/crit/ - Writing Critique General

>one of my very first ones

Even though I never got to know you
And despite the fact that we never interacted
My heart still skips a beat when your name is mentioned
And my brain struggles for quite a time to forget it

I wonder what would happen if I knew you well and that we were talking

>>9792220
pretty gay. sounds like you haven't read anything ever. are you illiterate?

The worst heartaches are from the ones you care most about
The ones you felt like you can tell anything and they won't judge you
The ones you thought would help you in everything you do
The ones you thought would never get mad at you
The ones you can sacrifice your sleep for
The ones for which you would do anything in your reach without asking any questions
The ones to whom it is hardest to deny
And this one does not always needs to be your fucking so called girlfriend\boyfriend.. It can be your friend, or any other person.
And you know what is the most ironic thing about these aches is?? The person hurting does not even know most of the times.

>>9792261
read but not wrote ever!!

>>9792203
What should I post? Bad poems, bad faux sea shanties or bad story excerpts?

pls someone answer. I'm drunk and having a crushing existential crisis.

You write for others or your own self? why'd u need feedback?

>>9792276
Whatever you want, man.

My first time posting on /lit/, I'm trying to remove my dreadful thoughts of inferiority after taking a speed reading test (my literacy skills are the only thing I take pride in nowadays).
Anyway here it goes:

Smile

All I see in her are fake smiles.
Her tears, like crocodiles.
And as much as I'd love to believe her,
All I see is a deceiver.
But through her tears of insincerity,
She mutters, "Why won't you believe me?"

>>9792291
>>9792276
okay. This is from the novel I'm writing. There are a lot of passages that need fixing, but this is one of my favorites:

Breakfast is non‐breakfast burritos with off brand tequila flavored beer. Very festive. I feel thematic. It reminds me of a birthday party that ended years ago, when someone threw a goat off a balcony into an empty, full‐size swimming pool. There were a lot of little cactus shaped party lights. The sound of a screaming, broken goat really polarized the crowd- either sobering people right up, or sending people into howling fits of drunken laughter.

Someone jumped in after it, and shot it in the back of the head with a desert eagle, blowing it's head apart and punching a crater into the dusty tiles. Georgia had a pretty sombrero, spun silver on rich blue velvet. And I remember drinking bad beer and lemon pulp.

>>9792311
Your writing style comes off as quirky for the sake of being quirky. "I feel thematic"? Fucking really? What is the point of the goat aside? How does his shitty breakfast remind him of a goat getting its brain blown out? Is any of this relevant in any sense? Somehow I doubt it. In this entire passage, you've managed to say absolutely nothing.

You're trying too hard to be "unique" (and you're not being unique, everyone and their fucking dog tries and fails at stream of consciousness and is left with diarrhetic prose) with your prose and your style, to the detriment of your story. You should find something to say before you worry about how you're going to say it.

>>9792311
No point made

>>9792405
>>9792412

well, that's sort of the point. The whole story revolves around the fact that the characters are wandering, aimless though the world. I can understand where you're coming from, but I think you're also inferring a dishonesty that isn't there.

Also this is only two paragraphs.

The whole thing is basically a cathartic exercise, for me to work off my angst. It's three people who love each other, but they're stupid teenagers with no direction (I'm not a teenager).

I think my question is more if the writing is in any way viable. The plot and where it's going is my problem, so you don't have to worry about it much.

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>>9792311
I always like to be constructive when I'm critiquing here on /lit/, but this is genuinely one of the worst things I've ever read.

If that's a shitpost then well done. If real then take the good advice of the above posters as well as learning basic grammar.

>>9792477
well, that makes me sad, but I'm going to finish writing my story anyway.

>>9792490
Good on you write for yourself and for its own sake.

Shits not too awful btw but seriously do fix up the grammar

>>9792490
Don't be sad about my thoughts. We've all written garbage at some point and it's an essential part of evolution as a writer. Just make sure you take the advice here and keep reading and learning from what you read.

>>9792426
Okay sport, fair enough. Now explain what "I feel thematic" means.

>>9792294
>raughing internerry

>>9792510
Yeah, I've always had a problems with that. I always oscillate between styles and tenses- even between sentences, so it usually ends up a mess. I always try to go back and fix it, but considering I'm going for a full on novel this time, getting is full draft finished is what I'm working on now.

>>9792532
Thank you. I'll try the best I can to internalize the critic. Like I said, this story is a catharsis for me, but I would like it if other people enjoyed it too.

>>9792537
???
thematic
adjective
1.
having or relating to subjects or a particular subject.
"the book is organized into nine thematic chapters"
2.
LINGUISTICS
relating to or denoting the theme of a sentence.
"some languages use special affixes to mark thematic and non-thematic elements"

He's got mexican food in front of him, and it reminds him of a mexican themed party he went to. He feels mexican themed. I know I'm not a great writer or anything, but not knowing what thematic means sounds like a you problem.

>>9792551
You can't feel "thematic" you twat. You're making up a usage that doesn't exist.

>>9792569
if you say so

>>9792551
Use sentimental or nostalgic ding dong you can't feel thematic

>>9792573
Take the definition you just posted and replace the word thematic with it. Does that make any sense to you at all?
>The book is organized into nine chapters relating to a particular subject.
vs.
>I feel relating to a particular subject.

You should axe that sentence entirely in my opinion, but if you insist on having something there, you should replace it with "I feel nostalgic". That should achieve the same effect you're going for without sounding totally moronic.

>>9792587
>>9792604
that's boring, tho, innit? Isn't half the fun of writing experimenting with the language? Sure, even if the official meaning doesn't fit 100%, it's still not entirely wrong, and the reader can infer, without any problems, what that's supposed to mean.

I get where you're coming from, it's not supposed to be some kind of cop out, either, but that's the fun in writing, right?

The horse cantered, a buckler at its saddle. Its rider wore chainmail, rusting at the edges. In his right hand was a spear. He squinted. A monolith the size of a mountain rose from the horizon. But there was something peculiar about it. The rock had limbs, and, as he got closer, they were attached to a sword, buried in the ground.
‘What happened here?’
Whinnying, his horse flew into a gallop. He nudged back on its reins. She wouldn’t stop. Jerking with all his strength, he forced her to a stop, rearing her backwards. The ground trembled. He looked behind him to see the skeletal figure uprooting its arms, blocking the sun with its raised sword. The rider’s eyes widened, then closed forever, becoming one with the red dust beneath him.

>>9792633
desu i thought you just meant that eating burritos and drinking tequila beer felt thematic

>>9792660
Why are you. Writing short sentences. Like this.

>>9792633
>the reader can infer, without any problems, what that's supposed to mean
I stopped reading at that sentence and said "what the fuck" out loud, precisely because it is entirely wrong and doesn't make any sense. I spent a few seconds utterly baffled, then I googled "thematic" to make sure I wasn't retarded, checking to see if there was some archaic usage I was unaware of. Then, after confirming that your usage had zero precedent, I returned to your catastrophe and forced myself to read past it. I only figured out what you meant because you explicitly told us. So, there were problems.

>>9792683
No, not entirely. Eating burritos and tequila reminds him of the party, and makes him feel like he felt at the party. It's sort of an unreliable narrator, in so far that he's relating to his experiences on an emotional level, with very little rationale. What he's experiencing branches off into tangents. The way he thinks is splintered. I don't know, maybe it's not very good without the context of the rest of the story to establish his character.

In rich meadows of shade do lie the lost,
Past lives still summoned by ghostly silence,
No heavens break for the soul still aghast
As farthest lands home the sweetest sessions.
From distant lands her torch rose, plush and bright
Asphodel flowers in hand; as night’s eye
Moaned at drowned fair souls and love blinded sight,
Grains resown; grey bed beckoned for kind life.
Heaven heard woe, yet fall claimed nature’s hymn
As life’s wrinkles fell fairer for burnt souls;
Foe of strife rode high,while darkness within
Left crescent light upon yellowed meadows.
If woe blooms in heaven’s fairest prairie
Her heart stays pure while my love won’t vary.

>>9792693
Don't short sentences add tension to a story?

How to make this less shit:

She was sat in a beautiful, yet uncomfortable, caquetoire. She was clothed in luxurious satin robes; the breeze from the bay windows gently lifting the weaved fabric. Her eyes were covered with a laced mask blindfold and she could only see feint outlines in the chambers she abode.

Basically its about this rapist who lives in a castle and captures women, some of the women are aroused and enthralled by the man, some have deep fear and hatred of him.

>>9792660
The scene is very dry. Usually people have problems being too descriptive or too florid, but you're the opposite. Though that's not to say you should throw in a bunch of adjectives and talk about his chainmail or how long his spear is or something retarded like that. Describe what's actually happening and what the character is feeling. There's no tension to this scene, and there should be. There's no sense of mystery to this scene, and there should be.
>The horse cantered, a buckler at its saddle. Its rider wore chainmail, rusting at the edges. In his right hand was a spear.
"The horse cantered. Its rider wore chainmail, clutching a spear in his right hand."
Get rid of the useless fluff and the passive tense.
>The rock had limbs, and, as he got closer, they were attached to a sword, buried in the ground.
This isn't incorrect, per se, but it is awkward. Throw "he could see" or "he saw" or something behind "as he got closer".
>He nudged back on its reins
Incorrect use of nudged here. Nudge means "gently push". You pull back on reins, you don't push or nudge them. And this doesn't seem like a situation where he'd be doing it gently.
>The rider’s eyes widened, then closed forever, becoming one with the red dust beneath him.
His eyes did? Or he did?

>>9792811
Learn the difference between "faint" and "feint" first off.

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>>9792203
The Tryst
Tragic Romanticism
3097
General impressions, criticism of style, all welcome.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Bq-fN2Zuhq7XguK3MnniD0IgYwAcG6s5lQ_yo5TGu8A/edit
Sample first paragraph:He arrived into the dimly lit foyer, the stench of alcohol on his lips. Solemnly and slowly he hung his dreary coat. He grazed his hand across it. Rough, dry, bumpy with lint. This was no way to present himself. He had been lucky enough to be invited to such a distinguished event and yet he still disappointed his peers. Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself. What does it matter to feel when you can fake it just as much? He wasn't a professional nor as suave as his peers. He imagined them now, at the backyard of the wide expanse that was this mansion, underneath the yellow lights, brows shaded and teeth gleaming, grinning at some obscure joke told in such elegant accents, their forms intermingling until they became indistinguishable and eternal. No, he wasn't professional nor suave and he could not fake it. A woman should've dressed him, but he had no wife and he could not live with his mother at such an age.

>>9792850

sounds cool to me brah but i'm a pleb and know nought of literature

>Appearance is everything; that is the law of business and even life itself.

What do I do when I read things like this in books, something where you disagree vehemently and find it cringey but know it's the authors views/intention.

Don't know if this is any good or not but here it goes

The Crusader walked down the beaten, dirt road for the first time in twelve years. Once, he was bright eyed, and wasted countless nights attempting to fight the moon with a wooden sword. Now, he keeps his eyes to the ground.

The rolling hills surrounding him form a miniature gulch, with dying clouds overhead. Dawn has long gone. The Crusader holds his brown cloak tightly as winds begin hurling frost. He raises his head from under the clothing, with only a beard and mangy hair to keep his face somewhat warm. A row of shabby, half-ruined cobble walls a meter high come into sight. They’re dotted along the side of the expanding road. Man is not far.

>>9792850
I wasn't going to say anything, but since I saw it pointed out in the document, I'm not sure that "dreary" is something you'd use to describe a coat.

All I've got really. Pretty well written.

>>9792906
>and wasted countless nights attempting to fight the moon with a wooden sword. Now, he keeps his eyes to the ground.
I like this

I was Noah in the flood. My stand still lack of motion, was my ark and the omnidirectional flow of the mall's ever busy crowd, was the flood that aimed to drown me. I was spacing out near the fountain, after a failed withdrawal at the ATM. I found it weird that there were so many people in the mall, on a weekday, during easter vacation. It had that rush of back to school shopping, which was silly because school only just ended. Might as well get supplies early so I guess the reasoning could make sense. These thoughts weren't at the forefront of my mind at the time though.

Rip me a new one /lit/ this is from a novel I'm hobby writing.

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>>9792811

Crit please

>It was a sunny day and some nigger fucking goes apeshit over nothing, someone probably looked at him funny, anyways; this apeshit nigger ends up getting caught in the act by de popo. Nigger says he dindunuffin, so i guess the moral of the story is: don't be racist.

Waves lapped gently upon the shore, their dull crashes sounding in the night and melding into a chorus with the soft summer breeze. Stars filled the sky, a rapt and attentive audience. There was the Sojourner, who would be away ere the solstice; the Myrmidon, with his great spear; the Tiger and the Hunter, ever at odds. The Wyrm, portent of disaster, loomed high in the sky. But reigning over them all was the Moon, gleaming silver as it crossed the sky with regal distinction.

Oskar stirred. The nigh imperceptible crunch of sand announced an end to his solitude. Lying on his back, he shifted his gaze from the stars to the figure approaching along the shore.

“I thought to find you here, brother,” said a young woman as she walked up to Oskar. She was lightly clad in armor, wearing a small chestpiece and bracers around her forearms and shins.

“Siri,” he said in acknowledgment, then turned back to the stars. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing.” She plopped down into the sand next to him, matching his aimless gaze into the night.

“Surely, you must have reason to come all the way out here,” Oskar said, eyes still fixed skyward. He could faintly smell sweat.

“Need a sister any reason other than to spend time with her beloved brother? And might I not ask the same of you? What reason have you to be here, brother?”

Oskar didn’t deign to respond. Siri didn’t pressure him for a response. The two siblings lay in silence for some time, their conversation replaced with the rolling of waves and the rustling of bamboo leaves.

“You wanted to go with him,” Siri broke the silence matter-of-factly. Again, she failed to solicit a response. She sighed. “Oskar...he will be lord of this house one day. And you know as well as I that for a commoner – not only that, for a foreigner – to serve as a retainer is unthinkable, unacceptable. We should be grateful that we have been afforded official station as servants of Lady Hibiki –”

“I know,” Oskar cut her off. “I know. I always knew”.

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I tried
Warning: It's fantasy, take it or leave it, but you knew what you were getting into.


I hate Goblins. Let’s start with that. They’re small, they’re weak, they stink, and you couldn’t find a shred of a heart in all heaven to fit inside these wee monstrosities. Goblins are the spawn of demons, the children of serpents and vipers. They have green, scaly skin, eyes like hot fire, and breaths of coal that steams even in the arctic cold. They’re raiders and pillagers, pirates and bandits, and at the worst – they’re the legions you’d find at the whipping hand of a power-hungry sorcerer. Goblins are fiends, they’re malicious, they’re vile, and if you had any sense of justice or holiness in this unjust and unholy world you’d kill them on sight.
Now let me tell you how I became one of them.
On one Saturday morning I woke as a Brother of the Flame, a holy order of Paladins dedicated to the eradication of sorceries and pagan sacrificial rituals all across the known world. Alcadia was our base of operations, where the youthful spring of the order first bloomed. The seed started as an off-shoot branch to combat heresies within the holy church, but as time went on and more members of the Alcadian royal family converted we evolved into a theocratic police force to keep the peace within the kingdom and by the limits of the law, of course. When magic and sorcery hit an alarming boom in thirteen thirty-four, the year of the lord, we had to hunker down and negotiate for more leniencies with the monarchy to be allowed legal rights to hunt down and turn-in these vile individuals performing the works of the Abyssal One.
Magic, you see, is as evil as Goblins go, which is meant to say – very evil. The otherworldly powers belongs only to Bruno, to God, our lord and ruler in heaven, but sometimes God allows evil to see if we righteous ones have the strength to put it down, to be tested so as to judge if we can bring about a greater good. And from the known records of our church’s history I can tell you straight, so far: we have. Magic practise has been decreasing by eighty-nine percent since The Great Cleansing, and that didn’t change on the Saturday morning I woke up as member of this great, illustrious order. And neither did it change on that same Saturday morning I became its enemy.
Dawn’s light was still cropped by the hedges at the time we were rushed out of bed. There was a great panic as my brothers rushed about in their silks and pyjamas to reach the armoury, pillows and feathers in flight.

