CRITIQUE THREAD: DONT BE AFRAID EDITION

>>8997190

There were two chickens left in the place where chickens are kept.

I do mean to imply that two is a number lower than what the space had been used to previously. And I do not intend to call it a coop.

This is the tale of an encounter that changes nothing. When the sun shines on a snowy day, the whole world bursts and gleams and everyone must think that the snow will melt. But it doesn't. That night, the snow falls again, and nothing has changed.

Meeting Olivia should and could have changed everything, but it didn't. In a few months, she would be dead and forgotten and I would be back in Alaska, transcribing young adult novels for John Green to steal from.

This tale changes nothing.

-

>>8997413
Is that it?

File: canteen.jpg (128KB, 708x500px) Image search: [Google]

128KB, 708x500px

[scottish schoolboy discussion] probably sounds shit with the slang

"I dinnae like Daniel. He looks like a council estate Harry Potter. One ta many chip butties", said Mark.
We all laughed around the table.
"He couldn't buy chip butties with Gringotts money though" said Fat Alex.
"Aye, but, why could he no' magic them?"
"I don't think magicking up a chip buttie would be on a wizard's agenda." I said.
Mark sat astute, thinking it over.
"Nae fat wizards".
"What?"
"Nae fat wizards. Crabbe and Goyle were like the only ones. They didn't even have P.E, did they? When they did, they sat on brooms. Could you imagine me, Fat Alex and David at one of those main hall feasts with no Dumbledore to tell us to put down the fork? Muggle food as well. Dinnae tell me those wizards werenae pure gaggin' fur a kinder egg."
"Aye, but they had that sweet shop in the wee toon near Hogwarts mind? Why hae a kinder egg when you can hae a chocolate froag?"
David said, "you had to chase them..."
"What was that Davey lad?"
"You had to chase the chocolate frogs, they didn't sit still. That means they didn't need P.E because they were too busy chasing those frogs. That was their exercise." he said factually.
"David I think you just cracked it you wee genius!" Mark beamed, "I doubt they had wizarding weight loss DVDs in the owl post either. Big Man Goyle couldnae just wave his wand and say 'kebabis disappearus!" fat bastard!"
We all laughed.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dLMb6M0xQbWmhMfcOjjK6JTeSHg1clU7y0cGOV2i3Mk/edit?usp=sharing

http://pastebin.com/0UpheAeU
For you /lit/

His, my, our room cluttered with boxes
and stale air particles that smell like grandma
Gertrude's ashes, clog the noseholes like
yo dawg when is we gonna unpack this shit:
the meaning of that *namedrop* treatise we just read
publicly ofc to ensure the action was not in vain
hahahah I'm fucking hilarious—in vain—get it?
I don't NOT get it if you know what I mean heheh
At least my samurai sword came in the mail
just like that one dude's dad who was the mail man
Troy, that's the one; he loves Stephen King
and expensive bicycles for some reason
I'm really hungry and this stream really needs to dry up
like Grandma Gertrude's ashes that still talk like Grandma
when's that bitch gonna die I want her maroon Jag.

I once went on a boat tour in Belize
through the marshy brackish waters we went
my family and friend till the ended end
where waited a chicken and rice shop
that I still when hungry think of today
by which I mean everyday I don't eat
which is every other day for me
metaphorically speaking that is boy I'm poetic
and when I'm on heroin boy I'm frenetic
because opposite day it isn't so forget it
the color of the sky is that of a dead apple
no it isn't, it's the color we perceive as you know who
the man who godlily placed himself on a pedestal
and kicked it out from under him before hanging
on the edge of historical relevance, a t-shaped cross
the initial owner of all a certain type of progeny
a seventh of the world claims silently as its own:
the Oprah Winfrey Network, where dreams are bade—

I'm a genius said the balladeer
before he ordered me a beer
and said, "Oh no! He's here!"

>>8997742
The rhyme scheme is pretty awkward, reads like a jimmy buffet song. Also are not all crosses t shaped? Not the best, would re-work most of it.

here is a short story i wrote. all critique welcome.

http://pastebin.com/raw/etpvuTMU

Her death this year approaches
her soul still lit but fading
the mind a forgetful husk
she tiptoed around their lives
shaping their future bright
avoiding her walker’s rust
impossible it seemed in hindsight

she sits the days in memory
what little is there is frothy and flies
mother still lives
sisters still laugh
horse hooves pound the earth
first loves blossom and ripen
the crops green in her hand

rocking chair creaks and wakes present pain

children in denial cling to stories
strangers speak freely
they know all about her life
it trickles from familiar faucets
forming a soggy puzzled past
the missing mouths
the blurry blackouts
the dying son
milky eyes cascade and cloud

atrophy drowns the long hours
an air of expiration dances
it abounds
only on humid nights she laughs
when back home in the fields
the dust with her life resounds

every morning a confusion
each it’s own struggle
trivial spaces fall out of time
baby faces now grown and bearded
her rosary the only constant
her purple veins a source-less river of time
turning rapids into delta
she’s done her duty
she’s lived
she’s loved
she’s raised
she’s hated and scorned
any day now peace will come
the mourners will come undone

>>8997589
I'd cool it a bit with the scottish spellings, make it a bit more subtle

The sun beat down on the highway in the Arizona desert. The flat expanse of land went to the edge of the horizon. Two riders hurtle down the road on a dusty blue motorcycle and an equally dusty blue sidecar. The rider was obscured by his helmet and leather jacket, but this was not the case for the side rider. He was Sidecar Sam, hurtling down the road with a mission, a mission of life and death and love.

>>8997589
What does dinnae mean? I read most of it in the Demoman's voice to help, and there are good parts where the dialect didn't impede, and others did, although my experience with Scotdialect is low.

Its a nice discussion. I didn't realize there were 3 people talking until I re-read it though, as Mark, Fat Alex and the Narrator blended together mentally. Doing triple-dialogue does get cumbersome but can work with the right blocking and in-between lines.

>>8997944
You've got the setting, characters and goal wrapped up in just a couple lines. I like it.

>>8997687
It's a short story

“Well I don’t plan on dying, but I suppose they all say that. Guess I’ll just have to hope I’m a bit more clever than them. I’d say lucky, but if I had any of that I wouldn’t be here. Perhaps I should head down to Goren’s Hall, kiss the old man’s feet and hope I can steal a bit of luck.” Ariann did not so much as answer him, and instead turned to leave.

On days he had been too stressed out from work to hardly think, he had gone to the hall. The great bronze statue stood tall in the center of a wide plaza. Instead of being cast in a single piece numerous metal sheets, poles, and brackets had been hammered together into a rough form. Most of the structure was twisted into a wicked piece, with dozens of sharp points sticking out in every direction, save for its left foot. Goren held the title of living saint, one of the Hopeful whose history had died but legends endured. He only vaguely knew the story. In the darkness beyond the chamber groans leaked from below the enormous iron doors.

For the hopeful did split, disappearing to the corners of the earth to find their fortune. Gorem, the young, had traveled for many a day beneath the beating of the sun. Loudly he would complain that his feet bruised from the stones, his head burnt from the sun, and that his heart hurt to be away from his brothers. Only after long travel did he find the rock, a sight to behold with its bulk looming over the great river Mott. Gorem basked in the shade it cast down, and his skin was soothed. He dipped his feet into the river, and they too found relief. And atop the stone, far away, he saw a shade. Against the setting sun he saw a woman, and so too, was his heart soothed. In this moment he vowed to build the great switchback tower and find the woman who had stolen his heart.

Men and women, mostly poor, would come and kiss the feet of Gorem the young, and hope that their ills would be soothed. In their absence clouds had come off the bay, piling above the rock into great thunderheads, brought by the breeze he had felt. Only the breeze had grown into a storm.

Dear fucking christ this feels offal to read. This is the last thing I wrote, months ago. I can barely fucking stand to look at it. Should I try and return to it?

>>8998047
This is mine. Now I am reviewing.


>>8997917
It feels disjointed, and not in a good way, particularly the third and fourth stanzas. I would address them first as they feel awkward to me. I can't put my finger on a particular piece that feels awkward, but the feeling is there.

This room’s walls close in on me every night. Each time the sun leaves the sky, long shadows dance on the white plaster canvasses that envelop me. Darkness creeps out from its hiding place when light leaves the windows, and takes hold of me. Where darkness used to lull me to sleep, I know feel that it is no longer as comforting. I find darkness to be more of a nuisance than anything else. It distracts from the important things in life, but who am I to comment on life, as close to death as I am?
My bed has become my prison cell. It holds me hostage as all of existence passes me by. My bedside table is littered with cards wishing I would get well, a pile of good intentions wasted on an undeserving person. I haven’t read any of them since November. It’s February now, I think.
Cobwebs have built up over the past few months. They decorate the corners of the room and my peripheral vision. The room’s main attraction is the large flat-screen television. The only thing that ever plays is the news, and while I’m normally one for a good classic tragedy, current events aren’t my cup of tea.
If you’ll grant me the opportunity to whine, I’d like to tell you exactly how I feel at the moment. Let’s begin with my body, shall we?
My bones ache like they’ve endured some lifetime of hard work I’ll never know. Each time I move, searing hot pain shoots up my spine and into my skull. Every breath in is agony. Every breath out is torture. My head feels like there are hundreds of drills boring into my brain. Bright light triggers a headache like nothing you will ever experience in your lifetime. My jaw feels like it’s unhinged each time I open it, and chewing the hospital food is unbearable.
My appearance has deteriorated as well. My hairs abandoned my body long ago. My skin is scarred from burns long ago and my lips are chapped and faded. My body has withered away and in place of my old form, there is a skeleton.
Worse than my body is my mind. All I can think about is how guilty I feel. Self pity is a vicious cycle and I’ve been trapped for a year. I don’t think I’ll ever escape.
Do you want to know the best part? I deserve all of it.

>>8997908
a cross is technically usually x-shaped but I appreciate your input my internet-going friend

I read your short story (a few lines to be exact) and verily believe its overly melodramatic nigh obfuscated chaff that requires much grounding like an erratic live wire cut from the highest of telephone poles in Nebraska

>>8998003
Thanks, I expected it to get shat on. Dinnae means 'don't know', like 'dinnae ken', sometimes it's dunna. It changes with region, I'm from the west coast .

>>8998238
sorry 'dinnae' ' don't' as in 'do not'

I'm enjoying this thread thus far.

I remember it clearly, that night as a child. The first fireworks display I ever saw.
It was the fourth, obviously. My mom and dad, my sister and I, we stood there on a hill overlooking the football stadium, the only place in town that could seat all the people who wanted to watch. We chose this location because my mom hated crowds. But it was nice and quiet, and the warm July air rustled through the grass as I waited, unlit sparkler in hand, for the main show to start.
Then, there was the whistle.
The first firework soared into the black Texas night. It blossomed high and bright, and a thousand green streamers fell back to Earth as the sound finally reached my ears.
A second firework shot into the sky, then two more in rapid succession. My mom wrapped her arm around my dad's waist. My sister seemed in enthralled, and although I knew she wanted to be down at the stadium with Troy, she was happy in that moment with us.
I was terrified.
Each firework seemed to crash against the darkness. Each burst was too big, too loud, too unexpected for my young brain to understand. They seemed to rip the horizon apart, and just when I thought it was over, another volley would lunge up from Earth.
Reds. Blues. Circles of White. I never knew what was coming, never knew what would happen between the brief second when the firework ceased its linear journey into the sky and that burst of sound and light. Would it be big or small? Would it be one loud burst or would it crackle?
Would it rain down on my family and I; burning embers of a country's birth scorching our skin and setting the grass around us ablaze?
I couldn't wait until it ended.
And obviously, nothing like that happened but for years afterwards, I hated going to watch fireworks. By the time I was a teenager it was just something in the back of my mind. As an adult, I took my kids to see fireworks.
I got over it.
Now, things are different.
8 days ago, the first vessel came. To say it came out of nowhere is an understatement. No one even knew what was going on when a hundred satellites got knocked out of position. Like a man walking through a swarm of gnats, they were simply pushed around the form of a hulking saucer.
Invisible to our eyes until it penetrated the atmosphere, the ship materialized in the form of a near perfect circle. Just like you would imagine after years of movies and TV. But what special effects could never capture is the sheer size, the menace your soul can feel looking up at something that was not built of steel or iron but some material that was truly alien.
How can you describe a color that's like nothing you've ever seen before?
Within hours, 12 more of these ships appeared.
Two days later . . . sometimes you couldn't see the sun for hours.
CONT

CONT
The governments scrambled to make contact but received no response. With no satellites to broadcast, every radio channel was now a 24 hour news channel. My family and I sat there listening to the radio because to go outside meant you had to look up and see those things. Those horrible, hateful things that covered our skies. At least listening to it on the radio, it seemed like it was happening to someone else.

We were told that the every country's missile systems were being positioned across the globe and placed under the control of the UN. We were assured in the even, calm tone politicians always speak in that nuclear weapons that are detonated that high in the atmosphere would have minimal effect on our planet, and usually people who know better would call bullshit.

But what other chance did we have?

One night I woke up to find Maggie and our daughter, Ruth, curled up in our bed. The sheets were dripping with sweat and I sat up and looked down at them. They were both in the fetal position; Maggie's arms and body curled around Ruth's small frame and the soaked bed sheet clinging tightly against them.

It reminded me of Pompeii. That immortal image of a mother trying to protect her child from a wall of searing ash that burned them both and turned them into a monument of love's last seconds.

I haven't slept since.

Earlier today, it was announced by the United Nations Security Council that the first ship, now currently hovering over India, opened up, not doors, portals maybe that's the right word, in its hull and smaller saucers were seen landing across the country.

Invasion, they said. It's time to strike, they said.

* * *
Right now is tonight, and I walk outside my house. My family, my wife, God I love her, begged for me to go into the basement with them, and I will, I'm going to follow them down there and pray but right now, I have to see this.

I have to have hope.

And I see in the distance, the first volley of missiles belch out of their underground silos.

Then a second group from God knows from how far away . . .

Now, hundreds of Minutemen missiles split the sky apart with burning white streams of smoke trailing behind them, watching them climb higher and higher towards targets that are so alien my mind cannot even conceive they exist . . .

And it is then I realize that I have no idea what is going to happen in the split second between the missiles detonating, and the flash of the explosion clearing enough so I can see if it has any effect

A jutting hole? A crumpled hull? A scrape? Nothing?

I realize that tonight, all of humanity is a boy on that hill watching fireworks for the first time.

And just waiting for it all to end.

-The End-

I came from dirt
Just like you
I came from rain
Just like you
I came from sun
Just like you
I came from suffering
Just like you

But now I’m gone
Away from the pain
Just needle in the haystack
Or perhaps lost in my brain
I sit I laugh I wait till dawn
Then I take off my clothes
And throw my nakedness
Inside a pond

But I can’t swim
I have no limbs
I cant breath
I have no lungs
But now I’m at the bottom
Thinking about what I’ve done

But it’s too late
I’m

One blank day later, he settled on "I'll start tomorrow." He feels warm and contented with the day's efforts.

-That stuff is creepin up the canyon.
-Nah, it will stay where it is.

They shot exaust down the mountain, red paint all a blur. Down into that smutty air, straight through Elberta, Payson, then Provo was their journey this morning. The lights weren't working on the 4 way this time.

-That ol' yeller is gonna get hit if it don't move out the way.
-Oh yeah I bet it's Mexicans again.

They overtook the car ahead of them. Jonny in the backseat saw the swish of the face of an old man driving, buying his time out on the open road, maybe he was wrong though he couldn't really tell.

Out on the fields the ground was just as dull grey as the sky. Mountains held the snow peaks high on all directions but were too hazy in the smut and all too familiar to marvel at again.

-Yep we delved into that big damn smog monster, I drive down here and I swear I cut 2 hours of my life short.
-I know it.

Jonny heard the vauge words of his Grandpa but was held into the screen of his phone, blankly staring at forum posts while thinking about something useless. He swiped back at something he was looking at just two minutes earlier vainly hoping for it to update with new useless text. He browsed youtube for new videos but in a fit of resentment he unsubscribed from almost every channel that upon careful self judgement made him hate himself.

He looked back out the window and saw a crow resting on an electric pole.

>>8998562

This is mine

I am not good at critique.

>>8998477
Is this about being earthworm jim?

>>8998047
Too much pointless blah blah blah.
Nothing capped my attention.

>>8997917
Work on your form stop trying to sound special and artsy.

>>8997742
Stop taking opium and absinthe

>>8998608
>stop taking opium and absinthe

Ill take this as your nearest form of praise

>>8998047
dialogue seems Korny to me

>>8998060
I don't like the narrator for some reason. Moreover, the pain sounds like that spongebob guy with paper skin lol. also that ending is EGY af

>>8998477
I don't like the ending, grats on the dubs, I like the simplicity howver..

