Are there any creative writers lurking?
Come share an excerpt of your work and get non-biased opinions and critique from strangers!
>>7815138
Here's some of my personal work.
https://www.dropbox.com/s/22eel64rohytbez/Until%20My%20Finest%20Hour%20%28Masterclass%20Submission%29.pdf?dl=0
ELgelt mishap porog quod the spooky man, that was wearing some spooky black clothes and a neat hat, okelar ko ishimag dro he continued spookily.
>>7815138
No. Almost everyone in these threads is a hack.
>>7815138
By the riverbend, to the end,
Old man Peruvio breathes again.
To the marsh and by the odd pond,
One makes wonder of what he must want,
Calypso nights and moonshine beams,
Follies and hollies and sightless dreams,
Now upon here, his time gone fore,
Peruvio falls, begotten twice more.
Niggers tongue my anus
In my anus their tongues shall be
Some would describe me as heinous
But I bribed them with KFC
>>7816301
The is pretty boring. I know poems leave alot for context, but this not evoking anything within me. Sorry
The other day was a great day. I was in theatre expecting to see some interesting neurosurgery, but instead got to do some. I drilled a hole in a man's head. It was all above board; I was wearing gloves and a mask. Plus the equipment i used is designed so that even a retard like me couldn't screw it sideways. All I had to do was push the drill tip onto the man's skull; as hard as I could, and push a button. The bone filings and spurts of blood filled the surrounding space untill the drill clicked loudly and stopped. The nurse washed away the mess and a hole showing the surface of the brain was revealed. It was over pretty fast so I asked, though I was mostly joking, if I could do it again. I was both suprised and happy when he said yes, pointing to a new spot for me to burrow into. I assumed this was above board too, but it was not. I consequently drilled four more holes with everyone in the room assuring me I was doing well. The placement looked random but I'm a medical student; my opinion ranks bottom.
>>7815138
The cat died, and this time it wasn’t my fault. The shoebox containing his little oily corpse (cousin mel’s ill fated cat and fish fry the cause of death) was already seeping fluid and buckling under the cloudburst that had overtaken the northern sky. Clear skies’ edge drawn southward across incandescent sunset horizons, the sun a collapsing cave mouth. I tried not to look at it.
Four weeks earlier we stood over the ochre table agape at the flashbang declaration that Aunt Myrtle ate the fishtank. We knew about her pica, but never thought it was this severe. Indeed, last week she had only had the occasional penny, occasionally an indulgent red wine dipped nickel before bed.
>>7816604
That opening line is definitely a real attention-getter, I like it. Feels kinda edgy though, and some of the language is a little too showy and out there to make sense without thinking about it.
The second line is pretty good, I'm not really sure how I feel about "flashbang declaration" though.
hittin' highways for hits of H
tryna kill fuckin' headaches
running low so...grab some percs
running low so...hope it works
this-hardly a fix
for us, the junk sick
ants snaking in our bones
roaches crawling out porous holes
wanting some is wanting some more
'till the body jellos and falls to the floor
I approached the sneezeguard, but it was too soon. The person in front of me was being helped still. I stepped back a bit to indicate that I was by no means being aggressive and recognized totally this customer's precedence.
When he was finished being helped, he shuffled over and I filled the space he left and met eyes with the employee on the other side of the sneezeguard. It was my turn, finally. The line had been long, but it was all behind me now. I relaxed and waited.
"What can I do for you?"
"A bowl."
"To stay or to go?"
"Uh, to go, please?"
"You want white or brown rice?"
"White, please."
"What's that?"
"White."
"White. Black or pinto beans?"
"Black."
"Black beans. What kind of meat?"
"Chicken."
"Chicken?"
I nodded. He passed the bowl to the next employee.
"Hi, you want mild, medium, or hot salsa?"
"Medium, please."
"And corn, sour cream, cheese?"
"Just corn and cheese."
"Anything else?"
"That's it."
"That's it?"
I nodded.
That was it.
http://pastebin.com/NqULqYfi
First attempt at non-fiction in a while.
Here's a short piece I've been working on.
It's called "A Conversation in a Club."
Don't go easy on me.
http://pastebin.com/9FGySUSv
>>7817362
Its very novel.
>>7817362
What plane of irony is this on?
Ten years ago the cataclysm happen. And in those ten years the world had been slowly dying. This led the hunter wondering, why is he trying to survive? Ignoring the obvious answer that most would reply, he was left wondering, he would do the same routine every single day for the past ten years, and nothing change at all. So why was he trying to survive. Was it because he assumed everything would get better? That wasn't it as he wasn't an idiot. Did he hoped that someone would just suddenly appear and fix this tragedy? This wasn't a fairytale, at least he hope it wasn't, it would be too depressing.