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Se propuso a sí mismo que sus obras fueran realistas
Tardaría meses aunque nunca serían vistas
Pintó ojos de iris detallados
Los los trazos más precisos y delgados
Aún así no lo eran;
Ella estaba en frente,
Era inverosímilmente diferente

Era porque lo que hacía el artista esa estático
Y ella respiraba

Entonces la pintó en movimiento
Sus trazos ahora vivos como latidos
Al final también respiraba su creación
Pero no era suficiente

Pintó entonces a sus pares
Pintó a los mares
Pintó las casas a través de la ventana
Pintó a los hombres en sus camas
Pintó sus miedos y sus sueños
Pero cuando se percató
Había pintado un mundo entero

>>9792220
Too cliché and generic imo.

>>9792265
Not very aesthetic, but it's still okay. Your vocabulary seems a bit restrained.

>>9792294
Seems like you wrote something very personal. I like it because of that. But it's too short, maybe expand it a bit more

>>9792737
Very beautifully written, i'm probably not literate enough to understand it in it's entirety, but it sounded nice in my mouth.

>>9792220
You have pacing but the subject matter is cringey, and adolescent at best. Apply the language skills you used here with something interesting, allegorical, or symbolic--really something just more creative than typical pining.

>>9793605
*Con los trazos más precisos y delgados

Sorry I wrote it in a hurry

>>9792265
This sounds straight out of some angsty eighteen/nineteen-year-old-guy's journal-soon-to-be-manifesto.
Learn to be more forgiving and realize life is as selfish as it is giving.
Also, your form is bad, you have little pacing--and what little you have is highly inconsistent, your use of swearing is, well, lame, to be frank; and last-but-not-least the piece is trivial and goes absolutely nowhere and develops on zero percent originality or importance.

>>9792892
Then why are you fucking here?

In the centre of the city where the great star wakes and sleeps
Ride the women dark and pretty on the horses that they keep
Round the ladder to the cavern out from which climbs the red dawn
Near the children bathing brown in the heat of the rising sun
Walk about the tired men with callouses on barefoot feet
Careful as to not offend the mounted women that they meet
Such the stretch of playlight hours crawls over the baking day
Crossing sparkling city towers where it will be shut away
Just beyond a golden bridge as journeyed men hide out of sight
They'll heave it down a jagged ridge to thrust unto the city night
And drain the colour from the women with the steeds drinking sun
They ignore the frozen children dancing til the coming dawn

>>9793508

>police force
>pyjamas

These jar with me. They feel too modern for a fantasy piece.

>eighty-nine percent
Statistics are again giving me a more modern vibe.

>Saturday morning
This feels odd, like too ordinary or close to our world. I'm supposed to be in another world, but this pulls me back into my own.

I'm beginning to write my first book. As it's my first I thought I'd start out with something simple, so it's basically a kids book.

The door opened to the tune of a jingling bell that was tied to a string above the door frame. It was a small shop, it looked unused, and had a dusty and damp smell to it. A small, portly man walked from the back to stand behind a glass counter filled with various ancient, and expensive looking books. The man frowned as his eyes moved up to meet Fred’s, he was obviously disgruntled he had a customer.

“How may I be of assistance, Sir?” he said in the most pompous of voices.

“I want the book in the window, the Diary. How much is it” asked Fred.

“Oh, you mean the blue one. It’s 2 shillings. Sir”

"2 shillings, that’s more than a weeks wages!" Fred thought to himself.

“Sounds good, I’ll take it” Said Fred.

He was often prone to such involuntary outbursts. His mouth often overriding his mind at the most inappropriate of times. It was a lot of money for a book with no words, but the diary wasn’t for him. It was for Edgar. And every penny of it would be worth it to see his face light up.

“Fantastic choice Sir” said the portly man, now not so disgruntled, but somewhat surprised a man that looked like Fred would spend so much money on such an item. Or indeed, could even afford to.

He waddled to the front window, collected the book and took it back behind the counter. The book was wrapped with parchment paper, then thick brown paper, before being tied with thick twine. As he handed the book to Fred, he grasped his wrist as if he had forgotten something.

“Ah you will be needing this to make use of a Diary!” he said abruptly.

The small man reached behind the counter and pulled out an exquisite looking fountain pen, ink well and a small pot of ink.

“What use is a diary if you can’t write in it!”

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>>9792220
Is this bait?
Because writing this bad would make for a hilarious novel

100% srs like would be offended if someone stole this idea from me or it's already been made.


I'll try it out now.

Chapter 1:

Suzy means the world to me it's crazy I can't describe it. She's like the sun, her yellow hair moves in the wind and no matter what we've been through shes shining in my memory, like a gold coin at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. I want you so bad ...

This is kinda difficult.

>>9792892
It's not what I believe. It's just core to the story's theme.

>>9792311
Useless and I don't mean that as a compliment but I was able to finish it but then again non breakfast burritos are usually only consumed when it's either really late at night and you don't want to make the effort or it's the only thing at the gas station, and in either case you there, unsatisfied and disappointed, and surrounded darkness.

>>9793607
and what would you suggest??

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The carriage rattled along, cold air biting at the coachman’s lungs. His eyes darted from side to side. The trees thrust out at him, contorting into monsters. But every now and then he would see a pair of icy blue eyes. He shivered, glancing back at his wares: salted meats, foreign drinks, tableware made of solid gold. A shitload of trouble would fall on him if he were to see them lost. Gulping, he cracked his whip. The town was up ahead. If he could just wait a few minutes, he’d be striking it rich.

A figure pounced from the foliage, tearing open the horse’s neck. It whinnied as it fell, sending shards of ice into the coachman’s face. With nothing to lead it, the carriage toppled into a tree. Climbing from the wreckage and coughing up clumps of blood, he saw the wolf-like-beast bare its fangs, blood-soaked and sharp. But what struck him most were its pair of eyes, cold as the season.

Want to learn writing, any suggestions??

>>9794469
Write. Read.

If anyone would care to read what I deem my best short story so far I would appreciate any thoughts or critiques.

For convenience reasons and because it is slightly too long for a single post here, I have it here:

http://saunter.shaula.uberspace.de/overcast/

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>>9794469

If your grammar isn't solid, read a grammar book. Increase your vocabulary by just reading daily, or even consider just reading a dictionary.

Read The Elements of Style by Strunk and White.

Read and write every day. Actively seek out authors known to have good prose. Read and examine how they write, their style. Try to write stuff in the same style they did as an exercise to build up the different ways you can write the same thing. Don't full on copy a writer's style when you're finally writing with proper intent, it will be blatant.

Read up on literary devices. Read up on how to write poetry, it'll help you to make better sentences in prose.

Try to write the same thing multiple times but in different ways. Learn about point of view and how to create internal dialogue. Learn about how to infer things, learn about 'show, don't tell' but don't be enslaved by it, it's a tool not a rule.

Biggest things off the top of my head.

>>9794589

I enjoyed that. Your dialogue is good. I laughed at his reaction to the cloud.

Needs proofreading, there are some errors.

>They want Snacks
capital
>Every moron get’s a novel
remove apostrophe
>accesoire
accessoire? Unless there is a foreign grammar changing the spelling.

>The green-eyed waitress was a petite thing; not much taller than the table
I get you're going for over emphasis, but I feel like it didn't work, it creates the image of a waitress two feet tall.

>>9794741

Hey man, thanks for reading. I'm glad you liked it. I fixed the errors but let the part with the waitress be so others have a chance to comment on it.

What do you think about my ending? I always felt it was a little weak.

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>>9794590

>Read The Elements of Style by Strunk and White.

Please don't. Annoying and dogmatic puritanism, which is further full of mistakes. Strunk & White themselves frequently make the very mistakes they militate against.

http://www.lel.ed.ac.uk/~gpullum/LandOfTheFree.pdf

>>9793890
Thanks for the warning, anon. I'm glad you got that far. I hope it got your attention and all, or was at least entertaining enough to not be a chore to read.

>>9794754
>http://saunter.shaula.uberspace.de/overcast/

If that's the end of the story, then its weak. It doesn't feel like a full stop, or that a 'lesson has been learned'. Every problem is unresolved, other than considering (and not even actively deciding yet) to compromise with Jane. How does the date with Kiera go? What will he do when the cloud assumingly returns during his next emotion / mental down point?

It's a very powerful 'And then?', which is exactly what you want at the end of a section of writing, since it means the reader will want to read the next part. Maintaining the desire to know what's going to happen next is a critical part of story telling and you've got it here.

It's a very good beginning of a story, not a story in its entirety.

You don't need to 'fix' the ending, you need to write the next part is what I feel.

>>9794819

It sets up the interesting premise of the story and provides a lot of information very quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Instead of direct description, you should consider creating a dialogue-heavy scene, and infer half of the information through conversation and actions. Otherwise it ends up like reading a history book instead of a story.

Your idea sounds interesting and unique enough, the question is whether you can execute it. Your point of view and internal dialogue adequate, but work on inference through speech and action.

Look at the starting dialogue in >>9794589 's story, and see how he infers information about the characters through it.

>>9794758

Thank you for this. I am appreciative.

>>9794842
Thanks again, will do when I get the time.

Yes, I was in love; I was in love with her, because of her dirty wooden floors; I was in love with her, because of her father’s sad, sad face and bushy moustache; I was in love with her because of her moth collection; I was in love with her because of how her part of town was always the shadiest, with choice islands of sun; I was in love with her because of how cold the wind was in those days, and how bold and blusterous were the rocks on the mountain; I was in love with her because I saw a toy soldier in a museum in Massachusetts, once; I was in love with her because I heard a woodpecker, singing; I was in love with her because of the little holes on the bottom of a mushroom’s white cap; I was in love with her because it was springtime, and it would have been foolish not to be in love with something; I was in love with her because I felt my skin might scab over and rot off at any moment, leaving raw, sterile meat; I was in love with her because if one train leaves Chicago at 12:00 pm and moves at 50 mph, and the other leaves at 12:30 and moves at 75 mph, when will they meet? ; I was in love with her because she was a transexual cyclops with a sack full of butchered Nobody; I was in love with her because I wasn’t sure whether somebody would explode or crumple up like a ball of paper if they swam to the bottom of the ocean; I was in love with her because sometimes you get started eating a really sugary cereal and it’s all you ever want to eat and you can never know how long that will last, until one day it suddenly switches and the golden cereal now tastes like silver and piss; I was in love with her because I imagined myself as a bird and became bored; I was in love with her because of wondering what was that stuff in the corner of your eyes; I was in love with her because of how I invited friends over, only to wish that I hadn’t; I was in love with her because of how she looked at frogs; I was in love with her because of the ease of putting her in little boxes to be sold on the mass market; I was in love with her because of that time I went fishing and caught nothing, but that night dreamt of the sea; I was in love with her because of castle candelabra’s way of negatively illuming the subfusc; I was in love with her because I was an elf, once; I was in love with her because of my great aunt’s chair; I was in love with her because of sad suburban strip-malls; I was in love with her because of the idea of going to a circus; I was in love with her because of the smell of camphor; I was in love with her because of mythopoesis; I was in love with her because of the Wild Hunt; I was in love with her because of the veterans begging in the streets; I was in love with her because of the disgustingly pulsating music swallowing me; I was in love with her because of niceties which made you vomit; I was in love with her because of sand on white pants;

>>9795750
I was in love with her because of finger-painting, imagined or actual; I was in love with her because of erasing a pencil mark and marking it over and erasing it and marking it over until it cannot be read; I was in love with her because of the past tense; I was in love with her because of ground-floor windows; I was in love with her because of reading stories about hail the size of cars; I was in love with her because of chalk’s marvelous abundance; I was in love with her because of a hobo nickel I found in the mud; I was in love with her because of tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, and sermons in stones; I was in love with her because she was replaceable, but not nearly as much as me; I was in love with her because America; I was in love with her because of couches, and all they entailed; I was in love with her because of the transition from incandescent to fluorescent light bulbs; I was in love with her because of house centipedes and their primordial air; I was in love with her because of crushing acorns; I was in love with her because of ice on the river; I was in love with her because of old men riding bikes; I was in love with her because of the dead seasons; I was in love with her because of ----------------------; I was in love with her because of her crepuscules; I was in love with her because of decay; I was in love with her because of her liminality.

>>9792811
>was

try to use that word less. It isn't a bad word. Use it sometimes. But if every sentence is 'was this, were that' you wind up listing things instead of describing things.

Also you start two sentences with she in a row and one with her.

Also who is PoV? If it is the woman, she's describing all this stuff as beautiful yet she's blindfolded. If it is an onlooker, you have a PoV error where you describe what she sees. Get rid of the words beautiful and luxurious, fill in some feeling.

>Better formatting
>and typo corrections

It felt like it should be an elegant sort of chair. Intricate patterns pressed into her back, yet they did nothing for the soreness of her hips. A caquetoire required thicker clothing to act as padding and her captor hadn't seen fit to deliver. Instead, he clothed her in a thin dress made from satin that kept catching the breeze from the bay windows, only furthering her discomfort with the cool air. Had he not wrapped a cloth around her eyes, she might have at least been able to enjoy the view. She had heard rumors of this man. Some spoke in excited whispers, others in fear. Obviously the latter women had been right; What kind of gentleman left his guest in such discomfort?

First time posting here, I've started reading a lot more literature lately which has given me an interest in writing myself. I haven't really focused my efforts onto one particular idea/story so I have a few fragments lying around, one of which is as follows:

Originating from the ancient Greek term for ‘irregular mind’, paranoia is defined as the feeling you are in danger from attack or betrayal, despite any evidence to confirm such a threat. It has long been considered a malaise of the thoughts, a sort of mental illness. As an avalanche may be triggered with a clap of the hands, a bout of paranoia can begin with a misinterpreted look, a simple statement taken as a duplicitous one; it may even be the machination of an isolated mind, conjured through pure imagination alone. As with an avalanche, the delusions suffered by a paranoid build exponentially, as all interactions with the world and its inhabitants are viewed under a warped lens built from perverted impressions of previous interactions. The paranoid thus enters a vicious cycle. The conspiratorial web spun in the past cannot help but catch flies; the spider grows ever larger and the web grows ever wider. Eventually the spider will make a wrong step, ensnaring itself on a strand of its own fortress, writhing and thrashing and bringing it down upon itself and freeing its host from his unwitting captivity.

>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.

She was snoring again, and this time the shuddering of her nostrils were not fake. There would be no awakening this time, no perchance intervention. He peeled the bedclothes back, fingers trembling and threatening to send ripples of incriminating fear onto her bosom. Her hair fell softly to one side and hung lamely over the bedside. The sight of her bare navel tempered his courage, and he drove on. Unseaming her from just beside her belly button, he revealed her internal organs to the air for the first time. The scent both aroused and nauseated, and the sight of the bodily fluids bubbling and coagulating in the air accentuated this. Still, he had a dream to fulfill. He squatted over this new orifice, pleased to be actualizing his desires. She was oblivious to both her mutilation and his naked scrotum hanging just a foot above her, still in the throes of an endless sleep. Finally he began. Squelching first, the feces came sliding down his small intestine. It reached his rectum after a minute's suspense, and he felt his arousal heighten. At last his child slid out. A perfect, 10 inch turd slid into the hole in her stomach and sat cosily between what looked to be two vital organs wrapped around each other. He patted it lovingly into place, as both bile and blood bathed his creation, and he saw some of the feces break off in the surrounding blood and be carried off into the unknown frontiers of her body. Soon he would be all over her. He swallowed the saliva that had built up in his mouth, and sutured the wound up. Sweeping the hair back under her pillow, he left her there in the night, unknowingly tampered.

The next morning she arrived at the breakfast table. "I feel a most unusual sickness in my abdomen, father," she said.