>>8997742
DON'T RAMBLE AT ME!

Here's mine:

http://pastebin.com/raw/vqZzwfmx

http://pastebin.com/dKSJih0S

I've posted this in most crit threads but here's a slightly revised version

>>8997589

It'd sound shit without the slang imo, I'm writing this from Edinburgh rn so I can get why it wouldn't appeal to some American readers. But so far its great imo

will be providing some more crit in a bit

>>8998989

>so five or six feet above the crowd made out of individuals, there was a crowd made out of a single creature

This line strikes me as a little bit akward. It's a bit of a mouthful so i'd try to think of a way to simplify it and maybe use crowd once

>dreamy lover. “They really love her.

I like this line quite a bit but It'd be stronger if you just swapped the love out for something

>dreamy lover. “They really like her.

>dreamy lover. “They really adore her.

I'm seeing a lot of X did this Y did this X did this. Which is really killing the flow for me. Besides that I like the idea and the lil snippet of conversation at the start was really good (Besides the small note I made)

To improve this I'd pick up a book with this sort of conversation and read that scene. Don't copy it but just like at how they keep the story moving along with breaking it up into little pieces of X did this

Also formatting. Look into Shunn Standard Manuscript and change the text to that. Not only does it make it easier to read it'll save a lot of time if you ever try to get it published and find out you have to convert it to the proper format.

I'd never loved anything more than the sherbet colors of the sky during sunset in the Arizona desert, especially in autumn, which was her color. Looking out over the foothills laid upon a rock with his beloved, the wind blew temperate leaving spiral plumes of her auburn hair blowing out behind her. "Do you think it will always be like this... between us, you mean?" she asked, gazed out on the ever-running heath of the wide frontier, beset with spots of green and red where the morning glory and yucca. The orange and red flaming sky was shifting to purple, and I looked to her in earnest and told her, "No, Beth, I don't. Yesterday we were not the same as now, and tomorrow I will not be who you knew today. Change... change is the only constant."

I didn't know it then how right he was, and in that moment, his ignorance was a blessing.

>>8998608
>I am not good at critique

That's obvious, you're no good at writing either. No amount of critique can help you, unfortunately.

File: Bill-Hader-Holding-in-Laugh.gif (492KB, 176x216px) Image search: [Google]

492KB, 176x216px

All of this is fucking shit.

>>8997908
You took a long time to say jack shit, son. That first paragraph blows. Its like a collection of lines you think you would add to your favorite pieces and not something you wrote for this. The rest of it may try to create tension but its indirect and tedious. If you consider how few words you actually have, then consider how tedious it is to read, you should have an idea of your problem

>>8997944
Try combining sentences or saying the same thing in fewer words and sentences.
>sidecar sam
corny as fuck as is his mission

>>8998461
>>8998466

"in enthralled"
Also, I already don't like how fragmented this seems, that is, you describe the family member's so much even though your character is "terrified". Doesn't make sense.

"I never knew what was coming"... should be: "I didn't know what was coming".

"How can you describe a colour that's like nothing you've ever seen before?" I don't like this. There was something in the Discworld series that did this better, try to emulate that.

"The governments" literally what? How about the governments of the world over, or the leaders of our nation-states, or something...

Again, it's too simplistic. Try to change up your voice a little. "Right now is tonight," - I hate this. Please change. Sorry if I'm a dick, I think you have potential at storytelling, just read more.


>PROVIDENCE

The Valkyrie’s braided locks whisper, “Choose me.”

Her body twists in Godly patterns. She wraps me in warmth. My neck begins to burn with her excited, ropey touch. I hold my breath expectantly. I’ll forget everything soon, lost in our love.

But another arrives, sybaritic like me. Baby’s got dangerous curves and skin like ebony. The blond slithers away into obscurity; the obsidian girl approaches, we drink Chablis. I fumble with her then turn her over to me. My lips press against her chamber. She’s one to recoil with screams, I assure. Strangely enough, she always looks like a panther in motion even when still. I look at the blond girl and think twice. The black girl’s hammer reels back. She purrs in my ear, “Choose me.”

But I can’t decide who to make it with. So I stow away the Rapunzel noose and the sable Glock, selecting the red-lipstick pills instead. I’m coming God.

>>8999834

>Baby’s got

Cut this it feels too colloquial and modern against the rest of the flowery dialogue

I gulped the rest of my pint and slammed the tankard on the table; in my other hand I crushed the chart. I jumped up and cried “We’re going to kill a god”. My two lieutenants whooped drunkenly and started yelling for more drink.
The hunchback we were dining with smiled cynically, lop siding his face and revealing one glass tooth jutting out its blackened gum.
“ When I sold you that map Captain, you assured me it was to visit the monastery” he hissed sweetly.

Here's the first draft of my storys opening. I'm experimenting with a new narrative voice.

>>8999859

Not bad, a little cringey though. I don't like drinking scenes unless they're strange/funny. Maybe make some crude remarks first, or describe how confused one character may be... e.g. One lieutenant looked up from his drinking, attempting to call for more, when the captain hollered...


>The Red Madness

At the very Beginning, there was nothing. There were no stars to light up empty space, or any planets to plot their way across the universe. It was a complete void. There was no life that could expire into death. There was no time to give any sense of direction. There was no order to give way to balance. But worst of all, there was no music to match the horrible silence of nothingness. Then suddenly, out of the dark, Chaos was born. Fully formed and unburdened by the curse of time and ware, Chaos was left to brood on his existence. He was immortal, which was far worse than anything he could have ever imagined. Chaos could never die, so he was left to wander blindly in the dark, pondering: “Why am I here? Where did I come from?” he would ask his lonely self. “I cannot come from nothing. There must be a meaning.”

Alone and confused, Chaos wanted to create something himself and for himself. His curiosity had grown too much for him. He decided to make a friend to answer his questions. So he created a star from the dust and loneliness from within his heart. “I have made you, the manifestation of all my pain and solitude in this lonely darkness to keep me company,” he told the star, “Though this is all I’ve ever known… I feel that there is something else to this existence. There must be a meaning,” Chaos repeated. He looked hopefully into the star that shone so brightly in his hands. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. But as pretty as the star was, it did not answer his calls. So Chaos fell into a deep and quiet depression, brooding once again. Unmoving in his melancholic position, Chaos wept for himself and for the soundless star he’d created. “There is no meaning,” he said, surrendering from his quest for knowledge, while tears ran down his obsidian cheeks and out into the void. “The universe is absolute Chaos.” For there was no time, the saddened Chaos hadn’t realised when he started crying or when he stopped, or if he had at all. But at one point, as he raised his head, he found no tears on his face or any sadness in his heart. Instead he found a red glow. And in this moment, he smiled the first smile and looked at the star in optimism. Chaos had come to a new realisation and spoke to his one friend with joy. “I was born from the nothingness as you were from my heart!” he said with that joyful smile, “We are much alike, you and I. You have no friends just as I had no one as I first came into being, so you must be lonelier than me. I shall grant you a wish… some friends of your very own,” he declared. Then Chaos reached into his chest and pulled out a single shining orb.

CONTINUED

“This one,” he called out, “shall be named Time. Everything will follow in her direction.” It gleamed well in the darkness and floated up to its sister star.

Again Chaos offered up a sphere of light from his heart. “This is your sister, Life. She shall make stars and worlds of her own. Because of this, she will never be alone.”

After that, he summoned Death from the depths of his chest, “the end and beginning of Life, for there shall always be this never-ending cycle between the two”.

Then Order was created to represent this balance and that of the universe. Finally, he made his last star which would match the horrible silence around them, the silence which Chaos loathed so much. Thus Music was birthed. Chaos held it in his hands for some time and brought it up to his ears, listening in on its beautiful bird song. Then with a pleasant smile, he let go, sighing blissfully. Slowly, the star joined the others and they rose up together in unison, flying away into empty space. The five new stars: Time, Life, Death, Order and Music floated towards the nameless firstborn. They circled around it with a low hum of divinity. Chaos chose to speak then as the stars danced. “You, my first star,” he said warmly, “you shall be named Madness for you are the centre of my and all existence.”

The star grew blood red and brighter while the others spun in pirouettes around it. They sung as one as they went, for Music had taught them her song. Time was at the front of the group, leading them in their trajectory around the red star. Order kept them in line and proper positions, whilst Life and Death attempted to pass each other amidst the circle dance of light. “Madness,” Chaos continued, “because you kept me company in the absolute darkness and the total loneliness around us, without Time, Life, Death, Order, Music or anything else. For this, you are the driving force in all existence. The meaning of life is Madness. You are confusion, ecstasy, despair – the true nature behind everything… and you are also a loner’s best companion,”

Then the six stars flew away from their father with their new names and purposes, going off to create new worlds and, eventually, Earth. Chaos gave birth to trillions of new stars across the universe. Stretching out from infinity to infinity, the universe held all of Chaos’ daughters and all of the planets they had created. But wherever a star may be, they still orbited around the red Madness in some way. Around and around the centre star they went – which had grown ceaselessly larger and redder than any inferno, as planets were born and destroyed, as stars developed and perished – under the strong, red light of Madness. And soon, Chaos couldn’t help but wonder who had come first: him or his daughter, Madness.

>>8997190
Choose the Force™. Choose the Jedi. Choose a Master. Choose the Council. Choose a fucking blue lightsaber. Choose protocol droids, R2 units and clone troopers. Choose Naboo, Coruscant and Tatooine. Choose fixed-interest credit payments to the Kaminoans. Choose a Corellian freighter that did the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs. Choose a Wookiee. Choose sneaking into the Death Star, deactivating a tractor beam, waving your lightsaber in Darth Vader's face. Choose turning into a blue ghost at the end of it all, disappearing into thin air, nothing more than an embarrassment to the whiny farmboy you trained on the way to Alderaan.

Choose your destiny. Choose repackaged irony.

But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got the Force™?

>>8999955

Who needs reasons when you've got death sticks ?

>>8999834
Honestly I feel like I like this a lot more than I should.
It feels trashy and delirious but still finding an off-beauty in that. Like if Hunter Thompson tried to get romantic
Hopefully that's what you were going for, I liked it regardless

>>8999984
That's weird you say that - I was reading Kingdom of Fear at the time. Thanks, anon

>>8998989

Stopped reading at 'Asians' you bigoted fuck

>>8999323
post some of your shit bill HATER hahahahaha

dead-end rosebud citizen kane piece of shit

He rebelled against the empire
of United Britain to dispel the whispers
echoeing from the merchant's alleyways
gilded in grit and mired in footysteps
delighted to carry our weight once more
in the tranquil storm of life lilting like a flame
near a cracked window pane pouring ashes
from Vesuvius nearby centuries ago
flooding the cortices of posterior posterity—
how deleterious the pitter-patters of the tongue become
seeping from my flesh like amber from an oak
chopped away from the forrest for firewood and paper
for the King to seal with his Kingly seal
and send to his mistress the baker

Sisyphus torne from the ages asunder
borne in sherbert dappled pepper spackled skies
pregnant with Thor's thundering next door
in Charon's realm, the nebula of Abraxas,
the seraglio of Bacchus, the abode of Nobodaddy,
where dreams dreamt awake name themselves McCleary
destitute shaped by a wooden arm yclept combustion
broken like the ties of a lost soul in purgatory
wandering aimless through the window glass
in search of some solace simply supplied
by the obvious universe betwixt two points:
the pre-natal and post-mortem, where the business happens
and other things too, chimeric real tomorrows day.

>>8998562
I believe you have seen this place. I have a minor discomfort with the way the point of view snaps from dialog, which is presumably taking place inside the vehicle, to the "red paint blur" image, which must be outside the vehicle, then the lights not working, which again must be inside. The rest of it is from Johnny's POV, but for that one red paint moment, it almost feels under control. There is nothing else here to incite ire, nor draw down judgement, so I will tell you what I hope.

I hope that the weather report somehow develops bearing on the rest of the story. I hope the landscape description somehow develops bearing on the rest of the story. I hope that something happens soon.

>>8999974
thank you

>>9000066
pretty brilliant famalam

>>9000081

I think my problem is imagine scenarios from the view of a narrator that has total freedom of switching perspective on the fly then I write down. Almost like a movie director who has control of reality.

I should practice limiting my writing to just one single point of conciousness.

As for something happening, I have to admit i typed out that whole thing out on my phome last nigt in bed based on motes from a car drive the day before, so i wasn't really thinking about a story.

>>8997917

I agree with >>8998053 .
It feels very disjointed. Also I feel like you can say just as much with fewer words. Always cut dead wood. Find the right words to use that express what you need of them and instead of every single line being it's own separate point, try using commas and semi colons and try to have more of a flow. This should flow like a seamless melody.

>>8998477
Anaphora can often seem very... trite.
Try it with fewer "Just Like You's" maybe and see how it feels. I understand the feeling you're trying to impose with the repetition but by the end of the first stanza it may lose it's heaviness or meaning to some.

Tell me I should wash my hair and if I care about you, perhaps I’ll consider it.

Tell me you’ll come over tomorrow so tomorrow I can tell you that you will not.

Tell me how the bike ride we had at three in the morning under the lone street light gave me insouciant joy as the freedom of the December wind swept against my face.

Tell me I’m unlovable until I learn to love myself, and give me nothing but silence so there’s no doubt in my mind that I never mattered.

Tell me why your pictures could never stay on the fucking wall or why I even bothered to hold your hand.

Say you’re sorry while the glint of pride in your eyes still sparks.

Tell me that my hands on her slender, pale throat are at least a distraction.

Tell me how badly I fucking needed you to stay as I watched you grow further from me than I can ever reach (But God knows I’ve fucking tried).

>>9000456
A simple mechanism: have another entity observe the image. "The ol' yeller saw Grandpa's truck as a blur of red paint streak by." (for example. let's not quibble about dog color vision). Or the Mexican. Or the crow.

That way, your reader knows that the camera is unhinged on purpose. If that is your purpose. David Means wrote a story once that included numerous scenes from the perspective of a goldfish in a bowl.

>>8997944
I dont like the second and third use of the word rider. Try to paraphrase it

Quentin lay in bed, staring up at the blank ceiling.
He thought of his birthday. Of how while he was presented with gifts and congratulations, of how while everyone indulged themselves during dinner, he thought dark thoughts.Thoughts of how he inched another year closer into the nondiscriminant hand of the inevitable.
Into the hands of death.
Quentin tossed on his half of the bed, the silk sheets doing nothing to alleviate his anxiety. He and death, they were familiar bedfellows. Old friends who had brushed few times too many.
Tightly gripping the sheets, he stared off into the darkness that engulfed the room as he thought of how the past thirteen years had treated him. He of the journey he had gone through from youth to adulthood. Of the time he had wasted with a decades worth routine of normalcy: rising to the morning sun, teaching the whole day, returning home to play the role of dutiful family man, dining, grading, and finally going to bed in the evening only to begin the same routine when he awoke with the golden sun.
He craved the unpredictable.
He craved chaos.
He craved many things.
Careful not to wake Lenore, Quentin rolled out of bed for a glass of water. He carefully moved through the room, the slivers of moonlight guiding him to the bathroom. Turning on the lights, he poured faucet water into a glass. Sipping water, he set the glass down as he stared at his reflection in the elegantly framed mirror. Quentin turned his head to get a better view of his greying temples. It was silver, Salt-and-peppered in among his black hair. Pulling scissors out of one of the drawers, he cut away the grey strands from both temples. Turning his head from side to side, he admired his handiwork. Setting the scissors back down, he turned off the lights and carefully stumbled back over to his bed through the darkness.
Quentin slept uninterrupted for the rest of the evening until he awoke at sunrise, disturbed for a brief moment before carefully jumping out of bed with optimism.

>>8999136
great tips! thanks

>>9000029
lol ok

>>8999870
Would be great if Chaos would speak in verses.
The sentences could be more elaborate too. Nonetheless i like it, its a good idea, but as i said the language has to fit to this divine scene

>>9000525

The ol yeller is a yellow truck but i see your point

My family came into the room, followed by some friends of our household. I believe I am at a point in age where family seems like a loose concept. To be locked in what is essentially an adult daycare all day strips humanity from me. I can hear my mom’s voice, but I can’t feel it like I used to. Clyde came barreling towards me, and setting down my cupcake, I scooped him up with an arm and slung him over my shoulder. I walked around the room some while asking menial questions that every relative asks to seem like they’re busy:
“How’s second grade?”
“Good.”
“What are you learnin’”?
“Nothing.”
“I’m going to get better and we can play more tag. I promise bud.”
There was no reply. It was quiet, and I think my lie was pushed too far. All eyes that were locked onto me upon my arrival were struggling to escape me now that I’ve gone and lied to Clyde. Kids don’t forget anything.


>>9000573
I feel like "Into the hands of death should be used with a dash.

