that hell and carry on into the waking world. Mom and dad and lil siss would bolt up from their peacefully dreams and rush in to see what was the matter to find a wild eyes man of twenty five weeping into his pillows. They stopped coming in to see if he was alright after the fourth night. When they stopped he knew that he had become more than a burden. He had become a shrieking annoyance and an unwelcome one at that.

>>8930687
fuck you

>>8930687
>feeling the need to state your literary success
spoken like a true patrician

>>8908295
I'm not good at criticism but I've seen worse novels make it to publication so you must be doing something right.

Out of curiosity, did you make up those vaguely Japanese sounding words or did you get them from something?

>Just wrote a quote in a quote at the end of that quote, for the first time.

Some of the wackiest shit I have ever seen, how are you supposed to do this?

>>8930687
Would read more.

>>8930687
you're not up there with the /lit/ greats but you're decent. you're no tao or kolsti or even fucking baldyga

>>8930687

then why aren't you published

>>8930687
perhaps you should post more threads on /lit/ with this excerpt. Also, I suspect your "excerpt" is but the entire work, lad.

>>8930669
Thank you so very much!!

>>8930687
I think 'roiling' is either a bit of a stretch or an excellent descriptor for the image it was involved in, depending on your intention.
But, even with your egotistical opening line, I must say it's not bad. Reads well and painted a pretty clear picture. My only qualm is that war is literally and literarily so overdone that you better have either one hell of a story to follow that excerpt, or, if >>8931182 is correct, you had better come up with one.

https://fellthingsabroad.wordpress.com/

Would you read a series with this as a first chapter?

Incidentally chapter two is finished, and the first half and ending of the first book are planned, but it's interesting to get a reaction. It's just being written as a straight conventional book for conventional publication now though, not a web novel as originally conceived.

Vision blurred from lack of sleep. No comfort of sleep to slowly wake me from this state. Just constant cold and partial paranoia. It's harder to sleep now that she's gone. Just remembering her last words of wanting me there. 'Please, it's too cold. I just need this last hour with you...' Its weird how talking over the phone, you could still hear someone's breaking heart. I get a knock at the door that deters me from my thoughts to answer it. Fumbling to get proper clothes on, I open it to reveal Marie. Being that she's been my best friend since elementary, the horrified look on her face isn't surprising. "Oh my god, look at you!" she says with furious hazel eyes. "When was the last time you showered?". "I lost track a week ago..." I reply. She immediately comes in to find my slop of a home. "I'm so sorry I've not talked to you at all since the night. I figured you were fine and just needed time alone till I got word that your door has not opened for 2 weeks."

>>8928955
It's a great overall idea and image. I love poetry so much because something simple, such as picking a flower, can resonate such a complex idea. I always like to ask writers specific questions about what they intended with their piece, to make sure they are portraying what they intended: For this I'm curious, was the overall intended end result to have portrayed the scene of a doomed love between two people? Where the plucking of the flower was a basal instinct by one of the two (the aggressor?) attempting to rekindle a damaged flame? Or was it of a life of scraps whose slim frailty rests between the two fingers of government and society?
It helps to be honest with yourself here if you want to improve.

For my pallet, it's a little bleak. I've never been one to shy away from a foreboding sense but, since it is poem, this black coffee bites my tongue and could use some cream and sugar. Not that having a sombre poem isn't allowed, but there's really only a faint glimmer of hope, revealed in the very last line, that the entire scene was not in vain. But poetry, to me, should be beautiful in sight and then after, dark or foreboding. This doesn't diminish the fact that it's written alright and certainly ripples through a few overarching themes (if intended- they're there).

Try using less abstractions. It's not a glaring oversight, there are only a few here that I would change were it my poem. The effect isn't lost with them there, so that's more of a personal suggestion. Also, the form seems strange. I can tell there is a meter there, but with the subtle rhymes and each stanza ending on a down beat, it's a bit of an effort to hear it. Maybe consider your use of line breaks and punctuation more? Being that I'm >>8929348, I struggle with meter so it's difficult to say for sure. And don't be afraid to things like assonance, dissonance, onomatopoeia, alliteration, slant rhymes, etc., to help solidify certain images- such as the silent screams of a wilting flower. I know what youre saying, but it's still abstract when being imagined. I do like:
>At his greatest peak he is plucked
The way 'peak' and 'pluck' contradict each other in both sound and meaning, as well as the fact that plucked carries a strong image and sound of the very act it represents. This is a strong line.