>>9795904
I've been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, and this is pretty neat. I haven't experienced this in my life, but I wasn't turned off by your interpretation or anything, simply different. I like it, but the spider analogy is a bit much, I might change the ending somewhat. Overall, good job.

>>9794445
something interesting, allegorical, or symbolic--

https://pastebin.com/qTa9jAy8

>>9792203
There was this pseudo-essay I wrote on happiness some months ago when I wanted to kill myself over a breakup. I remember the conclusive parts were shit and open-ended and I hated it. Imma go find it.

>>9796357
you've piqued my interest

>>9796357
>>9796369

https://pastebin.com/8LEiiBw0

Have fun, anon

>>9796388
It's shit, obviously. I mean, this is /lit/, and I wouldn't be hear if I knew how to write. With that out of the way...

The beginning, first two paragraphs especially, is the worst part. It sounds like when somebody is trying to start an essay, so they just say some shit like "People throughout the ages have pondered this very interesting question". That's weak, obviously.

I'm not sure what to do instead, though. My best idea would be to look at some Hazlitt: THERE is a spider crawling along the matted floor of the room where I sit... (On the pleasure of hating). or Where there's a will, there's a way. - I said so to myself, as I walked down Chancery-lane, about half-past six o'clock on Monday the 10th of December, to inquire at Jack Randall's where the fight the next day was to be; and I found "the proverb" nothing "musty" in the present instance. (The Fight) In my opinion you should own the fact that these are your personal reflections, and find an engaging way to relate them as such, rather than an overly broad philosophical screed.

So I would say to try and hone it in and make it more personal, cut back on the generalities and rhetorical questions, and clean up the metaphors a bit (pot of gold, light at the end of the road, whatever).

Hope that was at least a little bit helpful. It wasn't that bad, really, and I liked some of the ideas you brought up near the end.

>>9796482
Thanks for the feedback, man. I'll keep it mind for next time, whenever that'll be.

>>9792203
https://pastebin.com/a6LphrVa
Here's a short story I wrote a few years back in my junior year in high school. The assignment was to write a story that took place in a dystopian future, because our summer assignment was to read Fahrenheit 451. Pretty sure I wrote the longest one out of my whole class. I don't plan on being a writer, but I thought this would be a quick read for you guys.

>>9796108

I'm happy that you pointed out the weakness of the end of the section, I wasn't too happy with it either but I thought I'd throw it out there to see what other people thought, will keep working on it. Regarding the spider analogy I have extended it into the second paragraph so will try to police myself to prevent it becoming too heavy-handed, appreciate the feedback anon

Anyone here read/speak polish ? It feels really hard but I've been trying to write in it again after like a 10 year gap of only writing in english.

https://pastebin.com/cuUudhN3

Let me be alone
It’s not you
Just need time and space

Stay away, stay back
Let me be
DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME

>>9796818
I came here to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now

G watches me because mom and dad work. She is the oldest person I know. She has a hole in her head. She had a heart attack a long time ago, but her husband’s heart attack killed him. He was a painter and she tells me she wish he knew me. We go outside when it’s hot and stomp on ants. My dad doesn’t like it. He asks me how would I feel if a big shoe went and stepped on mom. I tell G and she says well he can let all the spiders in the world crawl on him if he wants, then. She picks up a small yellow flower from the lawn and holds it up to my chin. Because it reflects yellow it means something good. I have a cleft on my chin like the grandfather, who painted, who was in the navy, who died of a heart attack, who I never met.

>>9793781
too many articles

this is what your poem reads like

> the blah and the blee and the bloo and the bluh
> the this and the that the thing the the the
> the the the the the the the the the the the

>>9796818
double digit IQ facebook relationship status update tier

>>9793508
I am angry.
ANGRY ABOUT GOBLINS

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Ode to Lauren Southern

I love Lauren Southern.
Her soft voice let's me melt away
and makes me want to shove my hard cock
in her tender mouth.
I just want to bang her like
'bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang '

He gingerly puts his fingers like a peace-sign up her nostrils and bites her ear to show dominance. This causes her to start farting uncontrollably inside his cock, tickling him.
'Hehe' he says.
She starts shitting in his penis

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>>9797379
>promotes traditionalism
>wears jean shorts so tight they spread her pussy
what did she mean by this?
https://youtu.be/HFW0z0Y5TR4

The wide, round rump straining against the purple lycra pants of the white woman in front of him in line at the corner shop stirred in D'Quan dim, dreamlike memories of the Serengeti buried in his blood, setting his heart pounding like a jungle drum and his long coal-black pestle nudging the fabric of his basketball shorts.
“Muh dick,” he mumbled wonderingly to himself. “Muh dick...muhfugga.”

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>>9797388
Jesus Christ how horrifying

>>9797274
Intriguing. You captured the voice of a child well with the straightforward not entirely related statements.

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OOGA BOOGA DRUMPF

I'M THE REAL NIGGER KING

OKIE DOKE

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Can I post poetry here? I'm not very good at it but I had (what I thought at least) was an interesting idea so I made a little poem.

It's literally the first one I've ever written, so it'll be fun to see what you guys think.

Under the hammer,
she is blown away.
Growling, groveling, frothing,
frail.

Heavy, heaving, it hurls her,
beyond
Until she is gone,
beyond.

But fame and fun and music and flare,
is all we need.
Yes,
it's all right here!

Hard and solid like a rock,
she isn't there.
And what is was when
blown away was ghostly ash.

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Whitey, whitey, whatchu doin?
Why yo appropriate ma sheit?
Whitey, whitey, we wuz rulin!
And yo lived in som caveman pit!

Whitey, whitey, bitchass cracker!
Yo stole all ma technology!
Whitey, whitey, we will smack ya!
With da tru egyptology!

Civil war is coming soon. Those thoughts were enough to send a shiver of fright down Gawain’s spine as he kindled the chamber’s cressets and hearth, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the new source of light. With darkness receding, Gawain saw the chamber with clarity, arched windows with drapes, a long table with the kingdom’s map attached along with fifteen chairs, a smaller table in the corner of the room to place the flagon and cups, the walls damaged and weathered, causing the chamber to be draughty. No doubt from when the king stormed the castle a few years prior, he had told himself, could the castle be able to handle another battle?

For half a second Gawain was swept away by his imagination of how the fighting of the castle was like, only to be brought back by coughing on the acrid fumes of the cressets and hearth flames. Walking away from the hearth and cressets, he went towards the windows to unlatched the wooden shutters. A breeze came in, strong with the scent of pine, and began to dissipate the smoke.

Moving away from the windows, he headed towards the large table, where he unfastened a leather tube fastened to his back through a leather strap, where he reached into it and drew from it a sectional map of the kingdom that detailed the northern coastline. Removing the original map on the table, he placed the regional map with wooden pieces from the pouch tied around his waist.

After he had laid the wooden pieces correctly on the map, he made his way to the small table to fill the goblets with wine; when he heard the door creaked loudly. He turned to see the king as he closed the wooden studded door.

Gawain knelt. “My King, my apologies, I have yet finished serving the drinks and food for your council of war,” Gawain said in a murmur.

When he heard no response from the king, Gawain looked up to see the king waved him off, and he hastily returned to the small table. As he began pouring the wine from the flagon to the cups, his eyes wandered where the king stood, staring at the map pondering.

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>>9797497
My sides

>>9797469
>>9797497
Ladies and gentlemen, the rapier wit of /pol/.

The Library Policeman spins Little White Walking Sam around.

Put your hands up on the wall! Thpread your feet! Now! Quick!

Still sobbing, but terrified that his mother may find out he has done something bad enough to merit this sort of treatment, Little White Walking Sam does as the Library Cop tells him. The red bricks are cool, cool in the shade of the bushes which lie against this side of the building in a tangled, untidy heap. He sees a narrow window at ground level. It looks down into the Library's boiler room. Bare bulbs shaded with rounds of tin like Chinese coolie hats hang over the giant boiler; the duct-pipes throw weird octopustangles of shadow. He sees a janitor standing at the far wall, his back to the window, reading dials and making notes on a clipboard.

The Library Cop seizes Sam's pants and pulls them down. His underpants come with them. He jerks as the cool air strikes his bum.

Thdeady, the Library Policeman pants. Don't move. Once you pay the fine, son, it's over ... and no one needth to know.

Something heavy and hot presses itself against his bottom. Little White Walking Sam jerks again.

Thdeady, the Library Policeman says. He is panting harder now; Sam feels hot blurts of breath on his left shoulder and smells Sen-Sen. He is lost in terror now, but terror isn't all that he feels: there is shame, as well. He has been dragged into the shadows, is being forced to submit to this grotesque, unknown punishment, because he has been late returning The Black Arrow. If he had only known that fines could run this high -!

The heavy thing jabs into his bottom, thrusting his buttocks apart. A horrible, tearing pain laces upward from Little White Walking Sam's vitals. There has never been pain like this, never in the world.

He drops The Black Arrow and shoves his wrist sideways into his mouth, gagging his own cries.

>>9797571
Thdeady, the Library Wolf pants, and now his hands descend on Sam's shoulders and he is rocking back and forth, in and out, back and forth, in and out. Thdeady ... thdeaady ... oooh! Thdeeeaaaaaaddyyyyy

Gasping and rocking, the Library Cop pounds what feels like a huge hot bar of steel in and out of Sam's bum; Sam stares with wide eyes into the Library basement, which is in another universe, an orderly universe where gruesome things like this don't ever happen. He watches the janitor nod, tuck his clipboard under his arm, and walk toward the door at the far end of the room. If the janitor turned his head just a little and raised his eyes slightly, he would see a face peering in the window at him, the pallid, wide-eyed face of a little boy with red licorice on his lips. Part of Sam wants the janitor to do just that - to rescue him the way the woodcutter rescued Little Red Riding Hood - but most of him knows the janitor would only turn away, disgusted, at the sight of another bad little boy submitting to his just punishment at the hands of the Briggs Avenue Library Cop.

Thdeadeeeeeeeeeee! the Library Wolf whisper-screams as the janitor goes out the door and into the rest of his orderly universe without looking around. The Wolf thrusts even further forward and for one agonized second the pain becomes so bad Little White Walking Sam is sure his belly will explode, that whatever it is the Library Cop has stuck up his bottom will simply come raving out the front of him, pushing his guts ahead of it.

The Library Cop collapses against him in a smear of rancid sweat, panting harshly, and Sam slips to his knees under his weight. As he does, the massive object - no longer quite so massive - pulls out of him, but Sam can feel wetness all over his bottom. He is afraid to put his hands back there. He is afraid that when they come back he will discover he has become Little Red Bleeding Sam.

>>9797572
The Library Cop suddenly grasps Sam's arm and pulls him around to face him. His face is redder than ever, flushed in puffy, hectic bands like warpaint across his cheeks and forehead.

Look at you! the Library Cop says. His face pulls together in a knot of contempt and disgust. Look at you with your panth down and your little dingle out! You liked it, didn't you? YOU LIKED It!
Sam cannot reply. He can only weep. He pulls his underwear and his pants up together, as they were pulled down. He can feel mulch inside them, prickling his violated bottom, but he doesn't care. He squirms backward from the Library Cop until his back is to the Library's red brick wall. He can feel tough branches of ivy, like the bones of a large, fleshless hand, poking into his back. He doesn't care about this, either. All he cares about is the shame and terror and the sense of worthlessness that now abide in him, and of these three the shame is the greatest. The shame is beyond comprehension.

Dirty boy! the Library Cop spits at him. Dirty little boy!

I really have to go Home now, Little White Walking Sam says, and the words come out minced into segments by his hoarse sobs: Is my fine paid?

The Library Cop crawls toward Sam on his hands and knees, his little round black eyes peering into Sam's face like the blind eyes of a mole, and this is somehow the final grotesquerie. Sam thinks, He is going to puntsh me again, and at this idea something in his mind, some overstressed strut or armature, gives way with a soggy snap he can almost hear. He does not cry or protest; he is now past that. He only looks at the Library Cop with silent apathy.

No, the Library Cop says. I'm letting you go, thatth all. I'm taking pity on you, but if you ever tell anyone ... ever ... I'll come back and do it again. I'll do it until the fine is paid. And don't you ever let me catch you around here again, son. Do you underthand?

>>9797575
Yes, Sam says. Of course he will come back and do it again if Sam tells. He will be in the closet late at night; under the bed; perched in a tree like some gigantic, misshapen crow. When Sam looks up into a troubled sky, he will see the Library Policeman's twisted, contemptuous face in the clouds. He will be anywhere; he will be everywhere.

This thought makes Sam tired, and he closes his eyes against that lunatic mole-face, against everything.

The Library Cop grabs him, shakes him again. Yeth, what? he hisses. Yeth what, son?

Yes, I understand, Sam tells him without opening his eyes.

The Library Policeman withdraws his hand. Good, he says. You better not forget. When bad boys and girls forget, I kill them.

>>9797376
Yes, anon, Goblin Slayer did influence my work. But hey, the nips took isekai from Narnia and A Conneticet Yankee in King Arthur's Court, so it evens out, right? :)

I looked at my teeth in the mirror. One was rotting. Pain bore through it and deep into my jaw. I wanted to tear it out from the roots like crab grass. I wanted to take a pair of pliers and pull the bone from its flesh until metallic fluid pooled in the holes and drowned every nerve ending, unnecessary, needless, unnecessary. My tongue was a wiggling worm that couldn't lay still against the swollen dirt. My mouth was full of weeds.

>>9795750
Man this is so cringey couldn't make it past the first five 'I was in love with her because'..so cheesy and cliche and overdone I'm gonna vom

>>9792220
This is fucking pathetic.

Start of something I might ride out pretty far. How's it doing at the moment?:

The shadowed forestry carries
a heavy plumage of dense fog
overtop a decrepit cemetery.

A man's silhouette appears
arising slowly from the stony bog.
When fully erect his person clears

and reveals an apparent confusion.
He glances down, then sinks below.
Standing again he carries a talisman

in one hand, and staff in the other.
Confidence comforts from the charm
as wisdom lightens his demeanor.

In the silver stone top the wooden staff,
he sees within--him and his surrounding.
These devices built of bark and brass

fill the man with feelings of protection,
yet bring him no closer to understanding
what has brough him in this direction.

Nearing each the gravestone's outline
unveils unkempt, unmarked, slabs.
A semblance of someone's name

attracts his focus right up close to
lichen ridden, chipping stone.
Silently clears the fog, as through

the dirt beneath his feet
a rotting arm-and-fist latches round his leg,
toppling the surveyor in panicked retreat.

Hitting the earth in terror
causes recovering mist to be missed,
as well as dismiss a name he was near to remember.

No arm rises from the dirt
when soon it can be seen
after his balance has returned.

Rustling from distant trees
then swipes his new-found clarity
to the far end of the cemetery

camouflaged in thickets of fog.
Before anything is seen, a roar
alerts the cry of the guard dog

of the grave. Vicious eyes singe
the mist and jagged teeth rip
the air in hunger for our hero's flesh.

A searing pain and warm wetness
then rushes the scene to abrupt whiteness.

"Son, pray," awakens Michael to the day.

>>9797458
Thanks, my goal was to capture the lack of detail in childhood memories (how they're spotty and feel like pieces of celluloid missing their larger wholes, so I have a lot of stand alone pieces like this written in this somewhat simplistic style)

>>9797480
pls respond

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1/2 WIP
>>9797480
your last stanza tells everything the rest does much better. scrap everything before it and hone that last stanza

>>9792737
nix the first comma and let the line break convey both meanings and hold a smoother rhythm

>still aghast
the line is stronger without this
without it, that is your strongest line

>Asphodel flowers in hand
flowers is unnecessary

>As farthest lands home the sweetest sessions
a comma after home might help

the purply verse works as a sonnet, but the meat of the poem could be made into something leaner and fiercer (but it'll probably wind up in free verse.

Do not like the final couplet.