>tossed on his half of the bed
What? Tossing baseballs?

>He and death...
That's weird. You started so dark. To say death and this kid were sleeping together as "buds" isn't keeping that with me

It reads almost like an adult kids book.
"And he did..."
"he.."
"he"

Last paragraph was alright, though. Would read if everything was like it

>>8998047
We get it; you can jerk off words on paper. You can only make that work with poetry.

Don't do this in prose. Trash it and keep pushing through

>>8997190
i have a vague idea in mind (a novel about mental illness), how should i proceed now?
should i think a story-line or something like that or start write and decide whats going to happen?

>>9000000

File: 1484438448144.jpg (327KB, 1055x808px) Image search: [Google]

327KB, 1055x808px

>>9000758
OH MY GOD

>>9000625
I thought it was a dog, because of the famous dog of that name.

>>9000655
First - how is it not One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?

Because even though that was an issue novel, the characters grew bigger than the issue as it progressed to the end. It was a character-driven novel that also, by the way, exposed the relative cruelty of lobotomy and patient mistreatment, and institutionalized sadism.

And, meme though it may be - how is it not Infinite Jest? Because depression and psychosis and addiction are, it has to be admitted, deeply handled there.

Everybody's process is different. But if you don't know what is going to happen yet, you might start by sketching out who the characters are. Or start with a single scene. Or write the ending first.

https://cecinestpasundelire.wordpress.com/2016/10/27/of-transports-and-men/
What do you guys think of my blog?

>>9000901

>https://cecinestpasundelire.wordpress.com/2016/10/27/of-transports-and-men/

Jesus christ my G. Do you have any idea how fucking drab this is ? There is no reason at all for me to read this. Your voice is boring, you strike me as a na uninteresting person, you're observations and thoughts are basic af. You're like the fucking oppisite Hunter S Thompson. Also a trip to Italy is a cheap european family getaway not you canoeing down the mekong.

Get your fucking self-promoting ass of my board

>>9000036
>dead-end rosebud citizen kane piece of shit

the only good line in the entire thread

>>8999161
>beset with spots of green and red where the morning glory and yucca. The orange and red flaming sky was shifting to purple

I think your descriptors are a bit redundant. Within one line reads 5 basic color names as adjectives, while there are literally 100's of more effective equivalents that you could use.

Also,
>orange and red flaming sky
is especially redundant in that flaming already describes it as orange and red.

Overall I enjoyed the passage though.

>>9001340

http://pastebin.com/E2gCGmwE

Here's something iv'e been working on btw which conversely I'm afraid may be descriptive overkill thats detracting me from productive story writing.

*extremely spoken word slam-poetry voice*

I got those paper cuts, deep in my fingers and in my
sleep, it's Pam, secretarial, behind the phones.
cut to my bones, communication, for this lonely nation,
business in and out and Scranton, Pennsylvania, home of founding
fathers and puritan mothers, industrious children. Liberty Bell or
Liberty Hell? I bleed the truth, bossman. Michael Scott at the water cooler
myopic ruler, ancient slave driver, smiley face 90s corporate
fooler, not so cool outside of business school, cool cold Scranton
air, at the job fair, Dwight and Jim, eternal twins, locked together like
Gemini, why oh why must we fight like this, we might like this if it weren't
for the man in New York with the corporate New Talk to tell us how
to work our trade, need to get... paid, paid in full, push and
pull, the endless struggle of the working day, starts to fade,
colleagues in the parking lot, Pam the sexy frumpy image of a working
girl, only chance you've got, censored longing, a lurking
snarl, Dwight, I see it, atavistic urge and you want to
free it, set loose on this land and make it yours, an instinct ancient, Germanic,
feeling manic, nunchucks under every desk, ready for a test that
never comes, feeling numb, another dumb client gullible and pliant and
dollar signs on the spreadsheets like the dead dreams in head, beats
working in the warehouse, I guess. Yes. I got those paper cuts.

Their shack doesn't have air conditioning. It's a wooden shack with a metal roof meant to keep the rain out; it instead magically percolates. Not a place meant to be lived in, but that doesn't stop man. They have to find that one place they can conquer. Terry found Oro in the house a couple of summers ago. In that run-down piece of shit Oro was trying to find himself through the excessive usage of browntown's eye, nose, and throat doctor. He would find Oro on the floor all the time. Another man showed up without prior warning, atleast to Terry, to pick him off the floor. But Oro hasn't come back to Terry yet. That guy stole him and left Terry with quite the moral dilemma. The man loaded Oro into a van, not a place where you want to see someone go, but you have to understand Terry's position. He heard the driver mumbling about Virginia, the rehab place. He wouldn't be able to help by himself; there's no way he could reach him. And he knows that Oro "can't" stop doing drugs, not even for a day. Would that be defined as a lack of self-control, even if he has total control over what he's doing? That's what Terry thought about. Maybe there's more to it than what Terry thought, but a definite wrench in his philosophical mumbo-jumbo is that Oro has definitely tried to stop. He says he'll get better. He's just going through some hard times, he would say. In fact, he's living in a wooden shack that appears to fail at all times of the year. Terry thought about sprucing it up himself. It's just wood and metal... just add more wood. That would solve the leaking problem, probably. In the end, he decided not to. He knew Oro would just mess it up.

>>9001459
I feel like there's two voices here, a kind of naive vernacular one and then an involuted DFW one, and I think the piece would benefit from really pushing just one of those. If you want a really good example of the 'naive vernacular' voice in action, which at the same time can express the kind of abstract anxieties of the DFW voice, I recommend William Gass's The Pedersen Kid

>>9000655
For me, it has to come naturally. Besides that, the most important thing is the setting. You have to set it in a meaningful universe that you want to write about. I like to write scenes that can be seen through multiple perspectives because I often utilize multiple characters. You take that setting you developed and make your characters (who you also have to develop) react to it. The story is the easiest part, you just make things happen that refer to those characters and either make them change or stay the same. If you want to write a story, you need to do everything else first. Those are what make a good story, not the story itself.

>>9001493
Wow, that's a perfect description of what I was thinking. Imagine the naivety being the first run through, and the DFW being the second run through and that's basically how I wrote it. Thanks for the book suggestion

>>8997917
>>8998053
>>8998608
>>9000501

Thank (You)

So I started something new

http://pastebin.com/Ze9es232

please tear into pieces

Literar is gay

>>9001870
0/-2

>>9000895
>>9001524
Thanks for the tips!

>One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
i only watched the movie and really loved it, but its not exactly what i'm thinking of
and i'm still reading IJ, but i'll try to find my own perspective on this

>>8998562
It seems a bit sparse, but it isn't really bad. A description of who Johnny is in the car with may prove useful.

Here's mine. It's a touch lengthy.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/19fnwO2d2vq-NxTYnrfC6Arnx0U8eH7f4JxSNE2cIbbc/edit?usp=sharing

How does one improve? I read and write regularly but can not see any improvement. I am unsure what avenue to take from here.

>>9002309
Cut fat. Experiment. Cut fat. Focus very acutely on important bits until fully lucid. Improve yourself. Know yourself. Improve characters. Write characters all day long until you become a master sculpter, fully aware of every detail yet knowing the whole sum and form. Dream something so important that you quiver at the chance to write it with a giddy smile.

>>9002556
This doesn't really mean anything except "practice".

>>8998128
Shut the fuck up

>>9002849
offened seven-squared?

>>9002309
By asking better questions. What specifically do you want to improve?

>>8999955
>>8999974
Who needs reasons when you've got Twi'lek porn?

>>9002849

I agree with this post

boy oh boy do i hate fiction

File: opening?.png (109KB, 712x587px) Image search: [Google]

109KB, 712x587px

"German and Google Translator side-by-side" edition

>>9001403
Read para 12. Then come back and tell me why that is all in there. Then, ask yourself why, if every stick of furniture is that important, why we are not allowed to learn about it while the characters interact with them in some interesting way.

Now, maybe I've got you wrong. Maybe, later in the story, a bluejay is going to fly in and get stuck in that room, run its head into the refrigerator, land in the double sink, recover enough to take off again, then launch itself from the stove, and, now being chased by the character, who jumps from the fabric upholstered chair, clatters down on the table, knocking it over, to reveal that the cardboard shim is actually a copy of their grandfather's will which bequeaths them the exact amount of money they need to resolve the central plot conflict.

In which case, ok then.

>>9001459
Terry found Oro in the house a couple of summers ago. In that run-down piece of shit Oro was trying to find himself through the excessive usage of browntown's eye, nose, and throat doctor. He would find Oro on the floor all the time. Their shack doesn't have air conditioning. It's a wooden shack with a metal roof meant to keep the rain out; it instead magically percolates. Not a place meant to be lived in, but that doesn't stop man. They have to find that one place they can conquer. Another man showed up without prior warning, at least to Terry, to pick him off the floor. But Oro hasn't come back to Terry yet. That guy stole him and left Terry with quite the moral dilemma. The man loaded Oro into a van, not a place where you want to see someone go, but you have to understand Terry's position. He heard the driver mumbling about Virginia, the rehab place. He wouldn't be able to help by himself; there's no way he could reach him. And he knows that Oro "can't" stop doing drugs, not even for a day. Would that be defined as a lack of self-control, even if he has total control over what he's doing? That's what Terry thought about. Maybe there's more to it than what Terry thought, but a definite wrench in his philosophical mumbo-jumbo is that Oro has definitely tried to stop. He says he'll get better. He's just going through some hard times, he would say. In fact, he's living in a wooden shack that appears to fail at all times of the year. Terry thought about sprucing it up himself. It's just wood and metal... just add more wood. That would solve the leaking problem, probably. In the end, he decided not to. He knew Oro would just mess it up.

I did not change a single word. Can you see the difference? The term for this comes from the old newspaper business: You "buried the lead."

>>9001852
Just take a close look at this sentence:

The captain’s dull eyes took on a drunken luster in their greed as he watched the monk take a yellowed chart from out his chest.

Especially "luster in their greed" and "from out his chest."

It only takes a couple of clunkers like that for readers to start wondering about whether you are for real. And "lazily." There is always a better way.

Style is everybody's worst enemy. But think of it this way. If the mood of the scene is supposed to be sinister foreboding, or menacing suspense while waiting for this transaction, then why not make the yeoman's work of each description and action sound sinister and foreboding?

Would the captain be worried that the barman might remember him? Would the three say anything that might display apprehension that the monk won't show? Is there some colorful contrast between these three conspirators and the rest of the bar crowd?

In other words, the "style" of this scene is to be found in the emotional tension, which is currently not much there. If the point of view is primarily third person personal via Captain, then describe it as he might see it.

"When he arrived at the bar he’d found it empty save for the barman who was lazily wiping glasses."

Might become,

"When he arrived at the wharf-side saloon the only breather he had to worry about was the barman wiping glasses with a rag that might have been washed. Once. Long ago."

Or something. I'm trying to illustrate how the character's perspective can be integrated into the observations so we can identify the mood you want to establish, and so we can then be emotionally involved in the scene.

>>9002309
Structured practice, just like everything else. Seriously. The exercise can be anything.

See that bottle cap on the counter? Write ten completely different perspectival descriptions of that bottle cap.

"The bottle cap landed on the counter and bounced a little twirly dance that Jim thought illustrated exactly how his stomach felt just then."

Have a goal:

Write ten similes about that cloud.

Write ten metaphors for that dog.

Do it every day.

>>9001439
lol this was actually well done and funny, although I was cringed out by the office as a subject at first. Favorite line is 'nunchucks under every desk'

>>8999834
It was fine until the last lines. No need to use all this descriptive imagery alluding the objects, only to blatantly state them in the end. Otherwise what's the point of the subtly before hand? You could have easily described the pills as well, not stated the obvious, and then still ended with "I'm coming god.". It would have fit into the erotic/romanticized undertones well and not caused the latter descriptions to be pointless.

It's pretty good though, writing wise. Incredibly edgy and kind of annoying as a stand alone piece. If these were opening lines to a greater story, that would help take the 'edge' off.

So I have never written anything (can't even keep a journal for more than a week), and I haven't read in a while.
Where does one start ? Where do you guys get inspiration for your characters ? I do spend a lot of time observing people, but I'm not sure what to look for.

I've reworked my opening quite a bit after completly hating my first attempt.
http://pastebin.com/TnHETzeR

>>9004312

All right now this is going to sound cliche af but first things first look into yourself and ask

"Why do I want to write"

A) Because you have stories you need to tell

B) Because it's the only way you can express yourself

Anything other than that I'd say you're going about it wrong especially if moneys your main concern

Second of all : Read. You can't write well without reading a lot. Read everything from Kafka to moomins , classics and modern airport thrillers, short stories,plays,novels,essays. The more you'll be able to blend all of it into your own writing. Also read bad lit. If you hear people shitting on harry potter then read harry potter and keep that in mind. What makes it bad ? Is it even bad

For me setting is always what strikes me first but for characters everyones process is different. One thing I'd say is too not rely to much on actual people for the simple reason they're fucking boring.

If it's your imagination you're having trouble with then start keeping a dream journal,look into lucid dreaming and let your subconcious do part of the work

>Where does one start

by writing. If you don't make the first word on your draft then all the brainstorming,planning,discussing won't mean shit.

Also don't just stick to writing experiment with drawing, making film anything that'll get your creative juices flowing.

Also experience shit, if you want to write a sea yarn go on a boat, if you want to write about a boxer from the ghetto go down to a ghetto boxing gym.

>>9002579
No. It is not merely saying practice. It's intelligent practice. Analytical practice. Use your brain and shovel your own path. Another possibility is that you aren't working enough hours at it.

>>9004246
thanks, it was supposed to be 100% satirical, unfortunately that's the only way I can force myself to write anything these days

>>9004471
The post I was replying to didn't speak of intellectual or analytical practice, more it read like the kind of inspirational quote that gets shared on facebook.

>>9003263
why the fuck do you post like this you insufferable narcissist?

do you really think we're gonna zoom in and scroll through the image like fuckin jules verne in 30,000 leagues under the sea?

just post it in a normal format pls

When you run into [redacted] at [social occasion], having not seen him/her for Lord Knows How Many Months, you are a few pounds lighter. The host, having had invited both you and [redacted], was unsure if this (i.e mutual invitation) “sat okay” with you and was genuinely apologetic w/r/t the self-evident “weirdness” of the given scenario (1). His/her (i.e the host’s) visible discomfort (manifested via a generally tense physical conduct: unsettling facial contortions, categorically bizarre body language (ergo: hand acrobatics normally utilised in a Please Don’t Sock Me in The Goddamned Jaw scenario (inexplicably re-appropriated for the given scenario w/r/t [redacted])) and an apprehensive dynamically fluctuant twist to his/her (i.e the host’s) voice) induced a certain (empathetic) discomfort within yourself, to the extent you were prompted to assure (grinning, bashfully) that the host shouldn’t “Sweat It! That’s the last thing he/she should do. Honestly, it’s fine!” The admittedly relieved host bought you a drink while you reiterated your excitement for [social occasion], though consciously (unspoken) all too aware [social occasion] isn’t really your bag to begin with and the inevitable run-in with [redacted] is not going to be easy (2) (you have, after all, been concerned w/r/t a situation such as this for quite some time now, often strenuously attempting to calculate a preemptive social “routine” or “procedure”, as it were, should you indeed be thrust into such an obviously uncomfortable social situation with [redacted] (i.e: how exactly to greet him/her [i.e redacted], what questions as to ask w/r/t [redacted]’s current living/social/academic situation, how to speak w/r/t yourself, etc. (essentially a set of social dance moves that’ll make you appear calm, collected, rational, relaxed, not mad, etc.))) Even still, you (albeit a somewhat delusional and susceptible “illusion” of confidence) adapted a newfound perspective of the Well, Look If I Don’t Go To Things because [redacted]’s Gonna Be There Then Surely [redacted] is Exhibiting an inordinate Amount of Control (Heck, an amount of control that shouldn’t even be there (certainly not anymore)) Over Me and That’s Really Not Cool so you know what? Fuck It, I’ll go Maybe I’ll have a Good Time persuasion, a perspective that has led you here, here to the heart of [social occasion].

>>9005247

Indeed, you are lightly engaged in mild conversation with a friend of a friend’s, someone who is dating an acquaintance of yours (which has thus far been the prime topic of discussion (i.e the acquaintance); you regale the ancient Golf Camp anecdote (the time you and Acquaintance “jocked” your teenage (you were pre-teens at the time) golf instructor’s trousers and how (upon accidentally pulling down his undergarments, in tandem with his trousers) you basically re-defined the term “in the rough” (ostensibly a reference to pubic hair (people always laugh (i.e heartily) at that turn of phrase and for whatever reason never ask for an elaboration) [citation needed] (note: about mid-way through the anecdote you realise the Acquaintance in question (i.e the person who the friend of a friend is dating) has absolutely nothing to do with this anecdote (ergo: you’ve mistaken friend of a friend’s dating companion with another acquaintance) and you’re in too deep at this point to backtrack the story so, you know, wrap up the anecdote and get the fuck out of dodge) but you’re not entirely “there”, as it were, considering you’re almost entirely occupied by the impending (probably inevitable) [redacted] scenario. Gripping a beverage tight to your chest, you incrementally (though not obviously, as to appear rude) glance over friend of a friend’s shoulder for any potential generalised visual cue/signal re: the pending [redacted] scenario, re: whether it will, in fact, impede. Roughly speaking, it is at this point I notice you.