While he wonder why he even bothered to survive, he noted civilizations itself was gone, any point on trying to survive this would be a fool's errand. No, that would be an insult to them, for even a fool knew when to call it quits. The hellish carnage was putting everyone into an early graves, nature reclaiming the cities filled with corpses and skeletons of the dead, the races or what remains of them would go out with a whimper not a bang. Nothing can change that now. So why bother?
This is getting depressing. He thought, yet he can't help but point out that this was the truth. Why bother surviving when in the end, there won't be nothing worth living for? But if there was ever a time in which a person loved to kill and feed their more unsavory side, this was the time to live in. As this was now a world that favored the strong, as those who are weak die or suffer, while those are strong live unscathed.
But people killing people paled in comparison when faced with monsters, who were also partially to blame for this, as they stop any progress. These monster were called nature's wrath by most, or god's wrath by the faithful. These monsters, sole purpose is making the world devoid of any intelligent life. Making rebuilding world an impossible options, but even that didn't stop survivors from trying to kill them, although from how the world is today it was obvious they failed.
He wondered if he should take up their sword, and try to fix this world for them, before laughing at the idea. He never really cared about the world. Never particularly liked it, but didn’t hate it either. So he didn't have the initiative as to fixing what others destroyed. Which made his earlier question even more puzzling, as to why was he trying to survive? Nothing he thought off could give him a proper reason as to why he is trying to survive. He thought of weighing the positives against the negatives.
If the world is gone, he would die eventually, if not by the monsters, then it would be due to old age. If the world is rebuild, he would keep doing what his being doing for the past ten years. The hunter sipped from his water canteen before throwing it away in frustration when he couldn't solve his own questions. He instead focus on where he should go next. Going north is suicidal! And the word was weak even for him. Going east is pointless, its just one huge wasteland now.
>>7817404
i believe its entry level irony. it hasn't even confused itself.
>>7817407
Lots of grammatical errors, is English your first language anon or is this a rough draft you wrote at 500wpm
>>7817415
Rough Draft. I made for some contest in my college. I am terribly sorry for the errors.
>>7817407
this makes my heart cry.
>>7817407
this is terrible. don't post shit like this.
>>7817362
neither shocking nor funny. it is, however, pretty juvenile
>>7817289
too much repetition and not enough development of the ideas
>>7817279
>>7816479
pointless
>>7817266
this is ok
>>7816604
lolrandumb
>>7816301
it's a start but it lacks context so it doesn't have a lot of meaning
>one makes wonder of what he must want
this is clunky
Can a book be written in first and third person?
/Chapter 1: Belanglosland
If you were to poll people on the streets as to the smallest countries, you would mostly get strange looks. The usual answers might be Monaco, Vatican City, Liechtenstein and maybe Nauru. You would almost certainly not hear Belanglosland mentioned, unless you spoke to certain history and political professors who shouldn’t be out on their own anyways.
Belanglosland is a very small county, around 5 km2, with a population of around two thousand people. It is unlike other small countries, in that it does not have casinos, it’s bird poop is not particularly valuable, and the Pope does not live there(although they did try very hard to get him to move). It lies somewhere along the mountainous border of Austria and Germany, and, as far as they are concerned, is the other one’s problem. You see, Belanglosland lies on a small flat section of a tall mountain, making it hard to get to, for a view that’s very underwhelming, is cold most of the year and has no natural resources to speak of, making it a very unpleasant prospect for the person in charge of officially invading and annexing territories. And so it is that Belanglosland has been effectively ignored into independence.
On this particular ignored morning, the President woke up groggily, and stepped from his bed to use the washroom down the hall. It was a long hall, the longest in Belanglosland, because it was officially the Remembrance Hall. It was filled with portraits, and more recently, photographs of the previous rulers of Belanglosland. The President was currently the twelfth ruler, and the first president. Ten years ago, he had declared himself the last king, and instead titled himself ‘The President of Belanglosland”. Very modern, it was agreed all around.
Currently, the very modern President was emptying his bowels in a very modern bathroom, complete with foamy handsoaps pumps.
As every morning, his aide was standing outside the door with what had been a royal bathrobe to put over the President’s ex-royal silk pajamas.
He smoked all night and slept all day. When he woke up, he smoked again. After a day on Facebook, he felt tired, and looked around. There were tidy rows of empty notebooks and unread books, displayed on and inside glass cabinets, the order of his life preserved. Still, the room possessed a new quality. There was something in the dust, exposed by the light of the screen. His life was an exhibition, curating itself whenever he looked away.
The light switch was on the other side of the room.
Does anyone have those Short stories about the peach farmer who hates peaches and his wife who keeps trying to get him to eat them?
>>7815138
http://pastebin.com/aZ8Ls5P0
1445 words, haven't come up with a title
>>7817279
i enjoyed it. you should go into more depth about some the following things:
>I stepped back a bit to indicate that I was by no means being aggressive and recognized totally this customer's precedence.