>>9798259
The issue here is that your poetry (despite rhymes) feels prosaic because of the relatively low workload you ask of your reader. Needs stronger rhetoric/more metaphor and less description (because ultimately a lot of description feels superfluous.

The psuedo-terza rima works out p well, but I'd look into to more regularized meter

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>>9798317
2/2 WIP

>>9792906
I enjoyed this - forgot I was reading a /lit/ post for a brief moment.

>>9798317
I'm >>9798259.

This is half of a 'chapter' and I already have several 'chapters' outlined. I'm going to cover all that fun stuff you're talking about. I've got a good plan going. Mostly was curious as to how well the form held together, and contributed to the experience; or is the imagery was consistent. Stuff like that. I'll give something of yours a quick look over in my next post.

>>9798369
The scheme is fine, but ensuring a semi-regularized length would go a long way otherwise look at the way Eliot rhymed in the four quartets for some inspo on the music.

By imagery being 'consistent' do you mean that the descriptions feel like they're in the same voice? I'd say so mostly, but
>unveils unkempt, unmarked, slabs.
is some much more flourish-y than the rest of it.

>>9798317
I liked the imagery here and especially your pacing and consistency. Reading it was very fluid, and, though the spacing didn't seem to have much influence overall, the last four breaks worked well. My only qualm is I feel it is just a bit long for what you get out of it and for what you build into it. It tends to get a little rambling at times, even with following the imagery. The was especially the experience in the other post you made when I enjoyed the easy start of structure with the imagery but then you rocketed into a winded monologue again and the light dimmed quick. Sometimes more is less depending on what you're depicting. Even though you're depicting real things thinly connecting them through your imagery, you're still disjointed and sprawling. When taking length into consideration, you're better to write a story/drama than a sprawling metaphor to avoid droning. Though your voice was good, it was too much babble without steady grounding.

Tldr; not bad, good voice, but could benefit from restructuring overall delivery of substance:--experiment with narrative devices over stylistic devices; but don't lose all of stylistic quirks, some weren't bad.

>>9798395
What do you mean by 'ensuring a semiregularlized length'? I want to be sure before I reply again

>>9798317
>>9798435
As you said Eliot to me, I should like to re-rec him back. What I was saying in general in my post before was that you should try something related to The Song of Prufrock. Where a character, and not an idea or image itself, pulls the reader through

>>9798448
the syllable length varies a lot between lines and that affects how the rhymes come across.

Stanza 1: 8-8-11
Stanza 2: 7-10-9
etc. etc.

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>>9793605
You need to work on your redaction, the rhyme scheme is wack and the way you aboard the theme is pretty clichéd. Don't hold back on lyricism, give me some more detail and imagery. I want to know what the fuck is going on in between his fingers and the brush, are splinters creeping throught his hands? Is the wind inside her lungs telling stories of solitude or is she just winded up from standing still? Up the ante, amigo.

Also check out Huidobro, I think his work could help you out.

(mfw when pensaste que nadie criticaría tu trabajo porque lo posteaste en español).

>>9798459
Those are the first two pages of a longer work, but currently the only real plans for characters (outside of the framed fables like pg.2) are the narrator and the one spoken to.

I love Prufrock, but I don't want to write Prufrock.

>>9798461
Maybe if you read it break by break, so to speak. But if you read it like its prose and don't force anything you should find the rhythm. Like I have it pick up after he was tripped to show he is in fright, but it stays consistent. I might have to recheck it in the morning or something if not

>>9798468
They're connected? It was hard to tell based on what was depicted and the different titles and whatnot. Like I said, you don't have to write prufrock. But consider length when you're working under your own firmament.

>>9798484
The first one is the 'muse song' and the second is the proper start.

>>9798477
I don't pause on each linebreak, but I'm having a hard time gleaning a distinct rhythm. Some are iambic
>arising slowly from the stony bog.
but a lot of it isn't. It's not jerky or anything, but it feels very prose-y

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>>9798462
My native tongue has forsaken me, I am a faggot. I meant redaction as in redacción. Sorry about that.

>>9794455
someone respond

>>9794455
>>9798529

hi

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>tfw too afraid to post anything for fear of getting reverse-doxxed if the piece ever ends up getting published

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>>9792203
All humans, are afraid of monsters, the monsters they keep inside of them. They drove the species who are able to expose the monsters in them down the purgatory underground. There, in the purgatory deep inside the earth where people are made, he was born. He hated, and loved, the monster that is forming inside of him more than anyone else. Together with his second mother, he climbed up to the world where the people who have driven him into the underground live. However, at that time, it was too late. This world above ground is waiting for its slow death, same as the people who continue to stay there. This world, this surface, is the realm of the dead. And this species called humans, they have built for themselves a world of twilight. There, he met a ghost called "father". His second mother, who has come to this netherworld with him, remained there, while he returned to the purgatory where he was born. That place, the place where he lives, that purgatory. That should be the last world of humans.

In the hallowed boughs
of trees forgotten,
sang the ancient songs,
of towns undone.

In the sacred hollows
of times vanished,
came the undesired,
of people never known,

and never to be known

and again

never to be known.

>>9798547
You most likely can't publish if you post here since it technically counts as self-publishing.

>>9798700
It's not good.
Is it about Hitler?

Seh ich Stäubchen
lungendicht, konserviert, ausströmend
aus Flaum, aus Schultern?

Nein---
Nichts als Alimentsblicke
verleugnet mit dem Freundeskuss
gartenlos.

Oder doch aus Kränzen?
Doch Tulpenatem
in den ersterbenden Ausläufern
der so pollig kochenden Stadt
den rhizomatischen Gassen
den gebrochenen Schwanenhälsen?

Nein---
Nicht herz- sondern aortaförmig.
Ich übermale meine weißen Wände
wangenrot.

Sondern---
Aus Plastikblumen
pirouettierend zum Licht.
Aus klingendem Glas
das melodielos bricht.

***

Wir lesen den Kindern
die Zukunft
aus den Fäden
von alten Teppichen.

Sie sagt: das ist ist die Farbe
deiner Mutter,
deines Vaters.
Manche davon sind doch Waisen!
---du Erbarmungslose.

Sagst: selbst das Schlimme
ist doch aus Ewigkeit gemacht.
Der Flaum deines Nackens,
der Geist seines Aschhaars---
aus meinem Filter?

Ich habe lange genug
janusköpfig
auf den Boden geschaut!

Mein Herz ist nicht mehr
das meine;
meine Sinne sind das Kind
das die Vögel mit Steinen beschwert
und sagt sie sollen fliegen lernen.

Ich glaube, das ist mein letztes Leben.
Es gibt nichts mehr zu lernen.

>>9798804
>It's not good.
Why isn't it good?
>Is it about Hitler?
What?

>>9798259
Pound says don't write in mediocre verse what others have written in good prose. Youre writing prose. But it's still not good.

>>9798809
>What?
Hitler, a man whose monsters are unimaginable, coming back to Europe and seeing how badly things are going. His second mother, his country, remained in this decadent world, but the world is no longer of humans, but of subhumans. The real humans are going extinct and will join Hitler in the purgatory.
Makes perfect sense.

From a sci-fi/fantasy novel I'm writing:

Against the orange and purple twilight was a hazy row of clouds hiding what was left of the setting sun. The rest of the desert stretched on forever, and Jackson took a long look at the endless orange nothing before deciding to sit down and look at what little stars were left.

The marketplace was filled with shouting, haggling and the clopping of pack animals. It reeked of shit and spices, rotten fish and perfumes. Curious beasts from the South paraded the streets.

‘Giant lizards for sale’, their owner shouted, ringing a bell. ‘Mighty fine lizards. Can travel upwards ten leagues an hour’.

Thronging around him, the crowd shouted their prices. But I turned into a side alley, reeking of more fish than the main street. Pinching my nose, I turned into a store and greeting me with his black tooth, the fishmonger spat:

‘Fresh fish from the Copian Isles.’ His one good eye pointed away from me. With a vague gesture, he said, ‘what do you want? With that sword and armour, I doubt a Northerner like you want to buy fish’.

‘Well, you see—’.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Get out of my store. I’m not interested’.

I was on the main street once more. My stomach grumbled with annoyance. Answering the call, I spied a cafe to my left. Closing its door behind me, I was alerted to a tense silence in the rooms. At the far corner, two sat in a board game of sorts. Sweat trickled down their brows. ‘What’s going on here?’, I asked the mousy haired waitress. She grinned, revealing a set of rotten teeth.

‘They’re having a bet’, she said. ‘The winner takes all of the other’s money. As you can see, they are very broke. What would you like to have? We’ve got coffee, tea, pastries’. She waved her hand at the counter.

‘I’ll have coffee’, I said, sitting down at a wooden chair near the game. ‘A pastry as well’.

‘Righto’, she said.

‘Wait’, I said. ‘You seen a man pass by here? Black mantle and hood’.

‘No, I can’t say I have’, she said. ‘Sorry, sir’.

‘I’ve seen him’, a scruffy man sitting by the door said. ‘Five hours ago at most. I was begging on the main street. Couldn’t miss him. Had a massive scythe on his back’. Grinning, the man took off his hat and held it out to me. ‘Money’.

I flicked a coin to him. ‘Thanks for all your help. Which way did he go?’

‘Can’t say for certain. But I reckon he was heading out the west gate’.

‘Thanks’, I said, leaving the shop.

‘Sir, your drink?’

>>9796526
please I would like some feedback

>>9798807
>Der Flaum deines Nackens,
der Geist seines Aschhaars---

Da fehlt ein 'r'

>>9796526
>>9799418
I didn't read the whole thing, but I really like your pacing. You seem to know when to be descriptive and when to lay off for the sake of succinctness.

That being said, you have an almost comically glaring problem with your punctuation. Every time I see a hyphen, commas, or semi-colon it seems like you picked the wrong one out of the three. I like semi-colons too, but people find them pretentious if you stick 3 or 4 in a sentence willy-nilly. You really need to work on this aspect of your writing.

Also, if you want feedback so badly, you can provide someone else with feedback and people will be more receptive to you.
.
.
.
.
From a fantasy novel, trying to characterize a city. I could really use some help:

Like any buildings in the city of Brogdon, each of the palace cathedrals were painted either black or white, depending on which party they belonged to. Long, winding halls connected the cathedrals with the others of its color, white overlapping black and black overlapping white. When Gili had first seen the palace grounds from above she thought it looked like a sea of black and white octopuses warring, or perhaps making love. Though there was no love lost between the octopuses, she thought, but their tentacles criss-crossed and intertwined so tightly that they could never be pulled apart.

Beyond the palace grounds layed the city of Brogdon, which, even viewed from hundreds of feet in the air, stretched as far as the eye could see. Brogdon was Nepulta's largest city, and held almost sole dominion over the continent.

It was a checkerboard; No word could describe such a sight with more ease. Black and white blocks of civilization alternated across an endless expanse of land. Black roads, black buildings, and black-leaf trees filled the blocks which belonged to the party of Brogdon Black. White roads, white buildings, and white-leaf trees filled the blocks which belonged to the party of Brogdon White. Side by side the blocks of land stood, equal in infrastructure, but opposite in culture. Brogdon Black and Brogdon White were different cities indeed, but they both flew the flag of black and white, one that didn't represent the cities themselves, but the complex relationship they shared.

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>>9799418

I hate your characters' names. Your character development is lacking. As a result, I can't bring myself to care what happens to either of them. The plot twist at the end is silly.

Sentence structure is lacks diversity and rhythm:
X verb[ed] Y.

"Dante said nothing."
"Dante woke up..."
"He looked around..."
"Dante rose out of his bed."
"The president stepped out of the car, ..."
"Fiora spoke up."
"She [suddenly] stopped speaking."
"Dante started to worry."

Zzzzzzzz.

I don't know how old you are, or how much you've read. I don't want to completely shit on your efforts.
Keep writing, but I'd suggest you spend a lot more time reading. You'll benefit from editing your work once you've read more.
Good luck.

>>9799453
Danke Mann, kann man mal übersehen wenn man prätentiöse Gedichte schreibt hahaha.

>>9799471

Like other buildings in Brogdon, the palace cathedrals were painted black or white—party affiliation determining color. [I understand the description of the overlapping halls connecting the white cathedrals to white cathedrals, and those connections being entangled with the black-to-black halls. I’d need more information about scale/proximity etc. to rephrase this section.] Upon seeing the grounds from above, Gili imagined a sea of warring [octopuses or octopi? I’m too lazy to check the grammar]. Or perhaps, they were making love. Their entanglement made it difficult to discern.

[How can the city of Brogdon be outside the palace grounds if the palace grounds are within in the city of Brogdon? I like one sentence in this paragraph, which I won’t rework, even if I don’t like the ‘almost’ before sole dominion] Brogdon was Nepulta's largest city, and held almost sole dominion over the continent.

It was a checkerboard, (checkerboards have an ordered pattern of black and white. The paragraph before described something different. And please never use the phrase ‘no word could describe…’ again) with blocks of civilization alternating across an endless expanse (cliché) of land.

I’ll stop here. Simply put, there’s too much use of the words ‘black’ and ‘white.’ I’m aware you are establishing a sense of the relationship between both factions of the city and how it’s reflected in the architecture and the landscape, but you don’t need to keep reiterating the color-scheme. I’d prefer a description of the architecture that gave more than which color (out of two) the buildings are painted.

>>9799471
>>9799648
Yeah I was looking it over and I totally agree with this assessment. I'm gonna rewrite this section of the book soon, look for it if you browse these threads allot. I'd also like to rename the city and the two parties of black and white, if anyone has suggestions.

>>9799674

Hope you consider renaming that character too.

You're one letter away from 'Gimli' and 'Gigli.'

>>9799689
Is "Gimli" really a name people would recognize and know how to spell? I had to look it up just now myself. Also Gili is a teenaged girl.

>>9799790
>Is "Gimli" really a name people would recognize and know how to spell?

Yeah, you fucking idiot! Yeah!

>>9799806
Whatever, Tolkein doesn't get to have a monopoly and anything close to the same as his character's names. Theres a GoT character named Gili, too, and I don't hear you whining about that? Get over it.

>>9799790

Just so you know, this person:

>>9799806

is not me (from) >>9799689

that being said, he's not wrong.

alright /lit/ this is from a dream in a short story I'm writing.
I know it's shit, you don't need to tell me that. Should i keep writing? Where should I look to improve my vocabulary, prose, etc.?

"The room was familiar and foreign at the same time. The great iron door to his left opened swiftly, and a bright light cast shadows upon the walls of his chamber. Strong hands helped him to his feet. A plain face whispered words he could not hear. He was outside in a courtyard, puddles filled with dirt were rippling beneath his feet. She came closer and her warmth nourished him against the wet and cold of the raging storm. When he turned to face her she was gone. The rain thrummed all around him, embracing him like a tight blanket, clouding his thoughts. "

>>9799845

>Should i keep writing?
Yes, everyone should. You should spend a lot more of your time reading than you do writing.

>Where should I look to improve my vocabulary, prose, etc.?
Read.

>"He was outside in a courtyard, puddles filled with dirt were rippling beneath his feet. She came closer and her warmth nourished him against the wet and cold of the raging storm. When he turned to face her she was gone. The rain thrummed all around him, embracing him like a tight blanket, clouding his thoughts."

This is an entry in a dream journal, not fiction. If I change from 3rd to 1st:

Last night in my dream, I was outside in a courtyard, puddles filled with dirt were rippling beneath my feet. My (ex?) girlfriend (crush?) came closer and her warmth nourished me against the wet and cold of the raging storm. When I turned to face her, she was gone. The rained 'thrummed(?)' all around me, embracing me like a tight blanket and clouding my thoughts.

>>9798462
Thanks for the critique anon! Will certainly check out Huidobro.

>>9799868
I'm not sure what the dream journal part is supposed to mean. Are you saying I'm describing it as a memory rather than immersing the reader in the dream?
Any suggestions on reading?

Do you young anonymous lads have any book recommendations to help me improve my writing techniques?