>>9005247
well done, even more bone-headed and congested than DFW at his autistest

but I don't like DFW so I can't say I like it hehe

Question:
Im having trouble describing things in my book
say you have a unique environment how do i describe things and in what order?

that sort of thing, any book recommendations would help thanks

What's a better way to start an essay that examines a specific element of a piece of media other than "one of my favourite little touches in..."?

>>9005442
Describe the thing before you tell us how it makes you feel.

>>9005247
I want MORE

>>9004089
Whenever I start things like that I just feel cliche. To be fair, I always feel awkward starting things. My thought process was for that description to be more of a setup, but on a second glance it feels too structured to me. One things for sure: I have to make my writing much more interesting.

>>9005358
Pick another hobby, dude.

>>9005247
A good way to keep your style would be to try to simplify sentences, or say things in less words. It would add the palate cleanser this so desperately needs. Remember that the human brain works in waves. This would work if it was simply a person's perspective. Which it could be, as the context begs.

>>9005358
Only describe what you need to describe. No one needs to know about a leak if it never means anything in the story.

I think that the environment depends on how you're going to describe it. For example, you have two characters. If you're describing the environment from both of their perspectives they could see it differently. Or if you have a singular important environment, imagine what you can see the most on it. But I hate writing like that, so I wouldn't be able to help you in that way. It always comes out awkward.

>>9001403
>>9004052
Thanks

I was thinking about adding details of the boy's memories associated with the objects/scenery, but even then I am afraid it might be too cliche or lack any contextual significance. I also thought of attaching some symbolism to the recliner regarding patriarchal wisdom/governance in that it had been "grandpa's big fuckin' chair" vs grandmas chair with a dainty doily pillow on it, but overall I've hit a minor rut in direction at this point.

>>9005773
kys

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>>9000046
So, I really like the plot of the poem, if I can assume this is about some peasant putting the empire on blast, but I think you can edit this to flow more smoothly. Perhaps clarifying who the "he" is in the first line would help, as the speaker introduces himself only later on in the poem, and the length betrays any real natural break to pick up on it - it took me a second read to really understand that it is not quite narrative.

I'd also get rid of some complicated words like cortices and deleterious - I think keeping a simpler vocabulary could help bring the speaker to life if he's a peasant. I do like the defiant tone here - posterior posterity sounds like something a witty guy down at the bar would say.

Overall, I like the theme of common defiance that isn't romanticized, pretty unique in my opinion. I'd just work on how the words flow and I think you'd have a nice piece.
Anyway, here's my poem.

>>8998484
Essentially my life
>>9000066
I'd like the style if it could decide between being ironically haughty and mythically descriptive. Besides, the short length of the poem really doesn't match the ambitious allusions.
>>9001439
I like this, but I think the "slam-poetry voice" style could be put to greater use if you had each line begin with the last word of the line before it. Just a personal preference, but it's pretty fun regardless

>>9006294
Omg, I'm pretty sure you took more time to write your critique of my poem than I took time to write it, which i say not out of some form of braggadocio, but of pure appreciation. You're a positive person, anon, and I thank you for that. As for your poem:

It almost reads like a Mondrian painting: the parts perceptibly in order that eventually proves somewhat random. The rhyming is there but inconsistent, not necessarily to its detriment considering the clear deliberation of it. The ambiguity of the speaker definitely intrigues. And quite honestly, despite understanding the basic premise of sorrow and the desire for hope, I couldn't tell you what I believe the message of the piece is: any guess would be conjectural and I believe false. Is it about alcoholism? Depression in general? The perpetuity of doubt? Idk, but all in all, I like it like I like salmon jerky: enough to consume.

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>>8999955
>>8999974
>>9003394
Who needs reasons when you got PODRACING
>>9004169
A good example of this (when looked at on a literal level) would be Steven's Poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"

Am new to /lit/ but here goes

Larry sat, fingers wrapped around a coffee mug handle as he eyed the clock. Five minutes to four. He was a seventy year old man with a shiny bald head and an impeccably clean office. In front of him lay the application of the man he was to interview with a peculiar name. Oldman chose him for that reason.

The speaker on his phone spoke, "Mr. Oldman, your four o'clock is here."

"Send him in. Thanks, Janet."

Forty five seconds later, the man walked in through the door. His hands were absolutely enormous. So large, in fact, that they looked entirely out of proportion with the rest of his body.

"Mr. Hands, please, have a seat."
"Thank you for inviting me in today."
"Absolutely. My name is Larry Oldman, I'm the human resources manager for the company."
"It's a pleasure, Larry," says Mr. Hands, reaching one of his gigantic paws over the desk for a handshake.
"So it says right here that your name is Big Hands."
"Yes."
"Were you named for your large hands?"
"Actually no, that was purely coincidental. When I was born I had regular little baby hands."
"What's your mother's name?"
"Little Hands."
"Are her hands little?"
"No. Her hands are massive."
"And your father?"
"Born with no hands."
"That must have been tough. What's his name?"
"He doesn't have a first name. And he's never spoken once."
"That is extremely interesting. Why does he not speak?"
"Nobody knows. It seems like he does it out of choice. There's an old story that at fifteen he traveled to meet Buddhist monks. When he met them, he supposedly said to them, 'Are you guys still open? Do you still have that fajita special?' Legend says that that's the only thing he's ever said."
"How is he doing as of late?"
"I'm not too entirely sure. Right now he's sitting on a fifteen year prison sentence for child molestation."
"How do you molest a child with no hands?"
"That's funny, my mother asked the same question."
"Alright Mr. Hands it's time for the hardball questions. Who wins in a fight: a Burmese tiger or a clam?"
"Tiger."
"Yeah but aren't clams magical or something?"
"I don't think so."
"Don't they, like, do shit with the moon?"
"That does not sound like a thing they do."
"What if the clam had a law degree?"
"Impossible. Have you debated a clam before?"
"You make a point there. Clams always argue things from a limited perspective."
"But what would you expect? You've seen the environment that most of them grow up in."
"It's really a shame that they don't have any decent public schools in the ocean."
"Poverty and a lack of education are bedfellows."
"That's good enough for me. Would $15 work?"
"Sounds fantastic."
"I've killed people."
"That's fine."

>>8997721
Elegant

>>8997589
I like the way you did this one. Good dialogue, proper bantz

Awash in a dream upon a dream, I roll to gaze upon a yielding and riding waterline, floating a most relaxing rhythm upon the undulating surface and flitting from half-awareness to delirium and back the way I came. I think slowly on the blaze that consumes a line of the shore, *hvor varmt ser det ut-* With a frantic flailing I abruptly make for the shore, as it occurs to me that I’ve not only been bobbing limply in nigh bone-chilling waters for the better part of an hour, but that I haven’t any idea when, how or why I had arrived there.

With a huff, a cough and a wringing of hands I pull myself onto the beach, shivering and trying to gather the shattered, frozen remains of my wits about me. I crawl along the sand, working toward the heat of a mysteriously burning section of the beach, and wrap into a tight fist of limbs to watch the sun falling toward an ever-ruddier mountain vista. Slowly, I descend into unconsciousness.


I awake to the stench of now dead fire and the telltale tinglings of a yet-unseen creature making its merry way along my body. It knows safety for a moment, while I let my eyes adjust to the double-threat of the sun’s rays’ assault of my eyes and their glancing blows from the sand, but as I am cured of my blindness I take hold of the beast that rests upon me and send the wretch in an arc back into the waters of its home. I rise, my bones sending off a twenty-one gun salute to their rest, and take stock of my surroundings. I stand on the shore of a large lake that leads up to a hyperbolizing cliff-face topped with the edge of a forest. The beach bends out from my sight to the south and follows rather avant-garde patterns of natural formation along the north, finally rounding out almost imperceptibly to evidence the basin’s rim some distance to the east.

I walk aimlessly about the sand, trying to locate anything evidencing whatever had happened to set me here; the smoldering remains of the previous night’s saving grace having no indication of its origin or identity, and there being little else but nature about.

Not in any sort of finished state, please make specific criticisms.

>>9006958
Very nice. Leaves a lot of space to ponder what's left out, makes you want to continue reading and find out more on the story.

>*hvor varmt ser det ut-*

This is the only part that threw me off, not sure what it means or it's significance, but otherwise, solid read

>>8998461
I enjoyed this very much. I would say some rewording in places would make it solid. As it is right now, I like the flow and the mood of it is good.

One thing I would for sure change its the "fourth of July, obviously" part. If it were obviously the fourth of July, you wouldn't need that sentence at all.

>>8998477
>???

Three question marks is all I've got

Where tf did your lungs and limbs go senpai

>>9006945
Up to the hardball questions it was funny but the rest was too random. Should have continued in a more serious tone

>>9007732
Absurdity is my thing desu.

Probably going to change the end of the conversation a bit, but I thought the clam VS tiger bit was hilarious

>>9006958
Besides the "*hvor varmt ser det ut-*" which feels really out of place, everything reads well, and this isn't a particular criticism about the writing itself, but I wish you had given a bit larger of a sample, it was interesting

Also, webnovel I'm working on. Homepage is trash, I know
https://pithosnovel.wordpress.com/

>>9007123
>>9008469
That section was intended to be the character's thoughts, amd I thought it might be interesting to have his thoughts in Norwegian rather than English. The only section so far ("hvor varmt ser det ut-") translates as "how warm it looks-".

>>9008469
You should be advised that blogs count as self-publishing, and use up "first world-wide" publishing rights, in the USA. From a publisher's perspective, that makes the manuscript worthless, unless you win the lottery-level odds of becoming the next 50 Shades.

So if you ever intend to attempt to sell this, or a future version of it substantially similar, you should stop blogging it immediately. And also take down what you've put up already.

>>9008604
And that goes for everyone else, too. Small excerpts posted here can be discounted as "fair use excerpts" but whole poems are considered "published" if they appear here in their entirety.

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http://pastebin.com/maRRFEcP

Part of my autistic story, I've been going through and rewriting long drawn-out parts that were shit and cutting them down, because I've been reading through some of the "action sequences" and they just don't matter. It's not a movie and long drawn-out action sequences just don't work unless they are interesting. I also added a bunch of characters in that scene that don't matter and I don't feel like writing about, so I removed them and went back to basics. Like giving the main character a copilot who died in the battle was just stupid, it distracts him from losing his parents (the previous main characters).

For making this good, I want to be able to evoke an image of what is happening, because it's kind of weird and hard to describe this battle, especially out of context.

Longer term I would like this scene to evoke Peter and Emily's inability to escape the war they'd been fighting for so long, and create a sort of "passing the torch" moment (like with the knife) so as the make it clear that the story is moving into a new era, so to speak.

But what I have right now is complete shit, I feel like the old passage was better even though it was long as fuck. I find this happening; it's like my writing was a badly-made Jenga tower, but once it falls over it's so much work to rebuild it I feel like the messy tower was better.

>>9006958
I actually like this. It flows very well despite using a lot of strong words, they don't seem to crowd each other out and my eyes just glide across the page.

> Awash in a dream upon a dream, I roll to gaze upon a yielding and riding waterline, floating a most relaxing rhythm upon the undulating surface

I think you could keep this part and cut the rest of the sentence. But honestly that feels like it breaks up the flow a bit so maybe not.

No idea what the fuck hvor varmt ser det ut means but I assume it's some foreign phrase that has deep meaning, I am an English-only pleb so I can't comment there. Depends what adueicen you mean this for.

> With a frantic flailing I abruptly make for the shore, as it occurs to me that I’ve not only been bobbing limply in nigh bone-chilling waters for the better part of an hour, but that I haven’t any idea when, how or why I had arrived there.

Excellent sentence. Makes me think it's some british chap in the water and this is the beginning of some Time Machine type of gentleman adventurer story.

> I awake to the stench of now dead fire and the telltale tinglings of a yet-unseen creature making its merry way along my body.

Put a dash between now and dead.

This is actually really good my man.

>>9006945
>"That's good enough for me. Would $15 work?"
>"Sounds fantastic."
>"I've killed people."
>"That's fine."

I liked this part, the rest was whack. Had no context so maybe that was part of it. Mix a bit of description with your dialogue. Your characters aren't strong enough that I can easily tell who's talking without dialogue tags. But, that might be because of no context.

>>9005773
not him but rude

>>9005358
What is your unique environment?

I have the same issue, my story has cities made of trees that are miles tall, fortresses the size of mountain ranges, and mountains that would take months to climb. All sorts of stuff i imagined and have these poewrful images in my head I can't get out onto paper, is deeply frustrating.

>>9005247
>>9005253
9/10. Seriously like this.

>>9004439
* monk's

* and spoke, "Forgive me sirs"

It looks decent, doesn't really interest me.

> Hobbling on lopsided feet, short and wearing a sodden green monks garb.

A bit heavy on the adjectives, try cutting out at least half of them.

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Edward couldn’t cry anymore. He simply stood there, with the light blinding his eyes while Johann’s blue eyes seemed to probe him. – I don’t-- the liquid was suddenly covering his face; entering his nostrils and soon his throat. Everything burned and the fire was yet to be started. He gurgled below the stream, painful-ly.
Johann turned to Carlos, faking confusion. – Is he saying “please stop” or “ughrhgghrgh?” I can’t really tell.
The man laughed from the doorstep; a smug full of satisfaction covered his expression. – I don’t know, sir. Maybe if we used a little bit more of gasoline he might be more responsive.
– Stupendous idea, soldier! – He took the gallon back.

im shit and i know it, what do /lit/?

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>>9008798
Great STORY ANON! IT'S ALMOST LIKE YOU READ THE FUCKING RULES ITT AND DECIDED TO CHALLENGE THE NORMs (macdonald)

>oh no jacques, ive been baited.

>>8997333

Why the redundancy? Show, don't tell. If you don't intend to call it a coop... don't even mention the word coop.

The merry monk sauntered atop the crest
like an ant on a razor's edge
frozen in carbonite.
"How beauteous a bounty ye've bestowed!"
He sang to the sky with arms spread wide.
And a droplet kissed him on the forehead
as the wind whispered in thanks—sighing a tired sigh.
Staff in hand, the monk reached the peak
plundered with the marks of monumental men.
He sat down and ate in quiet
smiling as the stacks of smoke grew on the horizons
and a furious heat fell from above
claiming all before it.

I have heard it said
Our kind became a kind
When one raised a finger
And another saw the moon

Now I don’t know what kind I am
Staring,
Looning
at your little hand
(Its pointed at the moon)

>>9006958
so fuckin gay and twee. pls just... don't write like this anymore it's incredibly painful. your style is like an uncomfortable imitation of a dapper Englishman that misses everything except the most superficial aspects of a dapper Englishman. and a dapper Englishman isn't even a voice to be Striving for unless you're autistic DESU. moreover it can't decide if it wants to be mediocre poetry or a boring uneventful story and becomes both. choose one

>>9009150
random scene of uncomfortable pain and violence being inflicted on someone we don't know. we'd have to care about them first

>tfw too afraid of criticism to even write
>tfw extremely judgemental
>tfw putting off writing too you're smarter

>>9009521
fair! but I don't really like the rhythm

>>9009653
Fair's fair—rhythm's never really been

my strong suit

>>9009649
the key is not to write for others. strange as it sounds, you have to do it to entertain yourself.

when you find the focus that it takes to step into and delight in writing your own work, it'll invariably come alive; no matter how dumb you are, it'll accommodate itself to your dumbness, and you'll write it at your own level.

>>9009657
I usually don't crit poetry cause i don't get it in general. so you don't have to trust me.

She let me finger straddle her Stradivarius
at the ice cream social, trailer park rave:
styrofoam flames, orbiters of fame.
"My name's Charlene, my eyes a dream."
"My name's Daryl, my lips feral."
We danced on the moon in the nightlight
popping time like bubblewrap in a cell.
"I left my heart in San Francisco,
and my wallet in Detroit."
"I woke up in Cleveland,
but fell asleep in Detroit."
The thread's common, 'tis the season
of our solitude where silence loses its game—
qualify her name with possession,
it's the 666th procession at the altered altar,
the set-piece of tangled veins and exalted names
where love loses its self-control: the manic panic
seizes the most composed thoughts
and throws them into the trash compactor
in the middle of the biggest apple:
the ice cream social, trailer park rave.