>the repetition of questions
>what the severs look like, how they speak, and their demeanors
>>7817521
wooo I got a 'this is ok.' That means a lot coming from the jerks here. Also I fucking hate rhyming and the couplets make it even suckier but had to for that project. So I'm okay with it.
>>7815138
[Whispering to Brian (who is crying (i.e heavily) because Michael Caine’s character reminds him (i.e reminds Brian) of his father)]: He’s Dead and He’s not Coming Back.
I lean back into my chair, grinning, and continue playing Temple Run 2.
Here's some porn:
http://pastebin.com/xs2ccPQU
>>7818426
I got u family.
Shame there haven't been any new ones in a while.
>Is this dialogue autistic? I feel like I'm giving Garcia too much insight, Government too 1 dimensional
The phone rung dry, through the summer dust coming in with the trucks. Louise stepped down from the rig, tear drops glistening on his forehead. Garcia lifted his head to check the truck off as returned, watched Louise sweep a grease cloth over his forehead, a hand through his hair. Mr. Garcia picked up the receiver.
“Garcia, Manhattan Allied.”
“Mr. Garcia? Tom Swanson. I’m calling on the behalf of the National Coallition for Rebuilding America. I understand that you contacted our office, and I’m getting back to you.”
“I called the other day.” He thought for a moment. “What are the chances I’ll be paid?”
“What?”
“What are the chances. I’ll be paid? I don’t care if you tell me. I just want to know.”
“Mr. Garcia, I’m sure that the city will honor their contractual commitments. My organization is working closely with the office of public transportation, to set up a payment plan for your company.”
“I haven’t gotten a check.”
“Payment is organized on a bimonthly basis.”
“The contract said monthly.”
“One moment Mr. Garcia.” The moment was a long one, and Mr. Garcia eased into the idea that the other was stalling. “I’m sorry that we have this discrepancy Mr. Garcia, but our filing says very clearly that payments are to be made on a bimonthly basis.”
“What filing? I haven’t heard of any changes.”
“The, uhh… contract filing. One moment.” Mr. Garcia could hear the muffling over the line, as the man in the empty suit pressed the receiver into his lapel. He could handle bad contracts. His men still got payed. Penalties worked, and even in default the bank could get back to him eventually. His people could eat. Lies. Outright lies, were new. “Yes, the file says here that an agreement was made between you and the transportation office for a bimonthly payment plan.”
“I didn’t sign anything.”
“Mr. Garcia, we are a separate office from the city transportation authority and do not have direct access to all their records. I apologize, but I don’t know what you did or didn’t sign. If you call their office, I’m sure they’ll be able to explain to you more fully.”
“I’ve called them. I was told that your organization would be handling the contract.”
“That very well may be, but you can understand that the transfer of documents is a time consuming process, and only recently have we assumed the responsibilities of your contract.”
>>7818859
“What are my chances of being paid?” The fan stuttering in the corner wasn’t helping, and the sweat was soaking through his collar. He thought that the way he was sitting would keep his shirt off his back, but he didn’t know. Wetback. He’d been called a wetback, before. It must have been hot in their office too. He could hear the man who told himself that he was not his job sigh. He could see the drop of sweat, roll over his white skin, flushed red.
“Look…”
“How long have you worked for the government?” Mr. Garcia’s voice was kind. There was a silence. A long breath out, exhalation.
“…About 12 years... it’s been a while.”
“Long time. I’ve owned my business a little longer than that, not by much. I have people who work for me. We’re replacing two bridges and repaving half of the streets up here. The work is good, but we have people to feed. People… You have kids?”
“Yeah. Little girl, turning 6. You?”
“Never had the chance. Little too old. My people do. Most of them.”
“We’ll … I’ll try to get you what you need. There’s a bill up in congress, for more funding.”
“Yeah… Yeah. Tom, is there enough for all this?” Mr. Garcia sounded tired. The time was 9:40 a.m.
“There’s going to have to be. We’re almost ahead of it, but we let it go for too long.”
“It has been coming for a long time. Everyone did, a little bit. Not as important as a war or a story.”
“You’d think it. Look, I really am… I’ll try to get you the money.”
“Thanks. Thanks. I’ve got to get back to work, but do what you can. Tom, right?”
“Yeah. I’ll talk to again Mr. Garcia, once we have a few things sorted out. I’ll call you back.”
“Or I’ll call you.” The plastic receiver clicked heavy, almost like it weighed anything at all. There were a few haggard breaths exchanged between Mr. Garcia and the fan in the corner. He heard the click of something in the motor of the truck that had pulled in a moment ago. He pushed off his desk, and sidestepped around the corner. The garage smelled of tar and summer heat. Young, the first time he had smelled, he had been sick. In time it came to him as familiar, good, and worth the fact of its smelling. Louise sat on the worn bench nearest the door. His head was not up, and the sweat blessed scraps of his hair fell in one sheaf. Louise held fast to a bottle of good water, cold from the condensation. A refrigerator as old as the sun hummed, an arms’ length away.