>>9799868
>>9799879
How is this not fiction, it's something I made up. I too can transcribe 3rd person to 1st person. That doesn't make it any less fictional. I'm not claiming it's my dream

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I tried writing a scene about a biologically engineered 'super smart' human getting out of his stasis tube for the first time. This is the first part of that scene - let me know what you think.

Cold, shivering; from his head downwards, the warm, liquid substance that had lulled him into a calm sleep for so long was disappearing, replaced by a stinging coolness. A sharp inhale - cold air made its way down his throat and he couldn’t help but hack at the sudden sensation. Breathing. He suddenly realized he was breathing, and that he needed the air to survive. He also realized that he could last approximately two minutes without oxygen before passing out, and that the atomic symbol for oxygen was ‘O’, its atomic number ‘8’, and its atomic weight ‘16’; but although these facts swiveled effortlessly from his subconsciousness into the forefront of his mind one after the other, he couldn’t explain how he knew these things.
“Hello?”
Pale eyelids snapped back to reveal a set of eyes that were an unnatural shade of bright green. First they looked down at the pair of bare hands planted against the metal ground, keeping their owner from falling over, and then they swiveled up to the lab coat clad human male in front of him.
“Do you understand me?” The man’s voice was soft and aged, which suited his wrinkly face and graying mustache.
“...Yes.” English. Although the sounds both he and the man made sounded like a foreign mixture of odd grunts, he still understood the meaning behind the noises.

>>9794455
Perhaps try varying sentence lengths? It doesn't read in a way that makes you think the next sentence is worth reading. It also doesn't serve the rapid change of speed in the 2nd paragraph.

>wolf-like-beast
Use the word lupine. Latin stems are worth knowing for describing things.


The sand, dry, scorched your fractured feet,
The sun in its indifference flayed
While visions of water flowed, warped by the heat
Carved cold by the Devil's hot blade.
Visions of dancers in festive saloons,
Of champagne, of tinsel, of laughter, of girls,
Of lovers you'd met underneath secret moons,
Breasts adorned with glittering pearls
Tormented and tortured but knowing your course,
Knowing you'd asked only for this,
You, simple hermit, with impregnable force
Filled with pain cold temptation's abyss.
Let me be tested on Egypt's sands -
Lacerate, mar, mangle these manicured hands!

>>9792203
A final look back was given at the face-down corpse, a bullet through its head, and a cloth covering the exit wound on the back of the skull. It was difficult to feel sympathy for him, but even with none or at least very little it didn’t make killing any easier. So the three made their way through the wooded trail which opened into a clearing. Young Maram still squatted down, head resting on her forearms which were on her knees, only 12 years old and yet widowed. The murderer of her late husband stood at a distance, the murder weapon in his jacket pocket, a revolver recently found on the corpse of an apparent suicide which was nearby. Arm slung from a previous gunshot wound, pistol on his left hip where his one useful arm was, semi-auto SKS rifle slung over shoulder, and the woman who had been accompanying him for quite some time went forth to the Middle East born child.

Gentle hands on her shoulders, whispers in her ear, small pats to try and encourage her to get strength enough to come with them. Young Brian, head aflame with red hair, his bright blue eyes watched the two not far from where the tall form of Richard stood. Boy and man, girl and woman, survivors. The bayoneted bolt-action English-made Lee Enfield rifle slung over Tiffany’s should jostled as she helped the girl up. It was not her rifle, in fact she had never even shot it before; it was her lover’s. It was easier to use a semi-auto one-armed than a bolt-action however so though the Lee Enfield had much stouter recoil she took care of it. The Soviet-designed Simonov rifle was a far better option for a new shooter, and a new shooter he was not, but a wounded shooter he was.

Hijab dutifully covering her head, the Muslim’s head was still bowed, eyes wet, as she went with the woman towards the Trans-Canada Highway that they had been traveling on. The Sun was still low, early morning, they had not yet eaten but skipping a meal every now and then was pretty standard procedure. The four passed by the corpse with the ripped-open pocket and were soon on pavement, looking towards the morning Sun, squinting, and a walker in a nearby vehicle bumped its hands uselessly against a window. Another walker, on the ground, its spine pierced, could only helplessly look around towards the west in the opposite direction, jaw gnawing at nothing at the sound of footsteps and hushed feminine whispers.

“Come on, we’ll take care of you, you’ll be alright. I promise.” She had no right to truly promise such, but the girl was clearly shaken. Probably the only man she knew in the continent of North America, the only one she knew from where she came from, was gone. He would not allow her to speak before men, he would now allow her to pursue an education, and he had every intention of planting his seed within her on her nearby 13th birthday, an opportunity denied upon an overreaction with the assumed leader of the group.

>>9799879

I should have asked for clarification on this:
"alright /lit/ this is from a dream in a short story I'm writing."

Given your question, I'm assuming this is a dream of a character in a short story you're working on (I'd read it as 'this is from a dream [of mine], and in a short story I'm writing).

I'd need to see more of the surrounding paragraph to provide a better critique. If it is the dream of a character, there are better ways to move between perspectives (narrator/character):

"the room was familiar and foreign. To his left: a great iron door; it drifted open. A bright light was cast upon the chamber walls. (it should be established earlier that he is on the floor) Strong hands helped him to his feet. A plain face whispered words he couldn't make out (if he knows they're being whispered, he can hear them even if he doesn't know what is being said). He was outside. In a courtyard, puddles of dirt rippled beneath his feet. A woman (there are arguments for using the pronoun 'She' here) approached. Her warmth nourished him against the wet and cold of a raging storm. When he turned to face her, she was gone. The rain thrummed all around, embracing, swaddling him, clouding his thoughts.

As for reading, I'd suggest (given the subject of what you posted) Keats' The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream.

>>9798324
>>9798317
Are you Spanish by any chance?

>>9800001
So close

>>9799966
If you are writing about science/technology, the facts you are putting in need to show that you have an understanding of what you are talking about:
>people dont pass out from hypoxia - technically a rising CO2 and acidaemia are what would cause you to pass out way before your oxygen dropped
>The atmomic symobol and atomic number and weight are fairly irrelevant in terms of what oxygen is as an atom, it would be better if you described an O2 molecule with a combined 16 protons, and 16 neutrons - 4 of which make up a double covalent bond - within the bond there is the energy that drives life.
I don't have any issues with the rest of it but as a medic this one sentence makes it clear that you aren't strong in biology, which would be a big turn off for me

>>9799987
for some background the concept of this short story is that this character "wakes up" in a purgatory-like place and these dreams of his are actually hazy memories of his life leading up to his death. so i don't want the dreams to be explicitly clear to the reader or the character until it all pieces together.

>>9800007
How so?

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>>9798317
is this one of your poems?

If so, please post more poems.

>>9800007
Ah guess you mean the numbaz.

>>9800053

That helps, and it's fine to keep the dreams hazy memories, but the movement between what the narrator says occurs, and what/how the character experiences things could be handled better.

>"The room was familiar and foreign at the same time"
character's experience

>"The great iron door to his left opened swiftly..."
Everything that follows is narrated. It's a matter of preference, but if a paragraph starts with the character's perception/experience, and the rest of the segment is just a narrated sequence of events, I find it less engaging.

>>9800079
i guess i didn't really pick up on this while writing it. i have no training with writing whatsoever, so I didn't even realize i was switching between narration and experience. your previous response was helpful, thanks.

I enjoy writing essays but this thread inspired me to do some stupid free writing exercise thing. i probably should have finished that last thought but it was getting a bit long

I don’t suppose it’s fair that I can’t see many of the stars that my ancestors looked up to for hundreds of thousands of years. Yes, hundreds of thousands, if we suppose my slightly-less-than-homo-sapiens predecessors craned their dinky little skulls upwards to marvel at the wide and mysterious expanse. I’m morally obliged to point out that our problem begins with the word “marvel”, since it suggests a sentient appreciation. Who’s to say that these living, breathing genetic leftovers had any such capability? Silly me. Silly primates. Worms are truly wonderful creatures and if anything, we should appreciate them all the more for their 302 neurons. They really embody the word “creature” to the fullest; a creature being a dirty, musty beast with simple needs to fulfill, a creature is primitive and shocking in the extent of their primitive nature. Genetic leftovers, worms are genetic leftovers.
Tricked you; worms are true martyrs. Those generous earthworms, staying behind in a perfectly reasonable bid to replenish the bottom of the food chain and enriching our soil. They will never experience contentment, they will never find love or cherish family, they will never appreciate our war veterans, those ungrateful bastards! Or are we the martyrs? After all, only one of us is growing up from ignorant, biologically naive bliss and being shoved into inevitable suffering. Maybe it’s not fair to call them simple.

>>9792311
it is not very good sorry, you should read more prose.

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>>9800001
I'm not Spanish, I'm American (I hope to start learning Spanish soon though)

why?

>>9800059
It is, those new piece are part of a (soon-to-be) much larger work that'll use what you've posted as part of it near-end.

here's a piece for you, you may enjoy, although I don't have much in the way of those pieces right now.

>>9800092

To be fair, you only [sort of] switched once, and you could change the first sentence to be more similar with the rest of it using something like, "He looked around and the room seemed both familiar and foreign." But there's a lot to think about in terms of what sort of narration you want to use to accomplish different things. Think about the difference between:

>He awoke and found the room to be both familiar and foreign at the same time.

Here, the narrator describes what the character did and how he is feeling.

>He awoke. The room was familiar and foreign."

Here, the narrator describes what the character did in the first sentence, but the second sentence is a bit more open for interpretation.
For starters, here are a couple things I just googled and think might be helpful:
http://www.studygs.net/fictiona.htm
http://www.shmoop.com/literature-glossary/free-indirect-discourse.html

Good luck moving forward. Read well.

>>9800152
>why
I know some guy who writes poems in a similar fashion. He recently moved to England and he started writing in English too.

>>9800021
Thanks for the feedback. I'll admit that I'm pretty lacking in knowledge when it comes to chemistry/biology. I was thinking about just dumbing these parts down and playing with my strengths, but I felt like it would take away from the feeling of the character actually knowing what he's talking and thinking about. Do you know any reads that would be good for a beginner getting into biology?

>>9800176
neat!

>>9800181
just answering the question mane

>>9800189
I was being sincere. I thought it was neat. If this were an acc based site I'd probs try to get a look at his stuff.

>>9800152
Thank you for sharing, I've really come to enjoy that poem.

I remember reading that poem along with a few others awhile back, and at the time I felt blown away by something authentic and sincere. Good luck with your future (soon-to-be) work.

>>9800250
I'm glad you've enjoyed my work; it's super encouraging.

you'll probs catch me trying so me weird shit in these threads to come ( i come here for the hate mail)

>>9792811
>She was... She was...

Also it's just lacking in description. What is beautiful about the caquetoire or how does it make her uncomfortable?

Also:
Abode isn't a verb
Faint not feint

Folks, considering the /lit/erary lifestyle of writing is a long term goal, what are the short term goals that must be done as a routine to reach it?
I'm still a young guy, junior in law university, so of course I won't straight out write the best book ever, or anything actually good for that matter.
People usually say "read a lot, write a lot". I guess that's pretty obvious; what troubles me is the quality of that reading and writing, so I don't know where to start.

>>9800505
what do you want to write?

>>9800505
>considering the /lit/erary lifestyle of writing is a long term goal,

I still have no idea what the literary lifestyle is even fucking supposed to mean.

>what are the short term goals that must be done as a routine to reach it

Get off your homo ass and write more. Really about it...

>junior in law university

Forget EVERYTHING you've learned about writing in law school. The market is flooded with lawyers turned writers who write novels that sound like legal briefs.

>what troubles me is the quality of that reading and writing

What the hell does quality matter when you're obviously just practicing? You have to start somewhere, like every other skill out there, you start out shitty and get better at it.

>>9800515
Prose, mainly fiction - short stories, perhaps a novel.
>>9800536
A bit on the harsh side, but I'll take the advice. Thanks anon

>>9799471
>>9799554
I appreciate the criticisms. I did say that I don't plan on being a writer, but this board seems pretty chill (compared to places like /v/ at least), and I do like reading, so I think I'll pick it up as something to do in my free time.

I will agree that parts of the story are half-assed, like the reason why the music brainwashing was used, and that the plot twist was kind of silly. I think that past-me didn't want to foreshadow it too heavily, to make it more of a surprise. I could try revising some parts of the story to make it better.

>>9792699
I knew exactly what he was saying.

>>9792311
Your writing style is very visual, very casual conversation, the desert eagle thing was a bit much, and took me out of the story. I think you need to revisit that party in your mind and give a more believable depiction of human behavior, look around and ask questions about that night, who was there, how did you feel, you give a fair lead in but it stops before you really start to slice into and see into that night that you find so thrilling to visit mentally.

I think you have great potential honestly. Try to remember that people may not understand your mind the way you do, try translating your feelings more, consider that the reader may not know exactly what you're getting at because they aren't you.

>>9796818
Interesting concept but it almost comes off like a joke

Une fois tombé au fond de la caverne marine
Entouré par l’obscurité, les sifflements de sa mère
L’air me manque tant, et la lumière bien plus encore
Je sens ma poitrine s’affaisser
Et préssens la présence d’un être noir et lisse
Qui demande aux vagues d’or de ne plus murmurer
La peur enserre la blancheur de mes jambes
Me rend plus frêle qu’au premier jour qui déjà est si loin

Je saisis de ma main la corde
Et, fredonnant dans la langue verte
Afin de signaler ma détresse aux mouettes
Je grimpe, les yeux grand ouverts et tournés vers la voûte
Une fois revenu à la lumière, parmis les visages des rochers que l’eau leur a offert
Je leur demande si la tempête est proche, mais il me répondent en énigmes
Et partlent de la mort du marchand de parfums
Tant que les galets en fredonnant imitent leurs sottises, la voûte reste claire
Sitôt que la pierre est muette, les cieux répondent par la menace
Ainsi je pose aux rochers encore mille questions
Ils parabolent sans fin, de leurs voix lentes et monocordes
Affirmant que les rois sont comme des meloniers
Et les corbeaux les plus grands de sorciers
Ce calcaire sournois me parle d’une voie guidée par le soleil

Que le temps a rendu inatteignable
À moins de trouver un guerrier dont l’âge est plus grand,
Que celui du plus anciens des monts

Il connaît selon eux
La langue secrète qu’échangent le vent et les bambous
Et porte sur sa poitrine, en signe de sagesse
Un pétale de coqueliquot
Sans trop croire à leurs promesses trop longues
Il faut pourtant partir, car le typhon approche
Et avec lui les vents du monde, mutés en monstres de dévastation
Un pied devant l’autre, je me mets en quête de celui dont on me dit
Qu’il est le seul en ce monde à savoir où aller

Je grimpe les collines, en suivant l’astre blanc
Et croise les géants qui somnolent dans le blé
Tandis que les bogues des châtaignes
S’affaissent en craquant sous mes pas

Par un castor occupé à chiquer son tabac
Sa mélodie, à mon grand étonnement, frappe les tympans du cyprès
Les yeux du chêne, l’âme elle-même de l’orme
Avant de s’iriser en une gerbe crstalline
La couleuvre cherche son passage dans l’herbe haute
Sifflant son désir de sérénité
Tandis qu’à même les portes d’un hameau
un homme qui cache ses paupières entre elles cousues
A flanqué un signe de peinture bleue

1/2

>>9800585
2/2
Alors qu’expire le crépuscule du soir j’entends une voix faible qui appelle mon nom
“Viens t'asseoir avec moi, viens aux côtés du feu
Je te fais la prommesse qu'ils nous réchauffera bien, jusqu'au bout de la nuit même
Et peut-être plus encore, seulement si tu y crois....
Viens, viens me parler du monde et du chemin qu'en lui tu as voulu tracer.”
C'est ainsi que m'harangue, avec un sourire triste
Un voyageur discret dont les haillons solides
Semblent être les ainés
Il allume son feu sur un tas de feuilles mortes et l'encercle aussitôt par des pierres sans forme
Souffle sur les braises qui meurent ardemment, me parle de l’esprit du feu
Qui danse la danse gloutonne et vive, sans jamais être rassasié

Et moi lui réponds que je ne sais pas, que tout est un puzzle
Que les pièces n’ont un sens que dans leur ensemble
Alors il rit de plein coeur avec les papillons de nuit
Me dit qu’on l’appelle Prince fou, que le désir est une douce illusion
Un mirroir brisé sous le poids de mille avenirs
Où se reflètent, déformées, nos images

À mon réveil plus aucune trace de lui, si ce n’est un mot dans l’argile
Ce mot est Temps
Et sans comprendre encore, mes pas reprènent sans que j’y pense
Leur course aveugle à travers la poussière
Qui semble aussi se rire de moi
Bientôt je sens ma tête réveiller mon corps
Mes jambes respirer, mes poumons se remplir
La chaleur de l’orbe que je convoîte sur chaque parcelle de ma peau
Le feu pâle d'Aldebaran que j'ignore dans chaque vent de mon âme

Des océans de larmes et de sueur se trainent dernière moi
Le goût du sable envahit ma bouche, et se transforme en sucre
Les yeux du monde sont partout, eux-mêmes invisibles pourtant
En fais-je partie ? Est-ce moi qu’ils regardent ?
Le sirroco se lève et ballote les roseaux, tandis qu’au loin tintent les cloches de l’ashram
Bientôt, hurle mon coeur, bientôt les dunes et la paix du désert !
Et moi de lui répondre : “L’oasis est encore bien loin, et le nuages se rassemblent pour leur conférence
Prêts à échanger leurs mensonges.
Ne les écoute pas, car la route est longue encore, si longue
Et le nom pour l'instant n'a pas été donné”

Bientôt les pas me mènent à l’orée de la savane
Où tout se répond en un rythme long, où sévissent les rires moqueurs autant que les pleurs amoureux
L’herbe verdoie à perte de vue, et pourtant tout m’affirme
Qu’elle finira lentement par s’échouer dans le silence des nuits
Jusqu’à devenir sécheresse
Au détour d’une plaine se révèle un village abandonné des hommes
Où le rhinocéros dessine des spirales sans fin à même le loam
Je le questionne sur l’existence du guerrier qui écoute le vent
Sans cesser sa besogne il maugrée, attentif :
“Afin de trouver celui que tu cherches
Tu dois cesser de le chercher. Laisse-moi donc te contee une histoire..."