Overall, I rode the Plucked Flower express: I felt the pain of a life unfulfilled, of dying- young in body and old of mind -for a greater(?) good, and was reminded of the importance of love. Good for what it was, with some structural issues. Feel free to contest or ask questions. A piece is only as good as the fight you put up for it.

>>8930687
Really not that good. A lot of the descriptive parts seem forced.

I am being shaken. I slowly become conscious of this. Instead of resisting it, I allow myself to connect to the sensation. I feel a cold heat situated across the right side of my lower back, spread against my rib cage, digging and clawing and sinking into my bones. Curiosity eventually gets the better of me and I open my eyes. I am looking at the ceiling. The bended wood of the attic. I can hear some garbled passage of noise, high-pitched, shrill and translucent. This ‘music’ rises and falls and sustains and jolts and stops abruptly, and rises, and falls, and sustains, and jolts, and stops, and abruptly shifts into new, searching lines of melody that reach higher and fall lower and pierce louder and stutter and trail off, tortured and strained and soulful and desperate. But it is not the all-consume that I was witness to before. This is softer, more personal, an internal predictable entropy thrust forth in despair. It is Jenny, I see now as I turn over. I cannot be certain of the words she is saying, only of the shape each sound takes as it leaves her lips. She is not fully formed, only a smear, diffused across the breadth of my perception, parts of her lost in the blindspots. She is circumambient to me, and to the room, and to all else. I fear I may be all that exists now. All that can possibly exist, if anything can exist at all. The attic is nothing. The house is nothing. The desert is nothing. The beyond is nothing. Jenny is-

Drifting now. I am drifting. And the cold heat has extended across my body, under my shoulder and my arm and around my arm and across my side and through my side and it tingles throughout me as I move like a phantasm across the floor of the attic and out and down and across and down and across and in and on. I’m lying on a sofa. I’m in the study. Jenny’s saxophonic bursts continue, but I am unsensitive to them. They linger on the periphery of my thoughts, in the way a lullaby flutters in the recesses of your subconscious as it sends you to sleep. I notice that everything has lost the palpable immediacy that was so present in life before. I still feel the chair beneath me and the goatskin book in my hand, but I do not feel the difference; feeling has become a generalised, blanket sense without distinction. I am either in contact with something, or I am not. The textures, and compositions, and contours of things do not register with me any longer.

In reference to the statement: "A good writer shouldn’t need italics to convey any form of communication and can convey how the thought should be read without ever needing use them.”
_____________________________________

You and your friend are sitting in a room having a lovely conversation when all of a sudden a demon(!) says,

'Steal your friend's wallet' (that dubious bastard!), in the back of your mind.

Your friend looks offended, and asks why you would want to steal your own best friend's wallet. (you think you know a guy)
It's at this moment you realize you are insane and begin killing your friend violently with the rose garnished, teal vase which sat nearby on the coffee table-- the one your wife had bought last week while you both vacationed in Tyler to escape the frigid early winter, and which you hated so much, the both of them. Your friend is clearly the demon. You continue to crush at what remains of intact skull and jaw bone, reaching for another solid object as the pieces of vase begin cutting your hand and don't crush well. Blood and grey matter glisten as dewdrops carefully coated on the rose petals scattered atop your friends damp jacket as the visceral, squishing thumping of your swings echoes throughout the walls.

>>8909717
>>8909723
so is her cervix the MC of this story? why do I have to read about it over and over again?

>>8931072
>>8931182
>>8932180
Rife with jealousy.

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I'm writing comedic-modern-fantasy trash.

Could anybody tell me if my jokes actually land?