It was Uncle George who bought her the fish, a stunningly blue Betta with fins like flower petals and lidless crimson eyes. He presented it to her on her last day of legal residence at his 500 square foot apartment, located just a few miles out of Austin, standing in her doorway with his eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness and the plastic orb of water proffered in his hand, the Betta fluttering silently within. Caldera, named by her geologist father who had said, before he died horrifically, geologically, that the word was the most beautiful one he knew, looked at her Uncle framed in the rectangle of unwanted daylight and attempted to ask What is that?, but her scorched throat betrayed her and what emerged instead was something closer to “What’s it?”
“Nothing. A little gift,” her Uncle said, taking an unsure step into the gloom of his own bedroom where his niece had been living for the past month, his eyes still adjusting, his hand still offering the fish out in the wrong direction. “Something I want you to take with you. A pretty thing to keep you company at the home. Until we find your mother.”
Caldera, crouched beneath the windowsill, watched her Uncle advancing toward the bed—watched the sunlight from the doorway lancing through the various fissures in his tall, gaunt, marionette-ish body and the way his arm shook with the weight of the plastic vessel.
>>7818871
>Prose excellent, 7.5/10
>Sentence structure 4.5/10, though seemingly deliberate. It does not help your work. If you improve it into an actual recognizable style, 6/10.
>Subject matter/plot 2.5/10 "Died horrifically" "Until we find your mother" were particularly cringeworthy.
Overall 5/10, I'd read your short stories solely for the pleasure of reading your prose. Short stories, because I do not think I could tolerate what you would think to be a larger plot.
>>7815138
I'm not a creative writer. In fact i am somewhat of an uncreative one. In reality i'm a Thief, I steal good passages from some of the best books in the world, style them & update them to modern language and metaphors. Since no one reads anymore, I never get caught.
Now and then a critic might suspect what i'm doing but i preempt the problem by writing lengthy introductions in which i basically explain what i do but in flowery language which makes it seem like what i'm doing is honourable, hell, even commendable.
If i do have some type of honour, it is the honour of a Thief. Although being a creative writer is probably more honourable i do take pride in Thievery.
People might think that's non-creative but my philosophy is that everything good has already been written so i might as well steal.
Since i am the best thief, i am the greatest author alive. At least that is what the latest NYT book-review told of me. Muhahaha.
>>7818896
Thanks for the critique! I may just cut out the circumstances of her parents entirely if they are so glaring. The story really has more to do with her relationship with the fish than them.
>>7818859
>>7818864
I don't see anything wrong with the dialogue, sounds like a conversation between a government worker and someone who needs to be paid. That said, I think maybe the government worker empathizes with him too quickly, only a few lines of dialogue between them meeting and them having a heart to heart moment
also
>Tom Swanson
I feel like you know better
I revised this a bit since one anon gave me some helpful advice
http://pastebin.com/htza9ATn
I'm trying to figure out if I like the story as is, or if I should continue past the current ending.
>>7815138
>It was midmorning. And I thought to myself, it was midmorning a day ago, too. But it didn't feel like it had been that long since the last midmorning. It's like my midmornings were tailing on to one another and just pulling past, one after the next, every six hours. At first, I figured this was just the normal progression of age. How fucking depressing. But no; as you'll read later, it was a weird time anomaly.
>It was midmorning. And I thought to myself, it was midmorning a day ago, too. But it didn't feel like it had been that long since the last midmorning. It's like my midmornings were tailing on to one another and just pulling past, one after the next, every six hours. At first, I figured this was just the normal progression of age. How fucking depressing. But no; as you'll read later, it was a weird time anomaly.
>>7819805
Second paragraph should have been:
>Anywho, I got to my meeting with this guy "Jeff," but was that even his real name? Seems like a boring one, for a name. I asked him what he used to do before he got here. "I raised stoats," he said. Holy fucknuggets. Now THAT'S not the shit I was expecting to hear. And as it happens, I had sat down with the wrong Jeff. The Jeff I was supposed to meet was three tables over. Man. Regardless, this was definitely my best midmorning in ten days, as I shall explain below:
>>7818838
That was a good read
>>7819813
I think that should be anyhoo, as it is derived from anyhow.
>>7818919
What was it like writing pic related?
How to Get Back on the Horse
Before you get into your car, kick the gravel under your feet. Watch as the stones spin along, skipping up off the sidewalk. Hold your eyes in the middle distance between the houses and butter-glow of the streetlight above your car. Walk forward but stop at the door. Grab the handle but let your arm hang between the door and your body. Stare into the middle distance again; breathe deeply and let your head loll back into an empty night sky. Think back, 3 hours earlier, back to the restaurant.