>>9800059
Jesus christ I'm sitting here reading this aloud and that "together" "trigger" half-rhyme caught me off guard.

>>9800505
What is a literary lifestyle?

>>9800598
Thanks! A lot of people say that stanza's too aggressive, but I haven't made up my mind.

>>9800505

"start with the greeks." Short stories? Find authors you enjoy, and try to figure out what it is you enjoy about their stories (Chekhov is my preference for short stories, but not for everyone). Do the same with novels. Don't like a book? Figure out why. Learn to appreciate what stories and novels have to offer, even if you don't enjoy reading them (I don't enjoy reading the Victorians, but I can appreciate the period).
Even if you're planning to only write short stories or a novel someday, read poetry, biographies, criticism and theory.

I wouldn't stress "writing more" until you've read enough to know what you want to do. Yes, keep writing, but unless you're reading along the way, your writing won't venture too far from where it began.

Paul and me met almost every Saturday of the semester semester-break at the SFCC on Livingstreet right across Harbor Park, it was usually filled with pretty and wealthy looking girls. Weather wasn't bad either so we sat outside and sipped on our Special-Lattès while talking nonsense and discussing juvenile shit. Great time, he was on his antidepressants and I was on my Adhd-Medication.
"You know what, can you explain me why girls love these stupid emojis? I don't get it, they are fucking stupid. Just look at this one." Paul asked to me while showing me the -Emoji.
"What does it matter, the girls like it. It's a cute 'lil monkey, that motherfucker gets the bitches wet, that's it sole purpose.", I replied nonchalantly.
"I don't care, it's still pretty gay, you know what? A Xan' 'moji would be nice, to show them hoes that I am hustler and they can come over, we pop some and then we fuck like those 'lil ass monkeys. "
"That would be great, Paul. When I'm done with my CS Minor I'm gonna create some dope-ass drug emojis and we gonna get finaly filthy rich."
"So anyway how were your past days, haven't seen you in a while. You seem kinda off Nick?"
"Oh, I don't know. Wake up at 8, take a ritalin, lay in bed for 30minutrs till it kicks in. Study. 4hours later repeat. 4hours later repeat again. 4hours later repeat again. Go to sleep."
"You might be addicted, Nick. I think..." I couldn't concentrate on what he was saying, because he was right, but at that moment I myself didn't know that I was addicted.

Paragraph Over.

"Brilliant, B-r-i-lliant, these suckers gonna eat that shit up, I think that's enough for today, damn, I really like the progress we are doing."
It felt nice to hear that Mr. Suwani was happy with the direction the story was taking. Writing Young Adult novels is not an easy job, it hard to step into the mind of youngling when you are turning fifty yourself in just less then than two months, have to sit in a wheelchair until your recovery and ontop of that there are bills to pay. But I liked it, alot. Writing those stupid nonsensical and meaningless storys made me forget about the atrocities I encountered during the war. For a brief moment it makes the world feel funny and less bleak.
I glanced at the champagne colored ceiling of my office, sunk my head into the velvet after-market headrest I recently got installed into my 1989 Herman Miller wheelchair and then closed my tired eyes. A moment of pure bliss. If only I could share it with someone. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

"What do you think about that?", I was eager to hear her opinion on my recent piece.
"That's some pretty awful shit and it's getting quite meta, I mean even if you try to write some shitty meta-narrative bullshit make it have some good prose on the upper-level, to show you are actually knowing what you do, otherwise you seem like a complete fool."

>>9800623
I'm liking a lot of the poems you've posted, they feel very loose and open in terms of line breaks but I think you waste certain moments.

The "together" "triggers" line is one in particular where the following "for fusion detonation" feels really burdensome; the line is cut in two by the emphasis placed (or I'm placing at least) on that and the last three words feel throw away when I'd like to go straight to "How Adam".

Do you write with a sense of how its spoken in mind? "We" and "Invocation" are already lovely to speak aloud but I think a bit more thought on that would be good to tighten them up.

>>9800585
>>9800590
Too shitty, make it better

She turns on her love like a tap,
Moulding me into some complacent sorry sap
But then I'm hit with the water bill
And all that romantic rambling turns ill

It was all so perfect and pure
The ebb and flow of wondrous bliss
Now yellowed like drunk piss
In which I dangle, the end of her lure

I turn on a dime and think it's not so bad
Tell her I love her and try not to be so mad
Buy still I feel the sneering grin of Lady Luck
Having transformed me into some loathsome cuck

How could she do that?
I mean, I look at other girls sometimes,
But that guy was a fucking twat.
Yet here I sit, with a face full of limes.

>>9800696
But still I feel*

>>9800694
care to elaborate ?

He sighed and stroked his beard. “The city is known to be impervious to attack, so a frontal assault would likely fail, even with their forces depleted.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a sip before offering her a drink. “I’ve arranged a meeting with a defector once we cross in Vaang; hopefully they will be able to shed some light on the subject. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to improvise.”

She took the liquor and smelled it. The aroma was sweet, with a hint apples. Raising the flask to her lips, she gulped down a bit. Unfortunately, the flavor was a far cry from the inviting scent. Viktor laughed as she coughed and handed the drink back.

“That is foul,” she said between wheezes, making him laugh once more.

He shrugged and swallowed another mouthful. “I suppose it’s an acquired taste. Care for another?” he asked, holding out the flask.

The drink mocked her from his hand. There was something enticing about the flask, even though she knew what was contained therein. Finally, she took the brew and swallowed another mouthful. Once more, her throat was ablaze. The taste filled her nostrils and she coughed. Though now, just as Viktor had predicted, the taste wasn’t as despicable. The third sip was almost enjoyable even.

“Oh, that is indeed wicked,” she said. The alcohol was beginning to take effect. Heat radiated from her skin. Her muscles relaxed, and she leaned forward on the ship’s railing. The cool night air felt good against her cheeks. A smile spread across her face as she looked back up at the starry sky. “Do you know much about the stars?”

He clicked his teeth. “Never had much time for such things. Too much time spent fighting and killing I suppose.” Clearing his throat, he finished off their drink and pocketed the flask. “Truth be told, I’ve always found the sky to be a bit intimidating. Something so grand, so heavenly...what am I when compared to such greatness?”

Sleepless nights in Baltimore
Nevermore
Nevermore
I've left a piece of my soul
Between cheap mortar
In one of these endless
Endless brick walls
Maybe it
Will find some use
Where I cannot
It can walk the streets
Endlessly
Wordlessly
With Poe's broken heart

>>9800733
Terrible

>>9800659
cont.

"Well I wish I could write better, but real talk I can't, it's not even my naitive language and all that ritalin makes me feel weird and I try to do atleast something. I'm trying honestly."

"So know you are using those made-up stories to pretend you aren't conversing with your self? What a little pathetic loser you are hahaha. You should be embarased of yourself, you will never be a good writer. Honestly you seem like a psycopath."

This was it for Nick, he finally had turned mad. All he did was wasting his time creating these depressed short pieces of fiction that no person ever would lay their eyes on. Over were the days of motivation and aspiration to reach the greats of his idols. He couldn't be Pynchon, Wallace, he couldn't even beat the shittiest of all authors that aimed to provide pornography in the form of literature to middle aged middle-class housewifes. There was not even a slight glimmer of prospect remaining for this fellow. But yet he indulged in the unachiavable challenge, not reading the signals. Even though they couldn't have been any clearer. A true warrior. A role model for every american, no, for every citizen of this earth. A small man with no remarkable wit or skill, but thickheaded enough to not give up. Was he a fool, or the greatest genius of our time. Was he wasting his time typing meaningless words, or was he living life, creating small pieces of art, that may never have someones eyes laid on, it doesn't matter because their memorys will be saved in his brain until the day it stops working. And now, my dear reader ask yourself,who can speak in such a way of himself?
"I created this piece of art, but no you cannot see it and never will, but believe me it does exist."

>>9800731
That is a horrible last line, completely breaks the tone

It's been a while since I was in one of these threads, did that guy writing about the peach farmer ever publish or anything?

>>9800671
I definitely put a lot of thought into the sonics of my pieces, but 'We' is before I had a strong grasp of meter (and I think it shows). There's about a 6 month age difference between the works. I have a very specific voice I'm trying to write with that's casual/instructional. My best poet buddy (the fact he isn't published is baffling, because his better work is on par with the good stuff in Poetry magazine) called this voice "a combination of a hysterical modernist prophet and a country bumpkin". I think its a good way to approach it.

I want my work to be musical, but a certain 'loosness' allows me to put disparate elements in more easily. "Moon" is probably my most complicated thing put to page, and it shows a lot of what I need to do moving forward.

>>9800793
Would it make more sense if I told you that he is talking to an Empress and the "grand, heavenly, greatness" line is meant to be him describing himself compared to her?

It's meant to be a bit of a flirtatious scene between the two of them.

>>9800865
No, it's just bad dialogue. I don't hate the concept of the line, it just needs to be rewritten

>>9793933
I like it anon, is the diary magical or something like that? I would read it.

>>9800886
Fair enough. This stuff isn't even done yet though, so I'll catch it when I go through for edits later.

Question though - when you say that it's bad, could you elaborate a bit? Do you think it's too cheesy, just poorly written, that it conveys the message too weakly?

>>9801050
It strikes me as schlocky, the kind of thing someone would say when they want to sound intelligent, but aren't. I suppose that could be what you're going for, but it makes the scene more farcical than romantic

>>9801064
I wasn't going for that, no. In the line, the sky was meant to be a thinly veiled metaphor for the Empress. This is still really early on in their relationship and he is kind of testing the waters for how subtle he needs to be.

>want to write
>limited vocabulary
>self doubting autist
>can't stick with the same project for more than a few days before thinking it's terrible and trashing it
sweet

>>9801164

Read 19th century fiction to improve your vocabulary. When you hit a word that you don't understand, even if you can guess from context, look it up in the dictionary. It'll take a while but you will eventually build a much stronger vocabulary, it's like working out, it take persistence and results don't happen overnight. Robert Louis Stevenson, Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Twain, and Edgar Allen Poe are somewhat more accessible than the likes of, say, Dickens, Melville, or Hawthorne.

You can't really improve your writing without first improving your reading desu. As for procrastination or losing interest and constantly moving on to new projects leaving a trail of unfinished ones, can't help you there because I do that too, only way I can get past it is to refuse to lose my momentum when I've got it built up, if you're writing like crazy and then take three days off it's often impossible to get back into it.

Finishing a short story can help because it gives you a sense of accomplishment, you finally have something that you have written start to finish, it helps for motivation.

>>9801164
>>want to write
So do it.
>>limited vocabulary
That is not a hurdle at all. You don't need a huge vocabulary to write compelling, interesting stories.
>>self doubting autist
Welcome to the club.
>>can't stick with the same project for more than a few days before thinking it's terrible and trashing it
Try short stories then. 2k-5k is more than doable in just a few days. Hell, you can pump that out in a single day if you try. Don't let a lack of motivation dictate what you can do. Learn to work around your lack of drive. If you can only get out 500 words a day, then you can finish a 2k short story in four days. If you take weekends off, that's still 4-5 stories a month.

I believe in you anon.

A sesta rima about Francis Drake which I had to write in an Elizabethan style.
>btw Drake was known as 'the Dragon' to Spaniards and was buried at sea.

A dragon unfurling his canvas folds
Glides over the plains of the verdant sea
To fuel the furnace of his fiery holds
With gathered gems of gold and infamy.
Child in the wind; old man below the tide.
Wed thou to life; let death become a bride.

>>9800590
>Les yeux du monde sont partout, eux-mêmes invisibles pourtant
>eux-mêmes

I don't speak French but what did he meme by this

The graying and dusted men sat on their porches across from one another with their gazes broken by the occasional car, truck, and freight that might pass incidentally, having taken a wrong turn searching for fuel or the motor hotels that survive off their traffic. Their children had married or left for schooling or had accidentally died, leaving their fathers and mothers to idle or, if they had kept their health, to work for the motor hotels that served commuters and mistaken travelers; awake for long hours, waiting for intermittent calls from customers about room service they can't provide, relaying the ingrained and routine words, "We're sorry, Sir, Ma'am, there is no food here. There's coffee in the morning after sunrise. If you're hungry there's the 24-Hour Diner five miles away down route 29, take the fourth exit on the right . . ." Taking no effort to speak as though they were the words of another person speaking for someone else, to someone else, about a matter that doesn't concern them. Some don't even pick up the phone, or when answering don't, maybe can't, respond.

There was nothing to be talked about anymore between these men, knowing each other from need and from their previous work. Everyone knew what everyone else was doing, had done, was going to do; it could all be learned from a glance at the other men from across the highway, on their porches with wives in the kitchens and faded living rooms cleaning what could be cleaned.

I wish I felt inspired to write something other than self-indulgent fetish shit, but I guess any practice is good practice

The girl realizes she has become fat, as she takes her seat. It is not a great surprise, but it is a new certainty. Her clothes, bought only a month ago, are too tight to comfortably wear. She had left the top button of her jean shorts unbuttoned, telling herself this morning that she could have done them up fully if she had taken the time. Feeling them press against the soft space below her belly she knows now this was a lie.

The girl wonders what her mother thinks each morning, as she puts on her own clothes. She was a very fat woman indeed, although it hadn’t always been so. In the girls’ earliest memories she had merely been plump, the comfortable pudge of a new mother. Before that, the photos in their home attest, she had even been slim. Not a size she had worked for, but the natural build of someone whose life involves a modicum of physical exertion.