Her bluebonnets died in the acid rain,
and the parakeets chirped at her pain.
How sweetly the loaf rose,
as she gathered the last rose.
The blood drip-dropped from her nose,
too much cocaine.
And how softly he came home then
after soon turned to a solemn when
and waiting waned for our maiden
into a cane.
The soggy wood rotted to mush
and up sprang from nothing a hush
turning the spindle into solid lush
without a name.

Your destiny, X marks the spot,
listen to the compass, or not.
Fate's for those dead already,
your treasure is almost ready.
Split hairs we don't amid the dark
as you spin and spin without remark.
Gather the troops, rally the people
that make up every inch of your steeple.
The day will come when the day has left
so seize epileptically the days of breath,
lest this message evades your breadth
and you lose your last chance to make your death.

>>9008604
For this specific story I plan to keep it as a blog. But than you for your advice.

>>9009649

pick another hobby faggot and stop cluttering up the thread with this cliche shit.Write or don't write nobody gives a shit

>>9009793
Which one was you're writing?

>>9009938
he's right anon, your post was entirely superfluous

check them

The retired spy sat under an oak tree, on a bench at Arlington National Cemetery, awaiting his own murder. Kennedy's flame, little more than a flare from a backyard grill, rang up associations of burn treatments rather than condiments, or American mythology. The backs of white stones, contrasted against lush grass naïve to both drought and weed, faced him from Plot 30. The posture of these dead rebuked his career's every mistake. The oak branches enfolded him beneath their cathedral of spangled light. For a space of several full breaths he closed his eyes in supplication, while three hundred thousand ghosts whispered, through the thick hair growing from his ears, a celestial chorus of the single phrase, "We are your failures."
Another man, the same age as the first, gray-haired, dressed in a dark suit intended to fit a man about an inch bigger around and maybe half an inch taller, walked to the bench from Weeks Drive. He sat beside the first old man.
"He'll be here in time for the Guard change. On the hour," the new old man said.
The first old man looked at his watch. It was quarter 'til. Fifteen minutes to live.
"What's he wearing?"
The new old man crossed his legs, European style, knee over knee. "Blue suit. Vest. Red tie, plain."
"You know what to do. After."
"We tell no one? Last chance. You don't trust a single man in the whole bureau?"
The first man nudged his head toward Plot 30. "Can you hear them?"
"Hear who?"
"All the men out there who trusted their civilian bosses. Even with my tape and photos, they still don't believe."
"We've kept a lot of GIs out of this place."
"And now it's come to this."

>>9009648
Undestandable, let me give you chap1

Seattle, 2018.

It was a lazy morning, even lazier inside the Rook’s Diner.
Remember me, Alex thought.
He walked the line between asleep and awake, arms over the table covering his ears from the chaotic ambi-ance of the coffee shop. The sun had the audacity of shining through the clouds, then through the window and into a tiny gap between his elbow and forearm. After two hours of something that surely have not been ‘sleep’ the world still had something to throw at his face and somehow laugh at it.
The sound and the smell of coffee poured into his cup brought him up before the words of the waitress did. – Sir?
He only nodded, bearing a makeshift smile and staring a specific point on her nose, just above the right nos-tril, it was easier than looking into her eyes. Much easier.
– Can I, please, get your order, Sir? – She noticed him, peeved by something, for sure.
He was young, less than 21. No way of being certain though, those round brown eyes were puffy and darkened. His lips were full, the nose small and meaty. The brows were symmetric and apart, although they received no special care. The jaw line was strong, but it did not take away the well-humored air of his.
Of honey skin, black hair trimmed down to a Caesars cut and a stubble that was about to thicken, she re-membered he had been there for a couple times, but no names popped.
The waiter noted he wasn’t at his prime physical form, but what mattered was what he wore when walk-ing into the coffee shop, apart from the jeans, white shirt and sneakers: a dark blue windbreaker, CIA writ-ten on chest and back. It rested on the chair to his side.

>>9009938

>you're

wew try a little harder

>>9009993

I see this exact same same post in every crit thread it just pisses me off.

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>>9009162
I did this critique though: >>9008829

I would have done them in the same posts but I figured it would be obviuos.

>>9010046
Have you followed the exchange at all or are you just chiming in willy-nilly? (This question is rhetorical, I don't actually want to hear your answer)

>>9010062

what fucking exchange ?

>boo hoo I'm nervous

> stfu

that's the entire exchange

>>9010062

also get the fuck out of here with this shit

>This question is rhetorical, I don't actually want to hear your answer

If you say something expect a fucking response you pussy

>>9010087
>>9010075
that's nice

>>9010087
You seem upset. I didn't know that this was such a sore subject in the critique thread. My bad. Do you actually have writing to be criticized? Tryna work with ya here man.

I wander through the cathedral-high hall, visible by brioche satin, bourgeois beige lighting, step by step admiring the blur of shop windows. A nightly gala in the dormant city, several human heaps lay heaped along the walls, motley arranged in recluse rest. One resourceful man sits in the ostentatious luxury of a makeshift cardboard den. He is reading a ragged book in the commercial mood lighting.
My approach is impulsive and lacking the tact of the sober; heedless of the undefined contusions splayed around me in the hall, a bellow-cry "Good morning!" rings out and raises the man's eyes.

i think hell is the
impulse that goes
through somas axons dendrites
causing shame for our mistakes
and more unpleasant mistakes
like anxiety and knowledge (of death)
to fight it we use
videogames sex and little else
anyway
the second doesn’t exist
the first do, misfortune

Badaboosh, the spring sings of criminal intent,
bouncing off the paper walls, a flea revolts
from the virgin blood of my neighbors cat
named Peaches, bound in the chains of time
strung to the fingers of fate, corrupt with lust
and lost inside the smoldering edifice
where crumbles turn to glass, glass to sound
suffused in geometric nothings, fully embroidered
with the slanted eyes of a singular assailant
sometimes referred to as me, the one you know,
the soluble saint, grand friar hurling sacraments made from flesh.

>>9010170
really wonderful anon

visiter

so we sat
at the old and grooving
stones from nowhere
waiting from - no more than

wonderful birds singing
under the trees
and the green apples
spining like planets

but
all of a sudden
a wig cracked
over the lamps
his form fading like a year;

Poetry is the lowest form of art.

No wonder /lit/ critique threads are infested with it.

>>9010224
that's nice, dear

I could post a history, but its too big, 2 pages...

Luna

How valiantly the sun does leave the sky,
With violet smoke on wheels of golden flame.
So nobly casting light, as if to cry
That though she rests, we shan't forget her name.

Then silently the night begins to creep
From east to west, as men return to hearth,
And trickling from the heavens, waves of sleep
Bring peace within the bosom of the earth.

So lonely seems the moon, when darkness falls,
And solemnly her silv'ry shoulders rise,
And lost in shadow, whispers lonely calls
And populates with stars the empty skies

At times, when I ignore the peaceful dreams,
And wait instead for sleep to come to me,
I'll sit among the her dimly twinkling beams,
And keep my dearest Luna company

Jimmy Otis polishes his immaculate Bach trombone backstage, a preshow ritual he has maintained from his earliest days of jittery stage fright, moving his fine linen cleaning cloth across the gleaming brass in affectionate little circles, treating the bell, slide and tubes of his instrument with equal fastidiousness; yet all the while examining his loyal bandmates going through their own idiosyncratic preshow rituals: Mark “Joghurtesser” Müller is playing the air piano as he simultaneously gulps down a series of Go-Gurt™ squeezable tubes in quick succession (he inhales a sixteen-pack before every gig); Arthur “Wiggle Worm” Roberts is spinning a drumstick while spasmodically writhing on the floor in a sort of faux-epileptic fit; Harry “Radical Islamic Terrorist” Jones is pulling his typical shenanigans, decapitating infidels and whatnot, but concurrently practicing his ascending/descending vocal lines. Together, these unlikely misfits constitute Jimmy Otis and the Sweat Socks, the nation’s biggest throwback jazz-fusion scat band, complete with elaborate pyrotechnics and a captivating psychedelic lightshow.

>>9000066
gay. word soup. it's like you tried to use your entire internal lexicon in as short a space as possible. don't ever say betwixt or yclept.

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>>9000512
literally 8/8 edginess

>>9000901
wtf, is engrish even your first language yuropoor? stopped reading after 1 paragraph

>>9003263
>1920x2160
did you fucking screencap two monitors? or cap it twice and combined into one image? either way kys

>>9005247
>>9005253
can you fucking stop? take your kolsti cumrags somewhere else

>>9005442
XD 7/10

>>9008614
doesnt the warosu archive automatically delete old entries?

>>9008469
>https://pithosnovel.wordpress.com/
kinda reads like YA, no offense

>>9011414
Glad to see Kolsti is still somewhat relevant here. Love that kid.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1p8MuUx9H520H8_t-1Y6d0nS1TRYR4SdpDLbfl0Zj5Go/edit?usp=sharing

It's meant to be a creepy/horror story haven't ended or even begun to proof read it yet/actually format it to a story but it's just some random story I began thinking up.

I posted in the last critique thread, and got mostly positive feedback. People said I'd written something that was a lot of fun, and they wanted to read more.

I then submitted the same story to a serious writing group's critique discussion, and they pretty much universally disliked the entire thing.

Why the fuck is writing so hard?

>>9011615

what's the serious writing group called

Une étoile brûle brillant dans sa vie
Sans arrête, car ce qui brille vivra
Puis Il deviens perdu pendant son lutte
Et son feu s'éteint, son esprit se fane
Et se brise, il n'y a plus de brillance

Alors il devient fou dans l'obscurité
Des autres veulent qu'il brûle de nouveau
Et lui frappent avec leurs fers du soin
Mais il veut seulement d'avoir froid maintenant
Il a oublié de ce qui la chaleur était

>>9011615
They disliked it because you are an outsider.

Every attempt to convey our inner selves to others is inherently dishonest. I desperately grasp my career, my interests, my dog, my friends, my music, and I clutter them into a carefully arranged pile of what I think might be a consistent version of me. This can be done in conversation, through shared pictures, or in text. The result is always the same. You present these things as evidence of having a steadfast self when all that’s there is something transient and mechanical—something readily malleable to shifting tastes, exhausted relationships, personal tragedy, personal failures, and rain.

Consider the people around you at work, or your family, or your lover. How often do you find yourself imitating them? Little mannerisms, jokes, inflections of certain words, fixations on similar things, and other quirks. We feel like our thoughts originate from us instead of channeling through us via our conveyor-belt brains. Just as atoms form perfect geometric shapes and bacteria reflexively flee when signaled to do so by methyl-receptors, everything that constitutes our bodies and our experiences are the product of equally simple mechanisms stacked precariously higher than the inorganic matter and other species we observe. From this vantage point we can only look down. We can’t see or properly interpret anything above our self-awareness, so we categorize it as profound, unique, and meaningful instead of acknowledging how profoundly limited it may actually be. Even when we do attempt to confront our limits of perception, we do so in small bursts. The act of semi-consciously forming and choosing to live in daily routines is proof that these lines of thought are carefully compartmentalized in small, heavily-insulated brain wrinkles.

At times we can address these things, but to do so is to go against some of those mechanisms. In this case, it’s self-awareness. Typing this right now I feel an anxiety similar to being naked in public when I have a nightmare. Then I reflect on that anxiety and I feel a tinge of pride for persisting and working towards lucidly fleshing out the things that I think about—even if it comes out as a pretentious puddle. I continue. I reread that sentence. My self-observation becomes a catalyst that violently converts my pride into shame for daring to feel it. But I keep going anyway. I think of Charlie Kaufman, Primo Levi, Cioran, Radiohead, and the whole myriad of people I admire for doing what I sometimes try to do much better than I can. I, I, I. I start feeling every “I” like a dead blow hammer into my forehead. In the end, I’m dizzy and all I can do is conclude that the stage we live on is utterly occluded in mirrors and has no audience or exit. I actually cry. And then, it just pops in there…maybe all this is why I have trouble getting dates. And then I laugh. It all feels pretty neat, I guess.

>>8997190
Ich bin in meinem Traum gestorben

So bin ich wohl auch jetzt verloren

Mein Kopf wurde begraben, von irgend etwas, was genau weiß ich nicht mehr. Ich kann mich nur noch daran erinnern, wie ich in dem Traum zuvor, auf die Wand eingeschlagen habe

Immer wieder und wieder und wieder

Um schmerz auszudrücken

Doch es ist nichts passiert, immer weiter weiter weiter, meine Hände taten nicht weh, niemand hat es gesehen, da nichts passierte. Meine Hände waren nicht blutig, die Wand war nicht Kaput, eins von beiden hätte doch nachgeben müssen

Ich wollte doch nur das ich eine Auswirkung haben konnte

Ich wollte doch nur das etwas sich tun würde, das irgend etwas sich dadurch bewegt.

Ich will das meine Hände entstellt sind, zerbrochen, und ich will dann noch weiter machen, bis ich nicht mehr kann.

Und daraufhin folgt der tot

Ich wache auf und schlafe wieder, kein Erbarmen, dieses mal muss ich doch etwas spüren, dieses mal muss irgend jemand doch etwas spüren. Also starb ich dieses mal, ich spürte meinen Kopf zerbersten, ohne Schmerz, wie sich mein Kopf einbrach, meine Schädeldecke nachgab, mein Zähne zusammen gedrückt wurden.

Doch es ist nicht nichts

Und doch ist dieses nichts allumfassender als nicht Existenz, trauriger.

Es gewichtet sich auf den Schultern und drückt, tiefer als jede Leiche, als jeder Kadaver, dennoch am Leben.

Ohne irgendjemand, irgendwas.

Any gerfags here, this was what i wrote, what i felt I know it's not perfect, but i feel it's got something. I didn't change anything after i wrote it, even though i know there is potential to make it better, it just is as i felt when i wrote it.

Um wieder auf zu wachen, ohne zu sterben

>>9010103
I'm not the guy you're talking to, but post writing, critique writing, or go hang yourself

Annoying self important twat

>>9011716
you're not french are you

>>9011779
never write one more sentence please. es ist grottenschlecht.

>>9012030
Well, i guess i'll already go against what you said, thanks for the critique tho.

>>9011752
Really like this up until the last half of the final paragraph. In the first 2/3s you're concisely conveying those very unsettling feelings I've been feeling for a very long time, and it was great. The last part sort of falls down on itself I feel though - its difficult to put in text that sort of beat poetry tone I think you're aiming for.

That peculiar breakfast of
fungus and beer
Then it comes time
to ease the canoes into the river

It didn’t take long
for us to stop and rest on
the sun-kissed stones
as a group of friends

Water flowed by
while we blew clouds
and anticipated the moment
when things would change

The changes came.
Trees and water and All.
Especially the sky
And all the new colors

Our troop paddled
down this river
like psychedelic indians;
pillaging the wisdom of the sky and water.

I laid back in the canoe
and closed my eyes shut.
That explosion of thoughts
took me by surprise.

A stained glass vision
was a newfound bardo.
A rest for my soul
While floating through life

>>9012047

I agree. I was happy with the first two paragraphs but worried that I was being full of shit or not genuine, so I tried to squeeze some humanity in there.

>>9011436
There's at least five years of archive in there. I looked up the "authors rap about their work" thread from 2011 just last week.

I'm just pointing out that it is easy to forget where we are. It would be a shame if someone, like Irish poet anon, ever wanted to put together a chapbook, and they get told that without first world wide, it's not worth it to the publisher.

The Best Conversation Never Had

He yelled at the top of his lungs and ventured unsteadily into the kitchen to grab himself another bottle of the usual. Next, he sat on a tatty mattress in the corner of his – pardon my lack of a better word – cabinet and, breathing heavily, burst out laughing. The emotional instability he dealt with since childhood kicked in again.

Blimey! Fucks sake, come on!

He stood up, somehow. The feeling of dizziness caused by unhealthy portions of liquor and milk made him totter. He prayed – for the love of Santeria – to every Saint he could come up with to prevent the unpreventable. Peter, Paul, John, Jacob, Thomas, Geo... yes, it was George who halted the emesis. For now, at least.
A fleeting glimpse in the dirty mirror revealed a black-haired, scruffy looking middle-aged man that once could have been fairly handsome. He took no heed of what his friends kept advising him – he thought himself an artist, a person way ahead of the curve, with vast knowledge and outstanding abilities making up the image of the Übermensch he strived to become.

Nothing else matters.

Paying attention to such nonsense would mean additional expenses, and he already had important expenditures. The hand momentarily tightened the grip on the bottle.

Christ Almighty...

He sat at his shabby desk, grabbed a pen, and with the half-empty bottle still in the other hand, stared for a while at the blank piece of paper, which some ethereal force inconveniently placed in front of him. It stared back with innocent passion, but didn’t say anything. It waited for a miracle.