* * *
Only eat half of your sandwich. Crack a joke and smile. To yourself, not to her. Hold eye contact for too long. You should look at your own reflection in her eyes. Pay with a 20. Walk to the little park by the fountain. Your friend told you it would all work out before, but what if it won’t? Attempt to hide your breath, all of a sudden shuddering. Swallow your pounding heart. Whatever you do, keep walking.
Sit and talk by the fountain, center yourself in front of her. Be expansive; talk with your arms. Laugh at your own jokes, tease her for hers. After a time, find yourself in her eyes again. Sit back and speak in tenor. Cross your ankles. Not your knees, your ankles. She will talk about this friend and who said this and who said that but your nerves will be electric and your bones will rattle every time your heart beats.
You will wait for a pause, then you will turn to her and say wait. She will take the cue and lift her head up and not even bother to look because she knows you will already be leaning in. You will breathe roughly and forget all about the wham-wham-wham inside your chest. Your nerves will be on fire. You will feel like a giant. Your friend was right, it will be so easy. He’ll stop nudging you, saying Eight-month streak? Dude you gotta get back out there.
He didn’t tell you what to do after, so you walk back and laugh and say goodbye. You are alone now. You are so alone now. Head back to your car. Kick the gravel and watch it bounce high. Stare into the middle distance. Put in your headphones, play something only you would listen to. Feel your hollow chest and stare into an empty night sky. Breathe in, look up; float in the black.
"Ennnh." She protested slightly while I unbuttoned her jeans.
"What's wrong?"
"Ennh."
I kissed her some more, on the lips, the neck. She dragged her nails down my back. I put my hand down her jeans again.
"Ennh."
"You on your period?"
"Yeah."
"We've done it before."
"Yeah."
"But you don't want to."
"Are you mad?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"You look upset."
"I'm not."
"Don't cry about it."
I push her off of me slightly, but she doesn't move. We just sit for a bit. And then she starts to get off of me.
"Why are you getting off?"
"Because you're upset with me for not having sex with you."
"I'm not upset."
"You pushed me off."
"You said, don't cry about it, so I pushed you off. I'm mad about that."
Not creative writing but I don't want to start a new thread.
I have a debate on Affirmative Action tomorrow and these are my notes
Lmk what you guys think
>>7820736
black people, hispanic people, white people are more professional. Consider saying latino instead of hispanic because it is more precise, as there are hispanic white people, hispanic latinos, and hispanic black people.
subtle stuff
>>7820645
Ive never heard a girl say Ennnh whatever the fuck that means (I assume its like the letter N)
Also, I've never touched a girl, but it wasn't in any of the pornos I watched either
>>7820645
i've never had a girl not want sex because she's on her period. they don't care. it's guys that flip out over it.
>>7820775
That's the point.
I hardly hear them now.
Just auditory clues,
cues to signal– keys to
slot in neuropaths and
drafts to notes to sheets to
this music. Peace in the
pieces– where I sit but
don't listen. These songs that
tend to sidle step in,
change some stone to flesh and
numb law to love. I want
rest but instead this sly
test sets in for the night.
I hardly hear them now.
>>7815138
>Are there any creative writers lurking?
No.
Are there any writers lurking?
Unfortunately, yes.
>Prologue Death to all but the condemn
>Alexei Zvezda found himself awake in a fountain in the city square. Dazed, confused, and his vision blurred. He couldn't understand what was going on around him. His mind, dulled by the weariness, could not process the sight in which he was seeing, it was only when he heard the explosion from an aerial bomb, was his mind finally brought back into reality. All around him was nothing more than smoking rubble covered by scarlet blood, burning tanks and trucks smoldered.
>He laid himself down in the fountain and closed his eyes. He began to dream a cheerful dream, in which he was back home with his grandparents, helping his grandfather hunt for animals, helping his grandmother tend to the farm animals, enjoying a hearty meal, only for that dream to be suddenly shattered by another horrible explosion, the kind he had heard all too often, and it was followed by screams of friend and enemy alike, and then complete silence.
I am sorry for any grammar mistake. English is not my first language.
I want to know people opinion on this
Hello, I revised this based off of some suggestions I got from an older critique thread.
Sorry if it's hard to read as an image. Pastebin messes up the formatting, so this is the next best thing unless people have other ideas.
Thank you.
>>7819813
I think the word anywho, is a complete wast of 6 letters and make you sound retarded.
is this the new crit thread?
>>7815138
>Are there any creative writers lurking?