The girl ruminates on what she might look like, as someone born in the pre-digital era. She had possessed that older kind of body in her younger days. When she first arrived at University, she’d even maintained it for a thin slice of time, the walk to class just enough effort to stave off excess. But bad eating habits led to worse, and the scale tipped. When her thighs began to rub together, the walk seemed more effort than it was worth, and the campus shuttle was there to help her take the weight off.

The girl feels that weight now, as it presses against the chair. Her belly presses against her legs and the desk in front of her. Her thighs press against each other and the imprisonment of denim. Her breasts press up and out of the bra she brought with her from the life of a much smaller girl. A newfound reality presses against her chest, a moment of choice in front of her.

The girl reaches into her bag, as her stomach grumbles, and pulls out her morning donuts.

Some shit i wrote a while ago:

White snow twirls and dances in the crisp grey air, an immaculate ballet of frozen precipitation, each flake drifting, falling downwards before flying up in dramatic gusts of icy wind. Every frozen droplet jumping with grace from all over the sky, every individual intricate but forming a piece so much more detailed than any single snowflake could create. A perfect swirling storm, a chilled intensity; breathtaking and graceful in its easy poetry. Every rhythmic rise and fall captivating, creating moving imagery expelling every ounce of grace before coming to rest on the floor and vanishing, melting away.

Fawn hair, wavy a cascading stream, rouge warm cheeks, tawny-happy eyes centered on white-board oily sea. She speaks in sarcastic timbres.
"...power... who has it all?"
"..power as in energy per second."
"Oh."
And every time he is alone, his thoughts creep like nightfall, crazed eyes, of her and they ease in like a sedative, sleepness imminent and helpless, an invisible hand that luls him into infinite dream. But when he wakes, nothing is there but the whirs and hums of his computer LCD glowing, still running, fan racing, cyclical, endless, and tired.
And today, not at the study room. Probably not coming.
Not sure still, in this room gently breathing, sleepy beating chest and nervous eyes -- dim-litted twilit iris-- ah fuck its center at me. And angry twilit rainbows over some lonesome headache-- as if out of my body, twirling in space ether or out of my fucking mind. Ismene's by the door.
Friday walks by, asks,
"Ay yo, b.Gib dat nut."
"What?" Lucas abacked.
"Gib dat nut b." Turns around trods as if he were treading Normandy Beach, boots of sea.

>>9801292
Really clean and concise. The overall mood is sullen, and if it keeps on like that then maddening, because it's almost nightmarish but without that extra punch that I expect: like a tease. So some spice would make it all right.

>>9801357
I had a laugh. By the end, a good deal of discomfort, but unexpectedly pleased.

>>9801389
Sounds inspired. You and I write similar, but it's as if we use many words to describe something little, and I think it blurs some simple meaning. I'm thinking perhaps go all the way or go home (simple), but nothen personnel kid.

Read this, this is best stuff:

Call me Eshmael. So there is this crazy guys, and we're currently on an airplane. His name is Baha by the way and he really doesn't like the big white dove which bit his finger when we were harpooning other doves because that's our job that we do to get the money we need to buy an awful amount of harry potter merchandise.
Now we're here on this plane together with our crew.
Sometimes I wonder why he is such a monomaniac, always talking about the dove but that's just a stupid animal and wasn't really mean because animals can never be mean, they're just natural.
I told him that, but than he took away my diet coke and now we don't really talk to each other anymore.

We're on this plane right now with our crew and we will be harpooning some doves later, because we need more money. The only way to kill the big white doves, whose name is Ronald, is to buy more harry potter merchandise, especially dirty Hermione fan fiction and read it to Ronald aloud. I'm not 100% sure about that plan, but Baha said it works that way, because somehow he is a big white dove expert, but he has an ambivalent relationship to the fictional character Hermione Granger.

"ArrRRR, Starduck! Don't ya see! We're gettin' closer to Ronald but the amount of dirty Hermione fanfiction in our bathroom is basically zero! All that matters is getting that dove killed and we still don't have our biggest weapon! We left our little town behind and now we can't even get any more of that sweet fan fic." said Captain Baha with a voice that sounds really similar to Malfoy, the younger one not the father. "Afraid, Starduck?", he added smirking like Malfoy did in the scene where he said "Afraid, Potter?" Starduck, who is actually a duck, said: "quack."

I'm working on a movie, one which I will be very successful.

Detroit, 1971. The swinging sixties have passed and Detroit lies at the brink. Deeply wounded by the ‘67 riots, and suffering from white flight, urban decay, and widespread racial turmoil, the Motor City has become the Murder City. In a city at war with itself, social order is barely maintained by a depleted police force that has become deeply distrusted by the public. Crime lords grow increasingly ambitious, emboldened by court backlogs and an overwhelmed police force. Detroit has turned inside out, and everybody is vying for their slice of the pie before the whole city breaks down.

In the days and weeks prior to the movie’s events, a wave of arson has swept through the city. Entire neighborhoods are being burned down and nobody knows why. People suspect these attacks are racially motivated, since they mostly occur in integrated neighborhoods. Still, many believe they’re gang related as, in every case, the suspects have been associated with organized crime. Nonetheless, the attacks seem too geographically deliberate to be independent events carried out by autonomous actors. Something smells fishy, though at the start of the film, law enforcement doesn’t believe in an overarching conspiracy.

When our story begins, Detective Arthur Freeman is pursuing Timothy O’Doul in a high-speed chase through Detroit’s East Side. O’Doul, a repeat offender, is suspected of transporting fire accelerants and abetting arson. After an exciting car chase, O’Doul’s luck runs out when a miscalculated turn results in his rear end colliding with a semi-truck. Forced to evacuate the now burning vehicle, O’Doul flees down a narrow alleyway where he is promptly apprehended by the fearless Black detective.

Meanwhile, at Police Headquarters, a greenhorn is being briefed on his first assignment. Newly transferred after busting a major human trafficking ring in Toledo, Ohio, James Pataki has gained a reputation as a skilled, if foolhardy, detective who has yet to prove himself at the Detroit PD. Police Chief Jack Colby pours Pataki a glass of whiskey (which he politely declines), and outlines the recent arson epidemic. He explains that, due to the enormous amount of crime and Detroit’s concurrent police shortage, to investigate this phenomenon, they only have one detective to spare. Colby is anxious to pair these men up, but just as he’s about to reveal Pataki’s partner, they hear a loud commotion in the hall.

Detective Freeman storms into the police station with O’Doul in custody. The energy becomes absolutely electric. Everybody, it seems, wants a word with the detective. The receptionist informs him his wife called, asking what color bell pepper he prefers in his salad that evening. Freeman hastily answers and ignores the others as he escorts the intractable Irishman through the station. Police Chief Colby is now standing with Pataki outside the office. He too wants to speak with the detective, but is brusquely pushed aside as Arthur tenaciously drags the culprit to his destination: the interrogation chamber. Pataki gazes at the detective, bewildered by the encounter. Colby, however, remains unfazed. In fact, compared to his previously solemn demeanor, he seems almost amused. Gleefully, the Chief invites the newcomer to view the interrogation.

>>9801534
"Now, there is a twist in this story", said Eshmael, "starducks brother is also on board of this plane." And then a completely undressed chicken entered the captains room where Baha was just having his usual evening breakfast, or "dinner" how he liked to call it. The chicken said, "quack". Now you might think, well that's the sound a duck would make, but this is a chicken so why does it make that sound even though it isn't really a duck? You didn't think this through, though. Because this chicken is Starducks brother Menuchim the Jew. He was raised by Starducks mother and thus learned the language of ducks.

"Joke", said the chicken, "I didn't actually mean to say quack, although I am capable of speaking duck language because I was raised by Starduck's mother who taught me duck language. I am to say, yo ahab, what's with the money I lend you? So you could buy more harry potter merchandise and get your little dove drunk so you have better chances to get a date with her? I didn't really get that back yet, so what did you do with it?" And then he broke Baha's leg, because he's some kind of tough jewish guy who doesn't really need the money back anyway, but he's into this for reason that humans can't really understand, because he's a chicken.

>>9801607
>>9801552
>>9801543
>>9801534
I hope none of you do this for a living

>>9801607
Now some of this might have surprised you. What you didn't know yet is that Ronald, who has actually female despite having a male name because he is a transgender dove-kin genderfluid cis-male, once met Baha and they had a meeting that was "basically a date", as Baha would later tell Starduck or "Nothing personel kid", as Ronald would at the same time tell his spouse.

When Baha attempted to romantically feed Ronald small pieces of something a dove would eat, Ronald suddenly thought: "What's this? I'm like a dove on all level except the 3rd astral plane, why don't I behave like a dove? Why don't I just bite this mans finger, isn't that what a REAL dove would do?" And a really loud scream was to be heard, probably from Baha because he was just bitten by a dove.

Baha was still really into Ronald though, so he found out via facebook that Ronald was kinda into harry potter merchandise. And this is basically how it all began.

>>9801636
>implying you wouldn't pay to read the rest of my dove hunting novel slash harry potter fanfiction fanfiction slash romance novel

>>9801284
Hi, I wrote the thing. "Eux-mêmes" as a personal pronoun translates to "themselves", which in this case refers to "yeux", "eyes"

>>9801389
Wow. Wind-driven snow. How fascinating.

just started this,

https://pastebin.com/E5rC0yx9

>>9801292
Reads too fast. There are some ommas in some awkward places. It's surprisingly not edgy or trying too hard, given the subject.

"Well, I'll have to take the man on his word." This dumb son of a bitch could barely string his shoes on, nevermind a coherent sentence. Ol' Jackie Jones had a mind to bury his faggot ass there and then but on the slim chance he could be exploited for cheap labor, he let him be to wallow in his own stupid hell. "Check, please." Jackie was dapper and the waitress was feeling good about herself. "That'll be fourteen dollars even. Before tip." "And after."

>>9801976
Sounds like backwoods noir.

>>9801984
Nail on the head. That's how pretty much everything I write turns out.

Presently affiliated
Consciously debilitated
Living in a memory
Nothing these things mean to me
Tweezing, touching, picking, running
Careless not in lack of cunning
Wishing, wanting, waiting, whining
Simply another baseless miming.

hope its ok to shitpost poetry here

>>9802279
Sound like rap my dude

>>9801543

You must get yourself some footage of sewers by the St.Clair river in winter, when they're steaming. It's really gritty-noir.

>>9802284
What dont you like about it? Not that you said you dont like it.
But what makes for a better rhyme?

Im thinking now that it's not really relatable.

>>9802329
not that dude, but suffix rhyming comes across as forced in a lot of ways, you offset that a bit with 'running/cunning' and 'whining/miming' but the -ings and the -iliateds are not compelling sonically. It's a step away from rhyme riche.

>>9802310
Oh, don't worry; I already have that in mind.

>>9802337
cool thanks. I could kind-of tell when i rehearsed it but sort of subconsciously ignored it. Ill keep that in mind

>>9800748
Awesome constructive advice m8
>>9801636
Same to u anon
Though I completely echo the sentiment

>>9801141
Writing is a matter of expressing what you desire. If your thought is incomplete, you're going to have to accept the crippled judgment you can only receive when doing so. Case in point, this reply chain. Understand the limitations of a critique when you post a "work in progress" pitifully disguised from its whoring for affirmation for something you think is good, but are too afraid to commit to just in case it isn't--because you're trying too hard instead of either being sincere or admitting you can't write.

The scouts rode in formation, their trots echoing across the stony desert. The grey sky swirled above them. Approaching them was a tower unlike any other. It seemed entirely of steel. Moss and sprawling vines enshrouded it, leading Mak to think it was uninhabited.

Dismounting from their horses, Mak put a finger to his lips. ‘Jeyn and Tom, on me. The rest of you: stay here to care for the horses. If anything unusual happens, you have my leave to use your weapons and to blow those whistles around your necks’.

Mak bent his knees, leading the way with the point of his saber. Hacking at the vines, they reached the base of the tower.

Jeyn said, ‘Look at the tower with the wings. There’s some windows at the top there; that’s where the room is. I reckon we get inside from there.

Mak slid his sword back into its sheath. He removed chalk from his backpack and dusted his palms with it. Then, as if hugging it, he inched his way up. He found a steel hatch near the top.

‘Look out!’ he said, tossing it from the building.

Jeyn and Tom ducked away. It clattered to a halt with a metallic thud. Climbing inside, Mak coughed, sending mounds of dust into a frenzy. Studying the room carefully, he made out two leather chairs, made skeletons by age, and attached to it: a table with an array of switches and knobs. A ladder extended into the room below.

‘Hwis. Hwis’, screeched the whistles.

Mak went to the window and saw people approaching. He made out fifty armed with an assortment of bows, clubs and staffs. Barbarians. Looking below, he saw that his squad had made it to the foot of the tower. They were climbing it, no doubt to gain the higher ground against the upcoming attack.

Once they all reached the room, Mak said, ‘I’ll explore the room below, everyone else keep your heads low and your weapons pointed on the door. There is only one way into this tower. Defend it’.

The bottom room contained shelves stocked with what he assumed to be food. Unfortunately, most of it had deteriorated with age and what remained of it looked to be rotten. There were also beds, and cupboards for storage. If there was to be a siege, at least we would have somewhere comfortable to sleep.

>>9803308
The floor rumbled. Mak, looking out the window, saw flames spraying from the base. His mouth gaped. And, by the barbarians’ fleeing, he could assume theirs were, too. He climbed up the ladder to his scouts.

‘What’s happening?’, he said, although by their reactions, he was pretty sure they didn’t know either.

The rumbling shook through the foundations of the building, tripping them to the floor and sending one flying out. He stopped himself just in time, clinging to the entrance. With both hands Jeyn wrenched him back up. They both sprawled on the floor, exhausted.

Looking out the window, Mak could see the ground growing smaller beneath him. Barbarians the size of rats became ants, then disappeared from view completely. The barren landscape became a swirling mass of clouds.

‘What did you touch?’, Mak shouted over the roar of the tower’s instruments. It came to his attention that it wasn’t a tower; perhaps a machine or vehicle of sorts.

‘This button’, someone said. ‘I was leaning back on it, and then that happened’.

Mak looked at it. It was painted a deep red. There were words on it, of a language he didn’t know.

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>Been writing my fantasy novel
>Planned out everything from beginning to end.
>Characters Motives characters conscious thoughts and feelings
>Story has to start out with a cliche.
They will never accept my story, will they?

>>9803342
Self-publish first, then try traditional publishers.

>>9803342
>>Been writing my fantasy novel

Stop. Seriously, stop right there.

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Boys came. They took my things
They broke two of my teeth

But they could only beat me up
They could not do me any real harm

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BLUMPF

TWO SCOOPS

IMPEACH

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>>9803342

Find a way to make the cliche interesting then, because what a lot of normies want is a slightly different take on something that they've already read or seen.

>>9803342

I'm exactly like you, anon, only I'm writing an alternate history novel instead.

>>9803342
What's the cliche? Why do you have to start with it?

I'm of the opinion that you should be writing for yourself and no one else, so my first piece of advice would be that you write what you feel is best for your story. But if you're writing for the sake of getting published, I won't begrudge you it.

Pls be gentle
working title: 'Automaton'

My body is soft clay
A vessel with your name etched deep on the back of the head
and all things considered, it
would have turned to stone already
If your voice did not breathe life into my every tomorrow
Distant bellows stoking the hollow of the chest,
propelling every heavy step forward
that I might one day stand close enough to drink the sweet wind of your words
and sing your praises back in fire
where I once could have only choked them out in ash

>>9804588
>I'm of the opinion that you should be writing for yourself and no one else, so my first piece of advice would be that you write what you feel is best for your story

That's very good advice, anon. The more you try to pander to others, the more your writing suffers for it. Don't let anyone dictate your imagination.

>>9803694
I like it, reminds me much of classic literature, you seem well read.

>>9802587

The line needs reworked, I get that. It does convey the point I wanted it to though, so I'll leave it as is until it comes time to edit, otherwise I risk getting caught up in an endless cycle of editing while writing, and then I'll get nowhere fast.