C’mon, laddie. Do Jim Morrison.

The bottle hurled across the room. When the glass shattered, the man felt as if something dawned on him, at last. Suddenly, the depressed individual knew exactly what to write about.

>>9012439
>He yelled at the top of his lungs and ventured unsteadily into the kitchen to grab himself another bottle of the usual.

A little wordy with the "ventured unsteadily".

>Next, he sat on a tatty mattress in the corner of his – pardon my lack of a better word – cabinet and, breathing heavily, burst out laughing. The emotional instability he dealt with since childhood kicked in again.

Pardon my lack of a better way of putting this, but thesauruses.

>emotional instability he dealt with since childhood *kicked* in again.

I would prefer the word punched in again, to bring the suggested trauma and monotony of punch cards into play. Kicked is nice, but doesn't bring repetition.

>Blimey! Fucks sake, come on!

Blimey will do.

>He stood up, somehow. The feeling of dizziness caused by unhealthy portions of liquor and milk made him totter. He prayed – for the love of Santeria – to every Saint he could come up with to prevent the unpreventable. Peter, Paul, John, Jacob, Thomas, Geo... yes, it was George who halted the emesis. For now, at least.
A fleeting glimpse in the dirty mirror revealed a black-haired, scruffy looking middle-aged man that once could have been fairly handsome. He took no heed of what his friends kept advising him – he thought himself an artist, a person way ahead of the curve, with vast knowledge and outstanding abilities making up the image of the Übermensch he strived to become.

If you are going to be vulgar and wordy, at least show some self-realization. "Blimey" and "took no heed" have no place tonally together. Unless for a meme.

>C’mon, laddie. Do Jim Morrison.

You better stop with that, /mu/ might hear you.

>The bottle hurled across the room. When the glass shattered, the man felt as if something dawned on him, at last. Suddenly, the depressed individual knew exactly what to write about.

Why have him be inspired? Why not have him be depressed, and see how he deals with it as a character? Giving him an out of writing is a meta referential loop which is boring and only reminds us that we have yet to reach that point. Let the readers empathize, wallow and wrestle in depression. Sadcum is goodcum.

I'll reply to this post with my garbage.

>>9013267
My other grandparents, on my fathers side, are interesting people. They were originally Catholic, before my time. When the family, their ten children, came into the young years of life, they converted to Islam. The reasoning was so as to keep the family together, and from doing bad things, such as drugs and crime.
I grew up while the family was still Muslim, and I remember praying to Mecca. It was peaceful, the prayer we engaged in. We faced out to the ocean, which I assumed to be primarily for the view, and spoke prayer.
I cannot remember the words, nor can I remember if it was English or Arabic. It was likely English.
Later in life, I was converted again to Christianity. Thus began my crime against my former religion, the crime of apostasy. By the fundamentals of Islam, I should be killed for my disobedience.
The house that my grandparents owned was unique, in that it was split into the kitchen/dining, and the sleeping area. I could likely still navigate my way through the entire place with only the moon guiding me, as was to happen frequently.
The house is situated on a hill, with a long building made of stones and concrete built into the side of the hill. That was the kitchen/dining, with the interior containing a large exposed rock, as well as a den we called courage cove. You overlooked the Pacific Ocean from their, and to the right was a door which led outside. Forty feet went until the outhouse, a small building with a mulching toilet as well as a shower.
Back in the kitchen, if you went to the sliding door in the front, you could take steep steps down to the living area, which was separated into two areas. There was the Guest Area, which contained beds with sand in them, 5 in total, and Grandfathers place.
In Grandfathers place, there was his paintings and sculptures, which I adored then and do adore now. I hope to see them again someday, God-willing. They were beautiful.
The painting I liked the most, primarily because it was one of the few I saw, was one of me.
Grandfather took photos, and incorporated them into paintings. It sounds like something childish and disorienting, but I quite enjoyed the style. It was an angel, or a holy figure, clad in golden or bright clothes, inspirational of old portraits of bishops. It also was impressionist, and looked nice.
I hope to one day have a painting of his, or a sculpture.
His sculptures were simple. I am certain I participated in a large amount of them. We, be it the Uncles of mine and my Siblings, would dip our arms into a liquid mold, in a large bucket. We would intertwine our hands, and wait for the mold to set. We then removed our hands, and concrete was poured into the mold. It would set, and once it was done, we would all examine it. I remember being amazed at the detail of the concrete in the mold, with the small hairs and pores of the skin being visible. I am sure that now time has eroded them, but the sight of the intertwined hands is still exceptional.

>>9012030
"WAS IST DAS? SCHEISSE?"

>>9012028
been self learning for two years

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I lie in the ruins of the burned out cathedral that was my home, smoking spirits and drinking holy wine
Outside they are signing Christmas carols and lighting cars on fire.
Outside they are picking fights with pacifists and ringing in the new year
I wish I could join them, purple haired prophets full of passionate intensity
Murdering their fathers and singing
"Peace on earth and good will twords men"
Inside my face is broken into stained glass slivers
lacking all conviction because "On Earth, only peace among those who God favors"
I cast aside my cigarette twords the faded face of God.
It doesn't explode into a shower of sparks like I wished for, it just sits there slowly burning out.

>>9013721
nobody will critique your shit if you dont critique others. you'd have to pretend to be a grill to get some shitposters to read this.

>>9010707
I chuckled you fucking retard.

This >>9010017 is also me: >>9000081 , >>9000525 , >>9000871 , >>9000895 , >>9004052 , >>9004153 , >>9004169 , >>9008604 , >>9008614 , >>9012271.


In case anybody thought I was Ralphie-ing my shit.

>>8999859
I'd get rid of the whole idea of killing God, it's played out and kinda cringey.

start of a little short story I just crammed out. Probably needs a lot of critique. All welcome.

The waves take the man, and in them he hears every single thing there is to know about life. Eternal water, bociferous and silent, swift and all the while still. Above him are hundreds of people trying to break the barrier of the sea, a crystal that reflects all sound and life. Underneath he has escaped Maya, he has cracked into the noumenon.
In the nothingness he hears a perfect sound. It shines silver tinted in the sun. He needs not open his eyes to distinguish it for he has heard it his whole life, in the breeze between the fig trees, in the broken sound of the panhandlers guitar, he has heard it in all of these.
"Om."
"Wise men do not learn from teachings, but rather they learn from seas and rivers. There is nothing to be taught, for it is already known. What is missing, is to have it all forced upon you."
He lays in meditation, a stone amongst the waves. Countless fish and plants adapt to his presence in the water. If he could, he'd become a coral, with little eels swimming in and out of his eyes. But his lungs, unlike his soul, are of mortal properties, and so like all of these, must be given rest.
He rises up from the water, and upon drawing his first breath, sees a little girl and her mother, both naked as him, bathing by the shore.

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>>9012439
I admire that you're trying to write something with personality and character, but your writing isn't quite good enough yet to back up the quirkiness. Try reading your stuff out loud to yourself and figure out where the clunks are. Also avoid connecting words like 'next' that make it read like a scientific method.

>If A Train is Travelling At 100 Miles an Hour:

And then, through my two arms sent up in defence of myself, I saw a familiar face: red hair, raised cheekbones, dotted with delicate orange freckles - Tom Garrett.

In an instant his eyes dropped, though he’d seen a ghost (my face had been so pale) and told the other three to hold off. Told them it wasn’t worth it. One, knowing I wouldn’t retaliate, spat on my face and made off reluctantly. But Garrett - who I knew from cricket seven years ago, stayed behind. Garret - who had always been nice to me though I was always the worst at batting and bowling. Garret, who was kind though a year younger, who now called off his two thug friends and who now might’ve let them beat my ass if only I’d been someone else.

"How ya been?" he said with sheepishness and no eye contact.

"Ok."

"You're at Mercy, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, see you around," and he turned and he followed his friends into the next carriage. A confused warmth hugged my rib cage as I balanced the possibility that this boy who had and had just been so friendly to me could also tolerate such violence. What had happened to him to go down such a path, I wondered, or had I, in my distance, simply been blind to him in such crowds from the beginning? Had my vision been so faulty? If so, how did he view me - then and now - an uncoordinated outcast, a coward, or a nice boy unfairly treated? Which of these versions was the most accurate, if any of them were accurate at all? Out the window, suburban fibros passed by in a blur and I stared out, unable to distinguish clearly any one house.

This is my before-final draft so any crit would be greatly appreciated

http://pastebin.com/jtZTvwyB


>>9014479

I like the style and it's written well just a couple of pointers to tighten it up

> a ghost (my face had been so pale)

I don't think the my face line is really necessary if you're calling him a ghost then the reader will assume he's pale-faced

> might’ve let them beat my ass

If you're talking about carriages I'm assuming this is some Eton-esque private school and I'm just guessing it's set in the past then this modern language just sort of jars

Only why are you telling us all of their past straight away ? Unless Garret is a side character which I doubt he is you could save this. If this is the very beginning it's good to leave the question open, " Why did Garret call of his goons ?"

>boy who had and had just been so friendly to me could also tolerate such violence

this line I really liked

The messy assortment sprawled across the toilet didn't abolish the amnesia fog, instead the pungent smell of half digested whisky (which indeed forced her awake) began to conjure isolated images of the previous evening.

>>9015859
Thats a lot of words for describing almost nothing.

>>9015859
Use words that mean exactly what you want to convey. No need to have a more flowery word for something if the simple word is closer to your intended meaning. There's verbose, and then there's pretentious.

You can’t get too out of bed
It’s late
Your stomach’s pinching
I don’t need to eat today
It’ll save money
The bathroom’s right around the corner
Well
You take an empty plastic bottle, aim the tip of your penis
Not steady yet, you get a little on the floor
It runs down the side of the bottle, now it’s gross to hold
The rest gets filled up alright
Hide it in the drawer, pour it out tomorrow
There shouldn’t be any girls over
Your roommates are always with their girlfriends
You may as well live alone
It’s nice
To be able to piss in bottles
Without judgement
Remember the one time at home
You pissed in a sprite can
The next day Grandma drank it
Cursed you out
That was really embarrassing

It snowed four feet on Spring Street. Cascading phosphorescent stars rolled on past Alan's window, and he was entranced. The proximity light had just turned on again outside and it transformed the yard into blackness and the blizzard into a science fiction lightshow. He felt like he was in a spaceship on warp drive, but middle-aged reason made him aware again that in fact he was stationary and it was illusion. Then he thought that's how they did it in those old movies anyways, everything he loved seemed to be illusion, a lonely man of imagination he was. The light outside cut off again and a plow truck shone it's swirling orange lights across his room. He turned back to his keyboard and kept on typing away.

>>9014479
Pretty good but this is just my taste talking, there are too many questions being asked in a few sentences.

>>9012439
Pretty alright but that whole hes an artist and ubermensch bit is a bit too on the nose for me. Just seems very forced and pushed out there.

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I posted an intro to my story in the last criqitue thread, where it got almost entirely positive feedback.

Unfortunately, another group of people (which included some published authors) essentially tore it to shreds when I showed it to them. The biggest complaint was that it wasn't "realistic." I've attempted to rewrite that in order to fix this problem, but I'm not sure it has worked.

Could /llit/ help me out? https://docs.google.com/document/d/15MBvBHhOiJTz__mKr0hXYr7fb9ch2Xy6DI7pWjqgKGE/edit?usp=sharing

>>9016188

Your biggest problem is this reads like it was written by a woman who spends too much time on deviantart or furaffinity. The prose is dry, the subject matter is derivative, idk man you will probably be a successful YA fantasy author or a famous dragon erotica artist.

>>9011752
Any other thoughts on this?

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>>9016188
>story begins with someone waking up

>>9016351
Pseudo-intellectual navelgazing

>>9016384
Oh Christ, I just realized I did that. Kill me.

>>9016226
Yeah, I thought that would be a problem. My other draft had a lot of weird jokes in the stream-of-consciousnesses narration, which made it interesting at the expense of realism. Unfortunately, removing those jokes has made the entire story immensely dull.

I think I may need to do some prose exercises or something, just to get my chops back.

>>9016418
If you are writing about fuckin dragons who gives a fuck about realism. Your problem isnt if its realistic or not, you just need to read more good literature. Dont be so cringey.

Intestines spit shit boiling bile,
worms and slugs falling chunks of vomit from colon
gnaw and chafe on peeling meat warts, shit and eat,
eat shit, writhe in excrement bleeding terror,
void into dust mites biting gorge, devoid
of fondness gravestone shat upon by childish tantrum,
agony sipping marrow bleeding into frozen lake,
snow falls on amputee freezing stumps
death seeps into bones dry rot.

>>9016620
who hurt you sweety?

>>9011779
Es ist wirklich nicht gut Mann, hört sich an wie die Gedichte die das Mallgoth-Mädchen, das in der fünften Klasse neben mir saß, immer geschrieben hat. Es fehlt jede Art von inspiriertem Vergleich oder abgegrenztem Stil in der Sprache. Plus: Viel zu dramatisch, schreib erst einmal über ganz alltägliche Dinge bis du einen ordentlichen Stil bekommst.

>>9016622
same one who hurt you.

>>9010017
>>9013858
No one is going to notice this, so I'll tell /lit/crit/ an anecdote.

I shopped this novel to 10 agents whose bios included interest in or sales of spy thrillers, political intrigue, or political thrillers.

8 rejected it without requesting pages, but all said, "Send me your next thing."

One asked for pages, then rejected it, saying "You've done what you meant to do, but it won't sell its advance. We're sorry. Send me your next thing."

One agreed to try to sell it. After six months, this conversation happened, on the phone:

>"It's not the writing. It has marketing problems."

What kind?

>The African setting. It may be perfectly accurate, but it's so dismal."

What about Constant Gardener?

>Well, first, you are not John LeCarre. Second, that only went to trade paper because he already had the movie option, based on his first draft. And third, you are not John LeCarre. You're an unknown first."

Anything else?

>Five chapters, critical chapters, take place on the ocean. Hollywood hears ocean, they think Waterworld, not Titanic. You're not James Cameron, either.

But you liked it.

>We think you've created Bond, Jane Bond. She's super. We love her. My reader and I. But it won't sell. The word of mouth will be nothing but how revolting west Africa is.

Was it unanimous?

>Yes. Four publishers all said the exact same thing.

Can I send you my next thing?

>Please. We'd love to see her someplace people would actually want to go.

Thanks.

>Bye.

a short story named "cunt"

>can you just stop it?
>no, i can't "just stop it"
>can you atleast try?
>you know full well i try my best but it seems like you are never satisfied anyways
>oh, so now this is MY fault?
>well, it always takes two...
>it only takes you to get me raging
>oh come on. i didnmt even DO anything
>EXACTLY! you never do ANYTHING
>...
>YOU ARE SO PASSIVE I SOMETIMES WANT TO BANG YOUR HEAD AGAINST TEH WALL JUST TO SEE HOW LONG IT WOULD TAKE TO GET A REACTION OUT OF YOU


YOU CAN'T JUST WALK OUT ON ME! THAT'S FUCKING IMMATURE

>you are fucking immature...

>WHAT WAS THAT?

>cunt

>>9016631
my dad? what an asshole. didn't know he has hurt random strangers too. oh well

>>9015984
you did a good job with evoking a mental picture. i'm personally not a fan of this "i'm so deep" stuff in fiction. but i know there are tons of people that dig this whole scenery stuff

Who would like me to critique theirs? I don't claim to be any sort of genius on the topic, but just trying to gauge who is actually here. Also I will post mine soon

>>9016789

http://pastebin.com/jtZTvwyB

I would be v glad if you'd take the time to read over mine

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A true gullywasher passed through our town last night, the kind we are known to get from time to time—a great black shuffling of the deck, a screaming which plucked our houses right up into the air, spun them around, and then planted them back down again in all manner of peculiar configurations that we will need to repave our roads for, by the Lord’s own Merciful Designs, and now in this storm-fresh morning our boy, Sebastian Clates, is out for the creek and for the finding of crawdads. He sets forth under purple clouds just as the still-living townsfolk are getting around to peeping out their doors and assessing the new layout of the burg. They greet the neighbors their homes have come to rest beside or on top of. They clap backs and whistle appreciatively and describe cloud formations observed the evening before. Shoulda known, lordy-lee we shoulda known. They ask about their friends and parents and children. Make it, did-um? Any sign? They nod at the news or the lack of news, just the same. They collect their dead pets from culverts and other such necessary civic measures. Good People. This town will survive, sure. Sebastian scoots past them chirruping through the gap in his teeth. In one hand he has a bucket for crawdads, the other is busy in greeting. He waves to Mister Telerock who is lugging his mailbox from his old housing plot over to his new one, somewhere off by the white knolls, carrying it athwart his shoulder like a baseball bat. “Aloo, Mister Telerock, aloo-aloo,” sloshing water from his bucket at the man’s feet. “I’m at them shellfish today. Reckon the storm’ll have set them to crawling, sure nuff. Turned them out-a their holes just like it did us, eh? Gonna wrustle up a nice batch and bring them on over to old Missus Cleftin who I heard wailing this morning on account of her daughter getting sucked up by the cyclone. Sweet Clementine took flight in her night shift, I saw her alight like an angel, and now her good old mama’s out looking for her in the tree branches, screaming somethin awful. Gonna have us a nice crawfish boil and forget all about it.” In response Mister Telerock only glances at Sebastian through eyes which the stormy night has filled with runnels of blood and says, “Fuck off away from me, little retard.” So off Sebastian skips, leaving Mister Telerock to his duty, the poor maudlin alone with his endless reordering of the earth—away, away, feeling the ground wet and springy beneath his heels and the birdsong escaping through his teeth. Tweety-tweet with every puff of the boy’s chest. Mouth so busted-up the child can breathe through his smile.