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dEqYEqJr0dPVM9kwm8k8kwZ_7KL1xLiGRB9y6H0oP5A/edit

>>8930687
your register is all over the place bro-ham
and it doesn't look intentional

>>8932191
Trying way too hard to sound detached, ends up sounding like something douchey college teens would snap to in a rundown coffee shop on opening night

>>8930687
Only readable thing in the thread you are going to get lots of hate for you greentexted though

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>>8932590

>>8932642
so are you refusing critism or do you not understand what i mean?
i'm
>>8924864
>>8924863
>>8909339
>>8910995
btw in case you just want to insult in response to a legitimate criticism

>>8930687
So is this a novel or a short? Three in the morning drunk mistake?

You know we have an archive, right?

>>8932654
Not the author but you're clearly a fucking faggot.

>>8932763
for posting my work or for criticizing his or for allowing him to criticize mine or for my work in general?

>>8932590
>your register is all over the place bro-ham

Holy shit, english majors are cancer.

>>8932782
By trying to imply his work was poor because of register. Which isn't the case at all.

You're clearly a bit ruffled that his work gets more attention than yours.

>>8930687
More

>>8932787
>technique doesn't matter
>in that darkness the faces of his fallen brethren [...] engulfing their irises
works well with leaner, more direct lines
>the random hyper-informal lil siss
i get what he's trying to do but I don't think he was conscious of how to do it. especially with that attempts at both dramatic staccato sentences like the first ones and the stupidly long sentence about eyes.

maybe register was the wrong word here though

>>8932800
i was ruffled by his use of the critique thread to scoff at critique

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Sonnet:

O stately boughs, who’ve shed thine leafy fleece
Sunken canopy, laden upon Earth,
As craquelure glacier; glassy sheets, sinking firth
Ebbs to the dark sea floor alone, in peace.
Too ebbs the sky: azure, then gloom from east
And distant torches flood the sunlight’s dearth
Emblazoned night, pale glow on mountains inert
Snow sank softly, fluttering silent elegies

Winter pastoral, thou lyrics embossed!
Return thee to halcyon days I’ve lost
Circular is nature yet linear is life.
O, what sorrowful disquiet this strife!
To rise as dost sun or bloom in Spring’s start,
Is to belie death – his unbeating heart

First time /lit/ poster, super new lurker too.
Ok so a little explanation first
This story is to accompany a series of illustrations that I'm going to complete over this semester. I was inspired by the 7th son mythos and wanted to try my take on the matter. I'm formatting the story as a game, but really it could be a movie or anything else. Really I just wanted a story that could tie together these illustrations in a relatively interesting manner.

Also it's kind of a collection of thoughts, so maybe rather than critiquing sentence structure or grammar usage, you guys could crit story elements, organization, continuity, clichés, etc.

I was aiming it to be a kind of adventure story that could simply be explained by several illustrations, so I probably don't need to go into detail with everything.

Anyway, please check it out, as bad as it probably is: http://pastebin.com/67DFnC6u

>>8932887
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spook's_Apprentice

>>8930687
The funny thing is everyone is going off about this and it's obvious that the guy is a good writer. The piece have several grammatical and spelling errors:
>twisting
>lil siss (not really wrong but should be lil')
>peacefully
>eyes
Which prove that this either isn't even fully edited or was possibly even typed up in the reply box. And just as either way, it's good.

Everyone needs to hide their baby dicks for a minute and at least be honest with the guy. It's fun to put down bad things ironically, but this guy is unironically good and deserves the credit where it's due.

>>8932938
>The piece have several

Ask me how I know you're a samefag.

>>8932846
You took this from someone right? If not, congrats.

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>>8932967
How do you know I'm a samefag?

>>8932967
Fuggin rekt sonny boy stay mad

>>8932990

>>8932990
>>8933010
>wow he knows the close the window to reset the (You) trick.

Go weep into your pillow. You are an annoyance. And an unwelcome one at that.

>When is an annoyance welcome?

>>8933042
>wow he thinks that people should hate the work because you say so
>everyone who likes it is the same person


It's good get over it.

>>8933042
>When is an annoyance welcome?
cats and dogs and children

Try again madkiddy.

>>8930687
Best thing from this place in a long time. This part of a short story or unfinished novel?

>>8933067
>>8933064
Will this exchange of samefagging be one of your new nightmares tonight? Or will it be about tautological yawp?

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>>8933042
Sorry your sick is extra baby small. Still not even that guy bro.