>Non-biased opinions
>Non-biased human expression
Well, I can say there's at least one creative writer lurking here
>>7822745
Yes
>>7820775
Eh, it's happened to me before.
http://pastebin.com/zpTDAefi
Working on a story about tiny people, about half an inch tall. Basic plot is:
> tiny dude living in hole in wall on counter
> hunts for ants and stuff
> goes out hunting, ends up trapped in shoe
> ends up climbing out outside of research facility
> inside more of these "minipeople" are being tested on and experimented on
> kept in check by tiny robots
> one guy is planning a resistance not understanding how futile it is
> ends up having many of the "minipeople" go to their deaths in fruitless battle
> uses acid and poison to try to kill humans
there's more but that's the basic idea.
>>7822866
Please get rid of the "he says" repeatedly. Tighten up the dialogue.
Say "she laughs while staring into her glass. Then looks back up to him."
And for when she says "You don't want to be with me, you want to fuck me" just leave it like that. Those words carry weight by themselves. Just make them their own line.
Can you post your actual stuff in pastebin so I can select it and work with it?
>>7823255
understandable; the "he says" stuff was just experimenting with rhythm. i appreciate the comments anon. it's just something i dashed off at 6 am last night, more of an exercise than anything. maybe i'll come back to a critique thread in the future with something more serious
>>7823348
(cont.) though if i do come back to it, it's definitely material more suited for play/screenwriting than prose
>>7821032
I feel purple prose will be better on this situation?
Idk, about the rest. A few mistakes here and there.
Overall a 5.5/10 or a 6/10
>>7823348
Biggest thing I would say: have them talk like real people would talk. DO NOT use them as your exposition tools, or to "talk to the audience." it's subtle here but it's there, it sounds like she is trying to explain things to the reader. Pretend she actually is angry, keep the emotional parts in, cut out the rest.
If it makes you feel better, the last line is good. And most of it is pretty decent. Do you write a lot? Or is this a first effort kind of thing?
>>7822866
Also: props to all for finally firing back near the end. Is this a based-off-real-life thing? Because if so, make it as close to the real conversation as possible, minus anything cringeworthy. Trust me, it'll have so much more emotional punch.
If you do roleplaying games or any of that shit, it's excellent for writing better dialogue, because you basically act out talking as part of it. Basically just put yourself in your character's minds, then write down what they say. Do not add anything else for the benefit of the reader.
Overall I'd say just cut out as much of this as you can. It doesn't feel like "real" human conversation. But it does have a few lines that pack a decent punch and you should focus on those by not clogging them up with side description. Do not use more than one adjective to describe how someone said something, and I personally say do not use anything but "said" and limit yourself to one "tone adjective" (like "he said accusingly") per scene. Maybe two to three, actually. That will make you limit it to the one or two lines that actually NEED a tone dscription, and make your writing a lot tighter.
Don't feel bad. I see a lot of writers who overload their dialogue with pointless shit, and you know what's funny? They are among the most acclaimed best selling writers in the world. But whatever. I bet you 90% of lit would agree with most of what i just said.
>>7823695
>Also: props to all for finally firing back near the end
I meant to say, Props to Al
>>7823681
>>7823695
i don't write very often, especially not dramatic dialogue. but it's something i want to get better at, especially because i'm in the middle of making a video game with rpg elements.
it's not based off real life. and i agree, a lot of it could be cut to make the meaning & purpose of the exchange shine through better.
thanks for the tips! and for being polite about it. really appreciate it
>>7823781
You're welcome. Keep at it, the writing definitely has potential.
English isn't my first language, and I'm currently trying to hone in the grammar. I have started reading
The Elements of Style, but I have hit a snag so far. In one of the beginning sections--parenthetic expressions,
I am unclear on the rules regarding additional commas after the expression. For example:
Jim sought out forceful moves, after blundering his knight, none were there.
This should be correct structure if I understand it the section correctly, but what if I want to do something
like this?
Daniel, still bleary-eyed from the night before, went out again tonight, despite his girlfriend's protest.
My question is, is it allowable to add "despite his girlfriend's..." on the already structured parenthetic expression, so long as it has a conjunction? What if it didn't have a conjunction? What if it was followed by a pronoun?
Daniel, still bleary-eyed from the night before, went out again tonight, his girlfriend's sighed.
>>7824505
I would simplify. You don't need to cram everything into one sentence. I also prefer to put sentence fragments chronologically. I feel it's more logical.
After blundering his knight, Jim sought out forceful moves. There weren't any.
Still bleary eyed from the night before, Daniel went out again that night despite his girlfriend's protests.
>went out again tonight
mixes tenses. "went" is past and "tonight" is present.
"protest" singular has more of connotation of a student protest against a social issue, or just one objection.
plural "protests" indicates she argued with him instead of saying one thing against it.
>Daniel, still bleary-eyed from the night before, went out again tonight, his girlfriend's sighed.
no... you should make "His girlfriend sighed." its own sentence.
also, the apostrophe s "girlfriend's" indicates possession ("his girlfriend's car").