>>9016842
Initial thoughts: The start is too abrupt, comes off as cliché as if it were from a Jason Bourne movie or something of that like. Perhaps a small scene before that? Too many adjectives in the beginning. The setting of the lighthouse is nice and comfy, you create a good setting. The story accelerates quickly, not necessarily a bad thing, but could be fleshed out a bit more to build more suspense. Sometimes it's a little too obvious; some things should be danced around a bit more in order to create mystery in the reader.

Ending thoughts: the story is promising, and I understand it's a short story, but it could be fleshed out a lot more. Be more expansive with it. Otherwise like I said, you create a good setting.

>>9017021

Duly noted hanks a lot man

>>9016789

Here's mine; far from finished. It's of a film script I was writing, but I fucking hate script writing so I just decided to write it in standard form. The overall plot is of an actor who takes method acting too far in preparation for his next role; the role of an actor who takes method acting too far in preparation for his next role; the role of an actor who takes method acting too far in preparation for his next role; so on and so forth.
Literally nothing has happened in the story as of yet, but I'd just like some advice on the flow of the writing. Coming from scriptwriting where every single thing is structured, my writing style is perhaps a bit robotic. Advice on conversations would be appreciated.
http://pastebin.com/jNeiviFQ

>>9017040

yeah it definitely reads like a film script more than standard prose. But are you sure that's not something could work in your favour? If you maybe smoothened it out a little sure it would work just as well as normal but i think since it's a story about film that stylistically it works. As long as it's not overdone of course.

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http://pastebin.com/Gcg1y66U

Little snippet from a chapter in which I meme around, parody Cormac McCarthy at the end, and namedrop Zizek

Practicing how to create "wisdom" literature, that is to say literature to instruct one in the acquiring of wisdom and wisdom itself, how am I doing?

The wisdom of a man is cultivated, he gains it from the years of his life and from the lives of those who instruct him.

Those who are wise beyond their years have added wisdom to themselves by instruction and not else.

The wiseman keeps his lips close during instruction.

The fool cries forth saying "I know"

A fool mocks education, the wiseman is delighted by instruction of righteous.

The fool says "for what value is this knowledge? How can it feed my mouth?" The wiseman says "I will deny my mouth in order to gain greater knowledge."
Man is like flour, what is added from him will change him. When it is changed it shall be as if a delight to the one who receives him, or as an abomination. What is actually added does not matter to man, only to the lord.

Wisdom is like an all-devouring fire to the intellect.

Understanding like an all-encompassing sea, calming and forever full.

Mercy is a delight to the Righteous and the Wicked, for the righteous delight in showing mercy and the wicked delight in having mercy given to them.

Justice is the delight of the Righteous and the cry of the Holy. for the wicked man, the foolish and beastly and prideful fear that which is upright, proper and Just. A righteous man makes justice his fortress.

Beauty is on earth as unity is in heaven. The Wiseman seeks unity in the walking with God, the fool seeks to acquire all that is beautiful and furnish himself with it and carry it with himself not knowing that one day he must be parted from all that he acquires.

The light of Beauty is the shadow of Unity, how much greater is the Light of Unity?

A wiseman has patience to endure until his victory.

A fool rushes in to his defeat.

The splendor of the Wise is intellect, the majesty of the wise is learning.

Intellect and learning are as if dung to a fool.

The Wiseman makes the Lord his foundation, the fool sees the lord as an abomination of desolation.

The kingdom of the world is the lustful temptation of the Fool, he shall not acquire it. The Kingdom of the world is but a distraction to the wise, he shall truly attain it.

>>9014479
Thank you for your tips; I'm not a native speaker and since my English writing has mostly been limited to scientific papers, I know my language and style may seem rusty.

http://pastebin.com/Z2yLiA4s

I'll critique later I promise, I'm busy at the moment and figured I'd post this

>>9015629
>carriages I'm assuming this is some Eton-esque private school

must be dialectical thing, this is set on a train carriage in modern day Sydney - but I can see how the writing style and reference to cricket would make you think 20th century Eton haha

>>9018312

Ah ok thanks for clearing that up

A little poem I tried to write one night lying in bed when I was thinking about my miserable unrequited love.


A pit, so deep and dark
A fluttering light on the floor
A boundless naivety
Feeding off the core.
Falling,
falling,
falling,

No foothold in this fissure
No vine or rope to latch
A strobing light in sight
An ill love to hatch.
Falling,
falling,
falling,

Ephemeral is the nature,
I seem to operate
Perhaps it's nothing more
Than a faux-pas of fate.
Falling,
falling,
falling,
gone.

Hawah is God and God is Being
Being is Life and Life is Me
Seeing the sky Alive with meaning
See the bosom of gold flamed Venus

Look away do not forget
she loves you, who are a speck

let there be light
let there be knowing
and let there be a new age approaching

All ages had their beginnings and endings
Man will give his lended crown thus repeating
a thousand times process of reconstituting
and nothing will smelt this Venusian crown to rubble
instead the Process' will to concieve will be doubled
and life and being, reason and meaning
love and dreaming, death and grieving
will find new forms, forever and ever
till light refuses to give its shine
amen

>>8997190
K lit, I was here about a year ago with a really rough draft of my Fantasy novel, now I bring changes:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1VfGeSYKd-eRsbcaoZ5eTYcsX9XhQQiHUfhHlq8ZxGKs/edit?usp=sharing

Keep in mind i'm mostly writing for myself.

O bliss! in silver rays defined before
A faded unremembered time
Tatters unfit to lie closer than more
Than worlds apart from this soft rime

O bliss, grant never that I may be torn
From your so simple warm embrace
And cast into diaspora forlorn
Bereft from your still blinded face

O bliss. Release me not. Til deathly sails
Sail forth the years yet left to me
And every path, all paved and not, will pale
Before the thought of you, so free

I'm owed no favors anymore, I know
But deathly choice drives men to beggars all.

>>9015940
Cringe

Mercury,
It's been three months since I last peered
into your own eyes.
Steely, frenzied and resolute
you stared back.
I closed my eyes and the world changed around me.
I closed my eyes
and the threads were severed –
I watched you cut them.
Threads that were once held delicate in your fingers
now entangled in this matted hair
and wrapped in frenzied fits.
Outstaying your welcome
your belly grew round with late nights,
oysters, red wine and poetry,
with cheese and whiskey,
I watched you grow.
I closed my eyes again and you put me aside –
so I shouldered this rumination
slung on round and tired frame.
After years of waiting you finally came –
though you were always hidden in plain sight –
and when you left I was obsessed and scatterbrained
as I drifted in your wake.

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>>8997413
I like it it has a depression futility, but then realize snow that doesn't melt + new snow = more snow so something did change. You got a better powder base for skiing.
maybe it just melt then comes back so over all nothing changed? That can be just a futile if done right.

>>8999859
That is a disproportionate amount of detail for a map salesman, is that your style (I do that myself) or is he a reoccurring characters, also porcelain tooth would make more sense and implies more color contrast.

>>9001439
that is great, really resonated with me.
A week ago I got a really bad cut on my wrist from breaking down cardboard, card board cut way deeper then office paper. Box traveled all over the world like most, got a mild infection from who know what. Now healed up but got a nasty scar across my wrist, boss didn't care when I bled, nor took concern for giant scar across my wrist like some suicidal teen (ironically I was that years ago, thankful never got the nerve to do something stupid).
love how the random Nunchucks cheers it up at the end, yet still keeps the tone.

>>9010017
OK, you got my attention, but two things. Get some pictures of Arlington National Cemetery, I walked it a few times in my life and it seems off, but I didn't visit every part so this could be right, sound good enough for most readers. Changing the weather might be common but it works, rain or better yet cold fog. Also why is this guy waiting to die? That kind of action is huge and sets a high bar for the character development, if you pull it off great I might read more, but it is a very high bar few meet.
Alright, /lit/ I got transition problems.
Great parts of a story but it is the transition that never feels right. MC has escaped a secret prison and damaged a major part of the galactic Internet (they use part of his brain as a key node). Publicly a mega-corp took the fall for the drop in bandwidth and economic fallout, but the elite few know he was part of it as he is overpowered and has a copy of everything in him. I had recapture fights escalate to a point, but need to pull back as him vs everyone is too much. So I had the divine emperor declared the fighting stops (deus ex, I know, but it kind of works).

then something... ???

later parts have him getting arrested and sold as a slave for not having a valid ID badge, he goes along with it out of boredom and my other ideas pick up from there. But I need a lull, some small scale adventures.

I also got a old mercenary "buddy" who he can talk with who pick up piracy, thinking of bring him back here to trigger something. But MC is one of those pathetic pacifist who only like helping people, and now avoid helping as his help tends to break the power balance leading to more fighting.
(I make good convoluted action scenes (pic related))

Sorry bad spacing made it hard to read, reposting

>>9020821
Great parts of a story but it is the transition that never feels right. MC has escaped a secret prison and damaged a major part of the galactic Internet (they use part of his brain as a key node). Publicly a mega-corp took the fall for the drop in bandwidth and economic fallout, but the elite few know he was part of it as he is overpowered and has a copy of everything in him. I had recapture fights escalate to a point, but need to pull back as him vs everyone is too much. So I had the divine emperor declared the fighting stops (deus ex, I know, but it kind of works).

then something... ???

later parts have him getting arrested and sold as a slave for not having a valid ID badge, he goes along with it out of boredom and my other ideas pick up from there. But I need a lull, some small scale adventures.

I also got a old mercenary "buddy" who he can talk with who pick up piracy, thinking of bring him back here to trigger something. But MC is one of those pathetic pacifist who only like helping people, and now avoid helping as his help tends to break the power balance leading to more fighting.
(I make good convoluted action scenes (pic related))

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>>9020821
Interesting observation. I actually mapped it out. There is even an actual oak tree in that spot, behind the bench.

>>9020885
Yes, I recall that spot now. I walked in from spot #2 more to the west then were that red dot is. I saw trees down that way but didn't got down that way. I would need to double check the flame size from the that distance, but it would most certainly look smaller from there.

I am a bit obsessive about details like this, but am glad to see someone else actually works on them.

Think part of is was I always went int he summer with family, so it had a really bright and cheerful atmosphere compared to the setting you make. Sadly personal perception can kill great ideas. The reader expects a certain something, and if it is not here it get marked bad. But nobody ever know what that is, not even the reader. Takes far too much introspective to find things like that.

Sup guys. I've been revising my old text (somewhere in this thread) and came up with something new:

The Best Conversation Never Had

He slumped against the wall and – miraculously – perched on the kitchen counter. She stood right in front, unwilling to fiddle.

“Look who’s – here”

She was silent and stoic, unreachable and mysterious. Reminded the man of a trickster he once read about in Erdrich’s book. Supposedly unassuming, she would analyse the surrounding, and – provided the situation – deliver the fatal blow. She didn’t differ much.

“How was your day?”

He looked at her and saw his own reflection. Black, scruffy black hair covered half of his thin face, which once must have been handsome. He promised to change, but took no heed of advice given by his dearest. It’s not that he didn’t care. No, he just couldn’t. Not anymore.

“Still angry?”

Of course. She was jealous. She thought his love was forever, that his words are meant only for her. How gravely was she mistaken. He cheated! That bastard cheated on her! She felt like a whore, like an instrument of his pleasures which he turned to only when he needed satiety.

“Honey, please...”

Her heart was shattered, torn between love and loathe. What should she do?

“It’s just you and me...”

She had her dignity, but the desire for his love was stronger. It’s alright, I’m not angry anymore...

She wanted his clumsy kisses and whispers. He felt her yielding and grabbed her immediately. “Just you and me,” he whispered, “you and me, until the end.”

The lovers sealed their fate with a passionate kiss. It took her breath away for a moment, she felt good at last. I love you...

He didn’t answer.

Honey, don’t you love me?

Nothing. He just got more greedy.

Honey, please...

He didn’t stop.

Enough! She tackled forcefully and freed herself, leaving him gagging and gasping for air. He still held her with one hand, and she couldn’t free herself. Let go, you lech!

“Stupid bitch,” he muttered and hurled her across the room. The man closed his eyes and listened to the sound of science, interrupted by shattered glass.

The end.

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>>9020931
I am always thinking of the reader who will know better if I get something wrong. The first time I read McCarry, I went and grabbed my laptop to google his settings along with him.

Like when he has a character say, "The French certainly have the courage of their vulgarity." Then the narrator says, "The night laid black against the spotlit winged horses on the roof trying to fly away with the ugliest building in France," of the Grand Palais. - I want to see that so bad just to feel the authorial confidence of it.

I think it's missed on many of the first timers here that "inhabiting" the scene is quite a bit more autistic a process than they have yet developed the calluses for.

Your genre is opaque to me. I read The Four Lords of the Diamond once. Four planets each host a slightly variant microorganism which confers a power upon humans who land there, but once infected, its fatal to leave, so the federation makes them prison planets, populated with the worst of the galaxy who can basically do anything they want, and who also develop superpowers. So the most arch villain rises to the top of each planets society and they develop a superweapon that threatens the galaxy. So the federation clones its best assassin four times and sends him to topple each planet's tyrant. Each volume is the story of one planet.

It's really a political allegory masquerading as space opera, examining four types of tyranny. Which I suppose is why I gave it the time.

Put the pirate adventures in the middle? Steal a freighter and sell it on the black market? Forcibly impress a ship crewed by a race of all-female humanoids into servitude?

How to move a character from one place to another place:

"Christopher walked out of the Aérogare des Invalides, under the bare elms along the Seine. Autumn chill, smelling of wet pavement and the river, went through his clothes and dried the sweat on his spine. He walked across the Pont Alexandre-III, where he had once kissed his wife and tasted the orange she had eaten. The winged horses on the roof of the Grand Palais were black against the electric glow above the city. “The French do have the courage of their vulgarity,” Cathy had said when, as a bride, she had first seen these colossal bronze animals trying to fly away with the ugliest building in France."

>>9021019
Well my story has complex history.
When I was little I had a parallel imaginary world, hard to describe the relationship ship really. To give you an idea many early elements involve the TMNT and Jean-Luc Picard teaming up. Over the years it changed a lot, three or five huge overhauls. along with a harem arc that will never be published after I found out why people cared about sex, (keep part of it, but down played it a lot)

Few years ago I got crazy with world building, tech and economies on details rarely seen. I also have a thinly hidden power fantasy, a core part of my imaginary world, because what small kid doesn't.
So I took the detailed living universe and dropped in one very detailed overpowered guy and just ran it from there as a simulation. Turned out interesting and people keep telling (after they got past the idea of such an OP MC, as Mary Sue syndrome fears were very big but faded as they learned more) I should write stuff down. I have intermittently been working on it, solving one issue only to create more.

Actually he just stole a cruise ship back from the pirates, kind of ruined his new low profile life as a maintenance tech on it after rescuing everyone. While he was part of the super computer that did just abut everything, the mega-corp used it to design a new high speed battle ship. Of cause once they went bankrupt it was re-purposed as the cruise ship, as nobody could afford to complete the original designs. (the economics of such projects are fascinating) The mercenary knew this and planned to steal it as he could finish it and start a pirate nation, insane idea given how FTL works, but if he had that ship it may be possible to do quick raids before the military shows up. Also MC is publicly cursed by "god" so things are complicated socially, that imperial curse was the deus ex excuse on why the army of assassins stopped attacking him every five seconds.

After typing this all out I am thinking something like a small odd jobs/detective thing. I am trying to do an interesting small scale story arc, as so much is grand scale and chronic escalation.

I keep coming up with these great parts, but connecting them in a believable fashion is hard, as I require a reason for him to do what he does.

Also after looking at that pic and thinking that red dot is further away and down a little hill, I wonder if you can see the flame at all. Sad as the backyard grill idea is so traditionally American.