>>8933100
[pause while he goes to look up "tautological"]

>>8933100
[but doesn't understand the google translation so continues to shitpost about his cliched PTSD memoir]

>>8933092
>strawmans and insults
>tries to deflect by foreshadowing his own tautological jabbering

Who knew someone could get so mad by someone creating something good.

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>>8933106
>>8933130
>>8933092
>>8933042
>>8932967
Why are you mad though?

>>8930687
>>8932938
>>8932990
>>8933010
>>8933064
>>8933067
>>8933089
>>8933100
>snackbar posts wish fulfillment paragraph with provocative troll
>samefags it for (You)s
>gives it away with ME-specific grammar errors
>keeps doing it even when busted
>doesn't answer his own question:>>8933089

>>>/pol/, raghead

>>8933106
I did have to look tautological. The guy who wrote that probably wouldn't have had to. The icing on the cake? You still have a baby dick.
Whew

>>8933180
>it's /pol/'s fault that it got (you)s

Will marxists blame everything they get jealous of on /pol/?

>>8933190
>>8933198

Here's some good lit, right here:

Another question people ask a lot: Did it bother you killing so many people in Iraq? I tell them, “No.” And I mean it. The first time you shoot someone, you get a little nervous. You think, can I really shoot this guy? Is it really okay? But after you kill your enemy, you see it’s okay. You say, Great. You do it again. And again. You do it so the enemy won’t kill you or your countrymen. You do it until there’s no one left for you to kill. That’s what war is.

>>8909956
>found myself to be shaking again
Try "once more" instead of "again." Otherwise the sentence sounds like it ends too early.

>It was snowing. However
Unnecessary shirt sentence breaks up the read, try popping a comma instead and running it along as one sentence.

>If I were to taste each of the spicules, my tongue would be spliced.
Spliced seems the wrong word. The sentence flows but I feel like there must be a better word.

All in all, 7.5/10. Keep at it!

>>8932600
I've no idea what the second part of your sentence means but it wasn't 'detached' as much as it was complete apathy. The idea is that the narrative has just had a mind-opening and traumatic experience and now everything around him is completely void. He's in a severely depressive state. I'm obviously trying hard to make it sound like that because that's what it is!

>>8932191
>curiosity gets the better of me.

Is he trying to resist curiosity? There's nothing particularly amazing about being shaken. I don't understand how he can embrace a sensation and then you suggest he is indifferent to what is happening to him.

>This 'music'.
Remove this.

>pierce louder
This doesn't make sense.

>not the all consume that I was witness to before
I you missing a word here? Otherwise it doesn't make sense.

>second paragraph.
I like this much more. In fact, I would just remove the first paragraph entirely. It's not really needed.

>>8932846
lord byron / 10

>>8913621
My sides.

If you want genuine critique: Why are you writing this? What purpose?

Also work on your grammar, dude.

>>8915946
A quick edit and a couple of expunges that I think improve the poem. Give me your thoughts, anon. This was probably quick, but I think this way it makes more sense structurally.

I think your stuff has soul, or a poignant lack of it, anyway.

A Poem On Sleep

I will not take a xanax to fall asleep,
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep.

I lost twelve pages of poetry to negligence
And now I post it all anonymously
Trying to see if another human being will just
Tell me it's okay.

I will not take a xanax to fall asleep.

I love you, earnestly, anonymous
You are me, I am we
For a site where every user is identity-less
Lots of people seem to care about other people's identities

When you take xanax it floods your dopamine receptors to make you think you're having a good time.
Or so I'm told, I'm wasting my life away on a literature forum, I'm not a scientist

When I take it makes me fall asleep.
So does drinking a lot,
And smoking pot.

I will not take a xanax to fall asleep.


If I finish it all right now, can I go finally fall asleep
And stop writing anonymous poetry
[NOTE: I know this alters the meaning. 'it' here references the xanax, instead of Finnegan's wake. Take it as you will.]

Finnegans Wake is the fever dream of the day of Uylsses
[Maybe I can finish that, too (?)]
At least when I die I won't have any fart-based poetry for my offspring to profit on.

This isn't much of a poem
Is it?

I will not take a xanax to fall asleep.