I get that you can't critique my entire work and must settle on snippets, but that's the case for 90% of the stuff in this thread, so I'm not really sure what your point is there. I never asked for you to critique my entire work, and I even posted a bit of context for the scene (albeit after the fact, but still).

As for not being able to write...I don't know, maybe I can't. My two published shorts did take a while to find homes, but hey, I enjoy doing this, and I'm not looking to be the next Hemingway or Tolstoy. I just want to write genre fiction and enjoy the act of writing.

>>9804705
This. A millions times this.

There will be people that will whine and scoff about you writing anything that isn't an attempt at literary fiction or deep, meaningful prose. Ignore those assholes. Just write. There is absolutely nothing wrong with writing genre fiction.

I would post, but I have thousands of words already done and no piece of it would make any sense on its own.

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Newfag here. Any feedback is welcome.
On a related note, a friend told me my writing is boring and nothing happens. How do I work on that?

>>9805389

I've heard people say that when things get boring, throw a problem at your characters and make them deal with it, but you need to have interesting enough bones to the story for that to work. Readers won't care about those problems if they don't care about your character, after all.

As for your exerpt, there's elements there that could be interesting. Current execution feels sloppy though, too much telling and not showing. If her clothing is unusual, contrast it to what would be expected of the poor in this scenario rather than telling us it's unusual. Are there other details about her that stand out? If so, should she not be covering herself to hide these features?

In addition, there's too much omniscient knowledge from the narrator. For example, if he was lost in thought, how did he know that the merchant gave a command to the horses? Or relating to the merchant in general, why not have your character ask him some of his questions rather than just musing on them to the audience. It'll give you a chance to flesh out his motivations so that the monster girl statement has more weight. This goes for the girl too - if she's not amicable, show us how he came to believe that.

Other minor nitpicks are the kind of imagery you're conjuring. Wine barrels waggling feels like the wrong kind of description for something that presumably has a fair deal of weight. Make sure that you stick to the correct tense throughout since it feels a little wonk in the paragraph where you describe the girl, etcetera.

Keep at it, anon. If you still find yourself falling into the same pitfalls, read more. Eventually you'll get better.

>>9805482

>exerpt

Fuck's sake. Excerpt.

>>9805389

The lady beside* me
when I noticed* he had already rescued


Come up with something that genuinely intrigues you. Develop a plot around it that intrigues you, justify why things happen in it. If you're not having fun thinking about it as you do it, then your reader certainly won't have fun reading it.

I was trying to write a sort pre-primordial myth

Before the world came into being there was
a black animal who birthed in the blackness
and white animal who birthed in the whiteness
and every day one animal would prey upon the other
the black animal would come out of the darkness and attack the whiteness for it was the home of the white animal which it despised
and the white animal would hide in the light of the stars
the white animal would come out of the light of the stars and attack the blackness for it was the home of the black animal which it despised.
and the black animal would hide in the emptiness of nothing
the black animal would come out of the emptiness of nothing and again attack the whiteness for it was the home of the white animal which it despised and once again the white animal would hide in the light of the stars and come out of it to attack the blackness.
and once again the black animal would hide and come out again to attack the whiteness.
And this would continue on every day

A story I just wrote
Bill Roberts sold his soul for half a ham sandwich. In his defense, it was a pretty good sandwich. What had prompted him do so such a rash thing? Hunger? Desire? Nothing more than that the whole wheat bread, mayo, and ham had belonged to Jeff.
Jeff was a douchebag. He was the type of guy that vaped and talked long and hard about his trips abroad. He had visited England once and felt liberated as a person. The trip took place three years prior, yet he still talked about it. Bill approached him, noticing the sandwich in his hands.
“Can I have a bite?”
“No.”
Bill was upset. More upset than he had ever been before. Anger filled his heart, revenge cradled his soul. He called forth the demons from hell, reciting a chant he once read in a gas station bathroom. No sooner had he finished than Satan himself stood in front of him.
“Mortal, you have summoned me from the darkest levels of hell. I will grant anything you want, on one condition. You must grant me your soul to be mine for all eternity!” Flames and demons erupted behind him as he talked. Evil radiated off his body; he stared with eyes of fire and pain.
“Yeah, I’d like that man’s ham sandwich.” Bill pointed to Jeff, who was almost halfway done.
Satan was taken back. Never before had a mortal asked for something like this. He looked down at Bill’s ugly mug. “Are you sure?”
Bill stared right back, emotionless. “I’ve never been more sure of anything before in my life.”
Satan straightened up. “It is done.”
Jeff took one last bite of his beloved sandwich, never knowing that it would be yanked away from him forever. He loved that sandwich. A love more powerful, more pure than any love yet experienced. He had made the sandwich himself, splitting the bread, spreading the mayo, gently lowering the deli meat. He raised the sandwich, himself, to his mouth. And in a split of a second it was yanked away from him forever. Satan punched him in the stomach and left him to starve.
“Here you go,” the dark lord handed Bill his prize. “You soul is now mine for all eternity. Live the rest of your life as you please. When you body perishes, and your soul leaves this earth, it will dwindle down to hell where it will be tortured for all eternity. I will see—“
Satan stopped. Bill had already choked to death on the sandwich.

Then there was wind sketching valleys though layers of fabric, held together by these fingers. As the light dims, I pull meaning from your silence; you drive the blisters.

>>9792311
it was good until the desert eagle part buddy

>>9792906
nice

Would love any form of criticism

For a moment everything is still and the stars shine defiantly against the blackening sky, suspended in the dark like nails fastening the firmament. Then the fog comes. It rolls into the streets past Grangeville and Twelfth and down past the Christian school with the sign out front advertising God to his disciples with an exclamation point, and down further past the building with no windows where the Jehovah Witnesses congregate five days a week.

She paced back and forth in her room to calm her anxiety, and, seeing as it made no difference,
lay in bed and seemed then to pace in her mind, swaying to and fro with the thought of him as the film between two worlds, both vast and unfamiliar.


Oh and the words, the lost words— they were but the dim expressions of the passengers on the bus tearing past her, some half-remembered average of a thousand blurred faces.

>>9806336
no idea what you're on about m8
you must be clearer

>>9799910
Technique isn't coached. Your personal style is the amalgam of what you read. Want better style? Read better writers. Also, read more poetry. It's worthwhile training apart from prose.

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Here is a pretty recent poem of mine


Being a grey kind of guy
you feel like an insect
like a ground-feeding
hole-dwelling
gregor-scaring doc.
you reach for that colour
that's found on ever corner
that little bit of green, that
flame-like orange.
you forget the ducks
the hunters
you forget what it's like
going easy

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Here's something that got rejected by Daily Science Fiction:
https://pastebin.com/Phj5ptCc

>Critique
>>9805508
Change up "blackness" and "darkness" for something a bit more musical. Like obsidian, or pitch. Whiteness should be "light" or something a bit less mundane. Have you tried applying some meter or something? This isn't particularly interesting to read on its own, needs a bit more, especially if it's mythos of some kind or another. This actually reminds me of a story I did in high school, quite similar in that it was a primordial myth about the creation of the universe with voids. Overall, 6/10. Try to practice a bit more.

>>9803308
>>9803309
Someone please critique this.

She was about to cross Newton Street when a police car flew to the stop sign. City of Norwalk Police Department, the badge on the passenger door declared. Goddammit to fucking hell, Keltie thought. For a moment she held hope that the cop would just drive off. And why not? It was a school morning. She was just another kid, walking to school. Right, officer? Come on, give a gal a break.
The passenger window purred down in its groove. “Hey there,” the cop said, leaning over. “Where you headed this morning?”
Well, I’m done turning all my tricks for the night, officer, so I thought I’d go home and rinse my mouth out.
“Methodist church,” she told him. “My dad works there as a janitor.”
The cop nodded. “He giving you a ride to school?”
No, we also have a sexual thing going on. He takes pictures of me nude and then we upload on the Tor network.
“That’s right,” Keltie said. “His shift is almost done. It’s a cold morning, so he hates for me to walk.”

>>9806702
You really submitted this shit to a magazine? This is legitimately painful and awkward to read.

Is English your first language?

>>9804588
>What's the cliche?
A dream followed by going on an adventure. So a Hero's Journey of sorts.

>why do you have to start with it?
Mostly due to the Novel's is being written in Third person limited and one of the two Main p.o.v which the I start with opening cliche is delusions with grandeur

Beginning of a story I shat out this morning. Should I continue?

Connor escaped the club early and stumbled at his doorstep, reluctant yet to go back in. It had been a dull night. He sent a message to Courtney and decided to walk back towards the town. He thought of little, except perhaps her breasts, and earlier when they were sitting together with their legs touching. They agreed to meet on the street, he pretended he’d been walking around the whole night since he left. The night was quiet and their voices sounded sober. Indeed he hadn’t drunk for at least two hours now. Her voice sounded measured in the still air. ‘I should’ve just went to bed’, he thought. There was a smoker’s bench outside a bed and breakfast which they sat on. She lived a while away and would have to get a taxi; if his parents weren’t home he would have invited her back to his.

Conner was shivering. It was not cold, but the motives of his resolve were solely primal, and, unaccustomed to visceral emotions, his body took to shaking. They were speaking about boring things. Being there, alone, as young adolescents, they felt it an imperative to kiss before they parted. He walked her back to the taxi rank and waved her off awkwardly. It was all very unromantic.
>>9793933
my friendo, this is very good. I found the sharp juxtaposition between his thoughts about the price and decision to buy it quite humorous

Is there anyone in this thread who would like to help someone in editing a play he's written? It's about 60 pages, plus the alternate ending. I finished it a year ago, and have been editing it when I can, between writing other projects. I'd like to hear input from people other than close friends.

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Caleb squeezed himself onto the carriage, pressing himself out of necessity against the glass doors and squeezed between about five people one of whom was a short middle eastern looking man with a trimmed black beard and no hair on the top of his head and fleshy and raw pink scars beneath his eyes and on his cheeks. Now and then the man would jerk unnaturally, his head twitching to the side, jerking forward, his shoulder lifting itself up to his ear, his hand raising itself to his nose, his body contorting like a glitch in a video game, alien and unnatural and disgusting to Caleb. Then feeling as though every feeling and thought he had ever felt or thought was welling up behind the dam wall he’d built in his mind and realising then on that train that that dam wall was not made of stone or concrete or whatever but crepe paper and that all those feelings thoughts were now bursting through the dam wall and flooding that train carriage in one single deadly torrential outpouring. So he grabbed the malfunctioning middle eastern man by the lapels of his winter coat and shook him and shook him as much as he could and nobody stopped him but just allowed him to keep shaking the man until he was grabbed from behind by a tall man with strong white hands like bricks.

>>9807112
I like it, but there's not really enough here to make me feel anything. The whole thing feels very prosaic but I feel as though that's the point.

>He thought of little, except perhaps her breasts

this made me laugh

A special arrangement was made. Seventeen pounds for an eight pound baby, soon to be buried in the ground.

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Uhhh, look at me I'm a massive faggot!

Uhhhhhhh, seize the means of production!

>>9798317
>>9798324
Unlike most people here, I feel you have a chance, although these are overwritten and full of cliches. Better get in touch with Dan Schneider before you fall prey to your worst artistic faults.

>>9808026
Dan Schneider has a disorder. I have no interest in writing like him. His best poem is a decent mish-mash of Frost and Larkin (and he thinks its better than the two he Frankenstien'd)
>overwritten
maybe
>full of cliches
point me out a couple and i promise i'm not being snarky, i come here to get harsher crit than most of my peeps.

>>9808154
Everything

>>9809201
that's not helpful at all, I'm not scrapping the project until i'm done with it at any rate.

https://pastebin.com/LdSHuaGQ

Anyone want to take a look at this? It's the first bit of my first chapter and I'd like to know if I'm making any basic mistakes I can fix now instead of writing the whole thing then having to go back and fix.

>>9806979
Fuck off.

Brief introductory sequence

Oh with what woe will our hero arise
in a shadowy forest 'low blackest of skies.
Dim comes the light that is shed off the moon
as the wind rustles leaves like a bristly broom.
Swift comes Zalür running mad like a hound,
rabid, running, roaring, leaping,
attacking and pinning our hero to ground.
As they don't call him Hound for no reason,
he stretches wide that snarling maw--
latching, to our hero's shoulder, shut his iron vice-like jaw.
To say he only took a bite would absolutely just be trite.
The gaping, tooth-shred crescent
bleeds our hero's bloody advent
out onto the dirt and night:
Ushering The Brief Respite
of his desired punishment.

The blonde wigged demon
rolls his silver dollar dice,
the pig man laughs.
All the acres in this sun dog sky
can never buy him pride.

The white gloved angels
stand tall and announce
they have nothing to hide,
I’m not surprised.

As the cloudwaves break into
hurricane skies I am submerged,
the onlookers smile.
The ships come in in lieu of due time,
they have survived.

The owl flips burgers and he lets himself inside
he is at home where uninvited.
All the smokestacks in your shadow puppet sky
could never constitute a life,
don’t be surprised.

>>9806865

>>9811162
not good

>>9809873
Should I take no reply as a sign of "it's not good enough to praise but not bad enough to shit on" ?

>>9811150
nice. keep it up.

>>9792693
He's doing it correctly.

>>9806865

it's not well written. it's not enjoyable to read. it's obviously a passage from some longer piece of genrefiction or fanfiction so the prose beat for beat is not the point, but what do you want to hear? all you're doing is describing the aciton, you may as well be writing a screenplay, and at that, your descriptions range from wonky to redundant.

>a tower unlike any other
unless your characters have been going tower to tower for hours this sounds bad
>it seemed of steel
they know specifically what metal it is from a 'seeming' glance?
>vines enshrouded
seems contradictory to the image you've already given me of a tower entirely of steel, if the vines are so covering the tower introduce it as so, otherwise i suggest using a different word.
>sprawling vines
sounds odd to me. vines by nature sprawl out. unless there are notably few vines covering it this seems a counterintuitive descriptor
>became a swirling mass of clouds
sounds like you're lazily reusing your own descriptions

the science fiction late show

peering out through three thousand negroes
clinging for their lives rock climber style
they absorb no heat in the heart of the flame
so: they idolize it
we set the bar in our mythologies
only as far as we can reach
great goopy anvil that brought us all home
a colony of minds
slowly encircling, hovering in lotus position
locked in concentric sliding rings
an orbital pilgrimage as time winds down
scaling the perimeter of God manifest
and naming themselves Repentant
a lens into non-euclidean time
the Bofoo Nikotik
it could be a funeral procession
or those Grateful Dead bears on a march
microbiological relatives of their brother Man
in the flash of one instant
they establish their canons
(including Yung Plato and Afrostotle,
all arising even earlier (relatively speaking)
than our own ancient Greece)
because nowhere in your air sacs
nor otherwise apart from
their Great Father suffices life
birthdays mean more to them than us
eons and eons without their sun
(we get depressive a week without
ours, we’ll up and die without enough
vitamin “Sunny” D(3)) and blackout
constitutes an eternity, which - remembering
their infinity is at least a million times longer
than our infinity - is much much worse,
and then: the theorizing is over,
they are all dead.

Not sure if this is prose or poetry but I thought of it on a train ride and haven't typed it out until now

I could achieve bliss on a crowded train if you gave me a window seat and let my thoughts go quiet,
but there are hooks in my throat and in my stomach that make it hard for me to speak.
It's not that I don't love you or this world, it's just that it's easier when no one's watching.

>>9811609
>i'm an introspective sensitive boy
>oh i would open up to you dear i just c-cant
gaaaaaaaay

>>9811484
It needs heavy grammatical editing.

Interesting premise at best, a bit of an eye-roller at some parts, though. I'm not sure what you're going to do with it. I mean, everyone's dead, now what? Since you didn't even describe what the creature looked like (which is probably a good thing, I don't want to find out it's something cringey or Earth-like/cliché), you leave others to decide. I don't know whether to commend you for it or call you lazy.

>>9811614
nope that's not what the piece is about but ok