>>9021121

>When I was little I had a parallel imaginary world, hard to describe the relationship ship really.

Maladaptive day dreaming disorder or MDD look it up cuz. It's a meme disorder of sorts but it explained my behaviour as a kid

>>9021358
Actually that covers me fairly well, when I was younger it was slightly problematic to the point mom was worried, but I had so many other mild disorders it was hard to tell.

I like one test proctor who basically said I didn't meet the threshold for any specific disorder, but had such a broad drop in scoring that something was defiantly wrong with me. I got "Depression and two undefined disabilities". Work my butt off to get them off my records, now people just think I am a bad/slow writer and a little off at times. They would freak if they knew their Regional Assistant Engineering Director had been hospitalized with suicidal thoughts and spent 6 years in alternative special education. And some call me the smartest guy in the room. lol

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http://pastebin.com/zAhnA1J9

I can't do it. Every time I try to re-write the beginning my mind goes blank and I suddenly can't stop telling myself to pull back, give uo, run away from another story.

I can't do this anymore, my spirit is broken

>>9021977
8/10 I liked it. The missing period at the end gave a strong emotional send-off

I know for a fact that this is shit, but I can't figure out half the reasons why or how to fix them

Eve had gone to bed knowing for a fact that tomorrow was going to be an ordinary day, fate had already seen to that. When she observed her future, she could see herself waking up and slapping sleep-blind at the radio to turn it off, followed shortly by the realizing that it was the phonograph in the kitchen and rolling off the mattress in a tangled heap of lethargic anatomy and linens. Her mother would burn the bacon (unavoidable sadly, but what will be will be) her father would argue on the phone about what was almost certainly another late gin shipment (someone was going to end up sleeping in the Hudson), and her education would form the flavorless bulk of an already unappetizing day. She couldn't be too sure about the phone conversation, but her father's world line certainly did not look pleased, and neither did hers or her mother's.

She closed her eyes and then pulled the covers over them. The bright lights of New Amsterdam were a sight to behold, especially from her penthouse window, but Eve would have preferred to behold them when she wasn't trying to get shut-eye. Light pollution never really struck her as a positive thing.

She was only just forming the start of a dream when the doorbell woke her up. A bleary glance at the clock on her radio told her it was every second between two in the morning and four. She blinked lazily, allowing her eyes to refocus on the present. It was three fifty seven, and someone was ringing the doorbell. As she blinked in the darkness, struggling to keep her eyelids in synch with each other, she heard her father open the door cautiously and invite two men into the hall.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she heard her father ask. His voice was a few decibels above a whisper, quiet enough to not wake anyone up but loud enough that she didn't have to strain very hard to hear.

“I know Ange, but this is important” that was Luca. He'd been a close friend of the family since before she was born. His nasally voice cut through the silence like a hacksaw through a chalkboard.

“Out with it,” her father grunted, clearly unhappy with being woken up. “You say it's important so what is it?”
“Angelo,” the other man said. He was another grunt in the family, the one whose name she could never remember. His voice sounded like a toad or a lunch lady. She always thought his mouth wasn't wide enough to make that kind of noise, though his pronounced brow ridge seemed to be attempting to pick up the slack. “The boss is dead.”

>>9020993
>How gravely was she mistaken. He cheated! That bastard cheated on her! She felt like a whore...
>Enough! She tackled forcefully and freed herself, leaving him gagging and gasping for air...

these lines feel clumsy. I know you can do better

First few lines of a short story I am working on:

The asylum did not loom, as he had been told, but instead drooped at all sides. Every stone, brick, and hall sagged like a summer squash left out far past its season. From a small window the doctor saw the peak of the spoke where a weather vane span, pointing an accusatory iron finger towards him. The doctor packed his bag. That morning the nurse had left green oranges and fresh milk on the table looking out of that tiny dusted window. In the quiet moments of the morning, after the moans of the committed's night terrors but before morning exercise he had eaten the sour fruit. A finger rooted in his cheek, picking at a seed lodged into a molar. Accompanying the fruit had been a short letter, written to him by the nurse, explaining she had picked the fruit herself. During vigorous exercise he entertained two notions, first the possibility if the nurse was sweet on him, and the second beings some kind of indirect spite pointed towards him over his sudden arrival and displacement of the chief physician. Sweat dripped from his brow, pooling in the small of his back to soak the over sized nightdress he wore. A cool towel pressed against his eyes soothed the morning headache, and as he prepared to bathe a pounding knock disturbed his routine.

http://pastebin.com/THTcbcE0

Been working on this for the past week. The last lines (21-27) haven't been edited at all after its original typing.

Even though the boys acts like he's a badass he's a prude and freezes from the girls physical contact and then try's to make a sarcastic remark might excuse his prudeness but it falls flat.

Trying to portray an awkward situation but instead the situation is being awkwardly portrayed.

Would greatly appreciate critique on the entire work thus far.


>>9022370
It has good stylistic direction and substance, and even the dialogue seems well purposeful though slightly unnatural/cliche.

>"Do you have any idea what time it is?"
>"Out with it"

Seems too articulate for someone to say out of irritation of being awoken prematurely. Though this depends on the setting/period this takes place, of which i'm unaware.

Also, as a reader, I find the syntax of the first two sentences a bit uninviting. Though there's nothing really offensive about the prose in itself to me it might be pushing out too much information all at once right out of the gate for an opening.

Forgot to rate.

>>9021110
It's too little for me to get a real feel for your writing. However I must say I rather enjoy the last bit.

For the statement:
>“The French do have the courage of their vulgarity,”
It sounds clunky, try rewording it.

Also:
>Autumn chill, smelling of wet pavement and the river, went through his clothes and dried the sweat on his spine.
A little long, try cutting. You can get the same effect with less.

>>9022403
This is my post

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>almost halfway through my creative writing degree
>becoming less and less confident in my work

I fucking love writing but I feel that my work is stunningly mediocre. I want to write for my career, but I can't see myself impressing anyone in the industry with my inane high school-tier drivel. Fuck.

>>9022490
I agree on both points, but I'm not sure how to extend it. I think I can change up her actions a bit to have her peeking through the crack in her door and wondering why she hadn't seen this before, but I think the real issue is introducing too many elements at once.

Here's the fixed dialogue

Her father's voice was a few decibels above a whisper, quiet enough to not wake anyone up but gruff enough in the predawn hours that it could not be misunderstood. “You had better have a damn good reason to come to my home and wake up my family at four in the morning”

“This is important” that was Luca. He'd been a close friend of the family since before she was born. His nasally voice cut through the silence like a hacksaw through a chalkboard.

“Talk,” her father grunted, clearly unhappy with being woken up.

“Angelo,” the other man said. He was another grunt in the family, the one whose name she could never remember. His voice sounded like a toad or a lunch lady. She always thought his mouth wasn't wide enough to make that kind of noise, though his pronounced brow ridge seemed to be attempting to pick up the slack. “The don is dead.”

trying a different opening

Angelo Bevitore was by all standards living a comfortable and fulfilling life. That nearly of it had come from smuggling liquor in and out of the dry city of New Amsterdam was of very little consequence as far as he was concerned.

There was a reason people drank: it eased the nerves, warmed the body and made even the coldest and dirtiest gutter feel like a good futon. Agriculture as a whole had been an attempt to keep the beer flowing, and in his opinion it would be shameful to have the rhyme without the reason. Someone had to keep the city soused as a kitchen sponge, and for the past seven years one of those men had been him.

It was a demanding job, and often called for long hours, crude methods and cuckoo ideas, but the pay was decent enough to bring him a life of modest comfort. He had a ritzy apartment and some well tailored suits, a car worth envying and a beautiful wife; but as his key clicked in the lock and the front door swung open the treasure on his mind was his daughter, Eveline.

He wasn't sure where she got it – he had a hunch it had something to do with those astrology books she always spent her money on (or was it astronomy?) – but the girl had a knack for seeing things that hadn't happened yet. It was a talent that came in useful more often than not, and one he relied on more than he cared to admit. Mr. Bevitore was a practical man, and he knew to foster a talent when he saw it.

“Anybody home?” he called out, rapping his knuckles against her door. He was used to responses that weren't quite words – “uh huh”s and “mhm hm”s chief among them – but the whump and ruffle of toppled paper stacks was certainly a new one. Even so, she was still his daughter, and he had long since learned to expect the unexpected. With a sigh he opened the door, and found the room in complete disarray.

The carpet was littered with scratch papers and charts. Bare patches were stained deep with dribbles of ink, and the whole air smelled of coffee and turpentine. In the center of it all sat Eve by her wall, startled and sheepishly aware of the chaos around her.

“There's a perfectly rational explanation for all of this.”

>>9022403
This is pretty good but there's some intangible quality to it that's bothering me. The actual descriptions are feel comfy but there's a certain stiff, blunt blockiness to the grammar that I can't really attribute to any one line or phrase.

the sentence
>Every stone, brick, and hall sagged like a summer squash left out far past its season.
for example works just fine, but it would feel more relaxed if it was a bit more like thisl
>Every stone, brick, and hall sagged like a summer squash left out a few seasons past its prime.

>>9022834
>>Every stone, brick, and hall sagged like a summer squash left out a few seasons past its prime.
Honestly this sounds a lot clunkier to me.

>I had to write this "poem" for my English class, it is written in the structure of a poem from Fahrenheit451:
If you don't want...your allies to leave you,
go around and search.
If you don't want...to stand alone,
better make an enemy emerge.
Give them a throne
to fight about but place an usurper upon(e).

Let them...get fired up all alone.
Give...them a sword and the hate has fully grown.

Then they will...win and you let them prevail.
And they will...leave everything to you in greater detail.


>Roast me pls

>>9022552

>creative writing degree

ahaha holy shit just kill yourself

>>8997190

every time i turned in a 'make your own story' piece of shit paper to a public school teacher, i kept getting flagged as a potential domestic terrorist since i was like 9 years old

what is so shocking about plastic explosives, killing innocent animals, vaginas and cannibalism?

i just don't get it

Nowy recounts that, on the few times he talked to Kafka on the phone, his friend had a strange habit of ending the call by exclaiming "Wir Dich!" (Let's go!) and slamming down the receiver. It follows the general programme of Kafkan crypticism that neither Nowy nor any of Kafka's friends knew quite what to make of his strange command.

Here is what Nowy recounts in his memoir (Mitteleuropakeinin, Schocken, 1978):

Go where? With whom? Why? These questions buzzed in my head with no possible means of relief, as Franz always made sure to slam the receiver down the instant he uttered the phrase. Once, while we were together in person, I gathered up the courage to ask him what he meant by doing that. He merely gazed at me with his familiar catlike inscrutability, then laughed in my face. Not only did this response embarrass me, but it stoked my spleen as well. For a while, I considered writing him a letter telling him off for his rudeness—but in time, I came to see it as one of the unavoidable quirks that accompanies genius. Besides, it’s too late to change him now... (Trans. by Wallace Fennel)

>>9018236
is it supposed to be spaced like that? cause I kind of like it.

>>9018901
nice

>>9021731
tense is a little fucked. comfy, but I felt like you wrote to make you look cool instead of for you to enjoy it yourself

>>9022552
>creative writing degree

sorry m8, this isn't reddit. just proclaiming that your work is bad aloud won't conjure a crowd of kissy ladies falling for it asking for you to post it so we can see if its bad or not

next time you really want someone to critituqe your stuff, just post it and pretend that you think its really good. anything can survive false humility, the work that can survive dickish confidence is buil to last ford chevy toyota hoho

>>9022834
>That nearly of it
m.....8?

ugh, unbearably quirky to my bitter, unkind eyes, but it's above reddit-tier and it really, really flows! Soused! Great. So ya, not my thing, but you did gud. Keepitup

>>9023108
bad

>>9023208
SHADDAP!

>>9023293
>tense is a little fucked
well, her part is happening in the past, his is happening now. I changed a couple of words though.
>I felt like you wrote to make you look cool instead of for you to enjoy it yourself
um, ok. doesn't change anything tb h

>>9022523
The passage you responded to clarifies the post above it, which I quoted from memory incompletely. It is from Charles McCarry's best-seller The Tears of Autumn.

>>9023049
Klunky was not the right word there on my part. I agree it's more of a mouthful, but it flows better. Your issue is that your desctptions are vivid, but something about your sentence structure or narrative voice sounds cold and rigid

It's like it was written by a writer but misquoted by a bereaucrat.

In the beginning there was man. Fire was born from man. Through fire, wealth and comfort sprang from the minds of youth. It was from the seductions of progress that man crafted war in lust of safety.

>>9023108
that poems flow is pretty bad but the word choice is visual at least if not basic

>>9024926

sorry cousin but thats just dark souls in reverse

>>9024971
I never played a Souls game before
and this is from a Sci-Fi project funnily enough :<

>>9024988

not saying you ripped it off just saying that your opening lines already been done, sorry.

>>9025005
Always beaten to the punch

>>9020993
>The end
Subtle

Posting my work here everyday until someone makes me give up on it.
http://pastebin.com/3n2E5pxc


>>9024926
>Through fire, wealth and comfort sprang from the minds of youth

The wording is little convoluted in that "wealth and comfort" is springing both "from minds of youth" and "through fire". It would be more appropriate to say "with fire". Or, instead of "sprang from" invoke the idea of wealth and comfort "entering" the mind. Dozens of ways you could revise, should you choose to.

> It was from the seductions of progress that man crafted war in lust of safety.

I find nothing wrong with this grammatically or stylistically however i may disagree on the concept, which is subjective. And that's neither here nor there.

>>9025318

using too many "big boi fancy /lit/ words" only bogs down your writing. It makes it a swamp I have to wade through. Use them when necessary,when you feel a scene can only be made whole with them or if you need to give your setting some punch. Also just in case it tempts you. Characters who speak in archaic language =/= insta-intelligent characters.

Go and pirate moomins in november. Look at how Tove captures the same setting as you but look at how she writes it.

Now if you're response to this is

> You're just too fucking dense to understand my writing

No fuck you my dude. If your story is moving by an inch every paragraph it's you has the problem

> Moomins but that's a childrens book

Precisely best place to study the raw basics.

The carpet was littered with scratch papers and charts, bare patches were stained deep with dribbles of ink. In the center of it all sat Eve by her wall, startled and suddenly sheepishly aware of the chaos around her.

“I trust you have a non-crazy explanation for all of this?”

“The universe is expanding,” she mumbled more at the floor than at him, shifting in her spot interpose herself between him and the section of the wall. It was at that moment that he noticed the faint smell of paint thiner.

“What did you do this time,” he groaned, pulling her away from the wall. Years ago, when he and his family had first moved into the apartment, and Eve was much younger, Mr. Bevitore recalled spending a ludicrous sum to have his daughter's walls decorated with radium paints. The tiny yellow stars no longer glowed as they once had, but all the same he was disappointed to see them painted over with correction fluid. The corner by the far wall had was covered with fractions and derivatives, and a menagerie of symbols he could not make heads or tails of.

“I heard when I was at the library last weekend that scientists have discovered the further away galaxies are the faster they're moving away from us. I started trying to measure it and found that they seem to be moving away from each other as well. The only thing that made sense was that space was expanding, like a piece of rubber being stretched out.”

“Eve,” he chided, “you're fifteen. You're ten years too old to be drawing on the walls.”

“I ran out of scratch paper.”

“Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost to fix?”

“That's why I used correction fluid. After it dries I can just peel it off.”

>>9020461
It's not bad, but honestly it's not good either. I feel like a huge portion of people have this idea that poetry is supposed to be all loveless angst and bloody pain and this is exactly what you're doing.

It's become so cliched that I can't even seriously critique your merits becuase you're writing a kind of cancerous genre that's completely and utterly overtaken the medium

be creative, don't write about feelings that nobody cares about, write about thoughts and ideas that you think the world needs to understand

>>9025343
>Characters who speak in archaic language =/= insta-intelligent characters.

I want to add to that idea that using big words doesn't make a character seem intelligent either, it makes them appear like they want others to know they're intelligent.

The character I'm writing (check the previous post) is supposed to be a genius but only speaks in simple, almost childish english (dutch technically) because it suits her personality: a childlike fascination with the world around her

>>9025343
Thanks, I understand nd see where you're coming from with much of this.

But what language do you find archaic and how?

In the instances in which the characters are using highfalutin language I tried to portray that they're being sarcastic/goofy, not that they actually speak that way, assuming you're referring to the dialogue I'm thinking of.

Although they've barely been fleshed out, I actually planned on them being relatively simple townsfolk type characters on the surface.

>>9025761
>>9025576
>it makes them appear like they want others to know they're intelligent.

This basically, I was trying to make the male character try to portray himself as interesting to the girl, but as >>9025343 said, the language itself falls flat.

Which is pretty much what I intended, only I need to make the reader to understand that the way they are speaking is a facade, not how I intend the characters to truly be.