I wrote this on my iPhone at 4AM
Because my computer is shit
[Some reference to your lost poetry]

[A stanza about your bodily functions]
[Maybe tie it back to the dopamine response a few stanzas back]

I will not take a xanax to fall asleep.

I will not take a xanax to fall asleep.

I will not take a xanax to fall asleep,
I will not take a xanax to fall asleep.

>>8914015
Has like no rhythm to it. Why the hell do you keep using so many adjectives that just obscure your meaning? Saying a much of half-baked shit doesn't help the reader understand. That's shit's old and on its way out except for the edgy ass teen who can't cut himself. Find a more natural way to write instead of fumbling through the world's dumbest thesaurus.

>>8914047
Can't get a gun in your mouth quick enough, my man.

>>8915314
I can only read this with a pause after every word. Christ, it makes me feel Down's-y. Ain't a compliment if you didn't get that yet.

It was a day like any other. At least, it began that way. There was a toy my smaller brother had just gotten for Xmas, abandoned there on the window sill in the January sun, talking to itself in gibberish since the large switch had been left to "ON". I don't know how long it took for him to get bored of the toy, until finally, the process of dreading it came (actual dread, like how people feel when they're beyond bored). Rays of pale light entered those dusty portals, which our parents barely cleaned, spreading out into our living room and illuminating the entire space. I heard something like "cappuccino zucchini pika" or some such from the vibrating toy, which was toxic with laughter. It had black boots on and overalls wrapped round its a strange, yellow body. I imagined myself when I was a baby, newly born and suffering from juandice, in an oxygen tank that was more like a steel coffin. But not even I was as yellow as the toy perched on the window sill, whose bald head swiveled back and forth, brandishing a set of goggles (or, rather, a goggle... It had a single cycloptic lens). "Dave ukelele tutu," it said to me, even though its back was turned, when I crept closer to it and noticed how it swayed forwards and backwards on its feet whilst it guffawed. The overalls, which were a deep blue, covered most of the arse. But, I could still see the outline of the cheeks beneath. Whenever the toy swiveled back up, or was bent over, I witnessed the fleshy cheeks gyrate. It was shaped almost like a peach, which I began to hunger for and resulted in me salivating like a dog. My blood began to rush faster, my heart thumped harder and harder; my cock began growing and thumped harder and harder inside my pants. What was happening? I didn't know, but I knew I liked it. I liked the way the toy was doing its sex dance, toing and froing on its black boots, as it yelled out things like "aloha coconut szhe-szhe". It took just another instance of that toy bending over, as if touching its toes in a yoga class, for me to pull out my erect pant-noodle. I was bent, which to my dismay made it resemble a banana, albeit one made of skin. It pulsed in my hand when I began to stroke. Shuffling small shuffles towards the object of my desire, with my corduroy pants round my ankles, I reached it by the time it rose back up. Still giggling, I turned it round with my other hand and made it face my skin-banana that must have seemed monumental to the tiny, yellow sex-freak and his one eye. "Yes," I groaned in great ecstacy as a thick white load - like a batch of mayonnaise just whipped up - spilled onto the cycloptic creature. In response, almost as if an act of divination, maybe just a coincidence, the minion said: "Banana Ciao."
"That's right," I said to it, gritting my teeth as the orgasm tremors were leaving me.
"Avocado Gracias," it said as it bent over in a revering bow, just as I'd finished the best cum of my entire life. Luckily, my parents arrived after I cleaned up.

>>8908295
http://pastebin.com/96hyFcpa

>>8930877
I made them up but they are legit japanese (my minor at school)

>>8915314
Joyce is rolling in his grave

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This is from my video diary. I wrote down what I said because I know I have smart thoughts that would be really fascinating in the future. I don't browse lit much so go easy on me. My main boards are /pol and /r9k

>>8937217
Also I'm not gay. I meant to correct that. I only get off to traps

>>8937217
You're fucking retarded.

http://pastebin.com/tCYRdCDN
First ~750 words of a comedic meta short story I came up with today.
Roast me fampai

>>8937054
i wonder if he just does it for fun now.

>>8937217
Suicide is painless, friend. Think of that as "option one".

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>>8937221