(grammar nazis, feel free to correct me.)
>have become so afraid of my work being shit that I've just stopped writing entirely
>>7824620
there's only one way to improve your writing. go read some books on writing and you'll learn how to get better faster.
>>7824620
yeah man, comparing your work to that of the books you read is completely stupid. even a little bit. you're reading writers that were not only great for their own time, but were so great that they survived decades and decades without fading into cultural obscurity. you're probably in the 18-26 age range, probably haven't produced that large a body of work yet. don't aim to be the next faulkner or joyce or pynchon; just write as often and as much as you can, even if it's utter shite, and if you keep working at it, you'll inevitably get better.
"A Costanza On a Date, or What Went Wrong Last Night, Jerry?"
Oh God, she’s leaning on me. Her hand is creeping up my thigh. Here in this secluded part of this darkened movie theatre, no one can see her at it. Her red nails glisten in the light of the screen. They move like bloody pearls over my leg, caressing the fabric of my jeans, which are tightening around the crotch by the second. Oh God, oh God, oh my God!
‘I like your perfume,’ she whispers into my ears. My cheeks burn.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper back without taking my eyes off the screen.
Her hand recedes; my jeans go dark. She stays where she is, however, leaning against me. I can feel her weight pressing down on my shoulder.
I try to catch a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye. She looks exceptionally pretty, her nose and cheek illuminated by the light flooding from the screen. Again the tingling, the tightening in my jeans. I lean forward and take a deep breath; fill my lungs with the stale, cheese-infused air.
‘I like yours too.’
‘Thanks!’ she blushes and beams back. Turns her head, locks her dark eyes on me. Her lips, black and voluptuous, are glistening. She purses them.
‘Which is it?’ I ask in a tone I pray sounds as matter-of-fact as possible.
She sweeps her tongue along her upper lip. Then her lower lip. ‘Coco Mademoiselle.’ She smiles a closed smile that reaches up and crinkles her eyelids.
I lean in towards her again; sniff; frown. ‘Are you sure?’
>>7824620
just write because writing is fun, don't be a pussy
>>7821139
I thought this was good anon. I read it yesterday and was waiting to see if anyone else would comment on it before I had to. Your narrators kind of an unbelievable faggot though. What has he/she actually read?
>>7824865
After reading this I found out that I need a Seinfeld novel in my life. Does such a thing exist?
>>7821139
This is pretty good. I don't have any constructive critique really, besides... try not to go too weird tryign to make your writing unique or sound like classics. If you write a good story in plain english and have a few good lines or good description that spice it up, it will be good.
I actually like the prose of JK Rowling and John Grisham. yeah they are shitty pop authors but they write pretty plainly and save the up-the-ass description for important emotional moments. That said I sometimes cringe at both writers but whatever, the point is, keeping it simple and readable is more important than anything in my opinion. If you clog up your writing with complicated shit it just because elitist garbage that faggots use to brag about their "reading level" as an excuse for creating impenetrable garbage.
If someoen says "git gud newb" over your writing, you are doing it wrong, IMO.
Unless you are writing something like Finnegan's Wake. Then keep right at it, because no one is going to read that shit anyawys.
>>7820645
Pretty accurate if you were trying to capture the trivial conversations one has with their significant other.
the introduction of a short story i've started working on recently. it's not very good, but i'd like to at least hear the reasons for it not being good. i'd like to be better.
Imagine this: a scruffy young man in his 20’s, brown hair combed to the side, a common ‘John’, fond of wearing green parkas and orange socks, typing away at a local Starbucks. It is filled with people bumbling around and talking to one another. Baristas bring customers their orders only to be yelled at by them for little things--too much sugar added, too little sugar added, hell, even the right amount of sugar added. John, meanwhile, types what he thinks will be the greatest work of the twenty-first century.
But what of John--just who is he? Well, he is quite scruffy, as I mentioned before, but he also has a whole novel of deplorable traits and small, cute quirks, as we all do. I could spend days talking about how he likes his coffee--or, more interestingly, why he likes his coffee that way, or even about his habit of buying huge, overflowing bags of new books, only to never read any of them and later brag about doing so. I won’t. In fact, I won’t explain anything to you. Why? It’s not fun. It is, however, tons of fun to try and paint a picture of him for you. See for yourself if your interpretation matches mine. I trust you to be more objective than I am.
>>7826183
>stanley parable fanfic
maybe the later paragraphs redeem some of this excerpt but this doesn't work for me. it's too meta but also derivative. i didn't think your attempts at cleverness were funny. withholding further characterization might work if what you've given us wasn't totally generic. your setting is bland too.
Catch a train direct to death
Glide where wheels and rails caress
Hear the last taboos expressed
In language looted and compressed
Abandon this world for the next
Cross the great plain of forgetfulness
Trans Siberian Express
Life on earth is short at best
The cities are a game of chess
Copper domes and statuettes
Victories with marble breasts
Leave your burden with the rest
Watch the sleepers phosphoresce
Trans Siberian Express
Rich man leave your wealthiness
Wanderer, your solemn dress
Seafarer, the sea's caress
Beowulf, your angriness
Time to take a second guess
Time to make a pact with death
Trans Siberian Express
Through the train the four winds blow
The arctic and the sirocco
Stalactite and stalagmite
Stalag camp and satellite
Pass the captives on death row
The gulag archipelago
The skulls of reindeer in the snow
The longboat drifts, the dead float slow
Frightened wolves, nowhere to go
Find winding cloths of sleet and snow
The sleeping kings of long ago
Deep beneath Ben Bulben grow
Drifts are shifted by the plough
Like waves that break against the prow
How do you like your blue-eyed boy now
Mr Death?
Before the crocus cloaked the steppes
Before the tadpoles and the nests
Jack Frost screamed, his voice so hoarse
The signalmen were blown off course
They passed Attila on his horse
Passed the Visigoths and Norse
Villages with Viking forts
And knew not where they were
The skeletons were at the feast
Before the dreams of ancient Greece
Before the shaman and the priest
Jason and the Golden Fleece
Before the Dead Sea Scrolls released
Their meaning or the experts pieced together
The epic of Gilgamesh
Trans Siberian Express
Don't cry for me I never cried for you
Just left without the name
Of the place I'm going to
Left without so much as a whisper
To remind you
I'm travelling to forget you
And to find you
The world is long, there is no consolation
For those who join at the end of the line
>>7827120
nice job Bob Dylan
>>7826183
starting with
>imagine this
is something i really dont like.
other than that it doesnt look too bad for me, just a stereotypical "smart guy" beginning
alright.
this ones the usual one I post in threads cause it always gets a different reception so
My legacy lays in dried grass
Cheated by himself;
He's trapped Summer in a jar
Without airholes in the lid.
"Dying's better
The second time around."
He tells him,
As if he believes it.
"We die two times-
Once, when we write the truth
And again, when we accept it."
The sun sets
And they wilt like time.
>>7825986
sorry for the late reply, and thanks for your suggestion.
I totally agree about readability being most important for 99.9% of writers , and this is certainly more tryhard than most of my stories.
My justification is that this is an unusually personal story and it's very much in the narrator's head.
Specifically, the two moments where the writing is kinda weird is 1. when the narrator's breathing is stilted as he is nervously walking to "her" office, so i wanted the writing to reflect that somewhat and 2. the emotional climax where he is excitedly reading the letter and his eyes would be eagerly and excitedly reading the page instead of carefully parsing each word.
>>7825539
I imagine him as a classic /lit/ lurker, vaguely knowledgeable about many authors and books, but not actually having read that many. And also eager to look smart and impress intellectual superiors.
I was definitely going for unlikable, although I was aiming specifically for something like naive rather than a total douche. Maybe I should change some stuff to move him toward that, unless it is just as entertaining as it is.
I guess what i thought might grab sympathy were the embarrassing memories, "her" saying that the narrator is actually really talented in one area, the social anxiety, the list of romantic failures (if you could call them that), his appreciation of the beauty of the people under their umbrellas, and his immature love a la Araby.
>>7817564
Feels like vonnegut. Keep writing.
>>7817279
that's a lot of verbs in the first two lines
The soul, straining, secretes a narcotic
to slip into the fissures of limbs, when
their motions stutter and stumble in time
and by margins the pendulum slower swings.
It sets the brain on a delayed pursuit
of the skull, plodding across the carpet
of the cranium. From its hems hang the eyelids
like the counterweights of a delicate machine.
The morning cup of tea on china tray,
exhaling breaths with milky odour, capped
with plumes of soapy vapours, only tints
acetic bitterness an orange hue.
It’s not a sweetened brew the brain demands,
tormented to the cusp of boiling, fuel
nor lubricator, but to yield command
and put machine to soft and dreamless sleep.
Seeing as this is the closest thing to a critique thread on /lit/ at the moment, I was trying to think of a title for my novel and was wondering if anyone had any opinions on this: 'A Troubled Cure For A Troubled Mind' ? It fits in quite nicely with some of the themes.
Now this won't be a concern because my writing is shit, but in the unlikely event that I have a spurt of inspiration and write something worthy of publication, are there any legal implications to using a title directly lifted from a Nick Drake song? Is that allowed?
Two little and very brief excerpts. Just want my sentences looked at. These two passages are bothering me.
I saw my blood through graying leaves, red and oily soaking cracked mud. The Man in Fur stood on it. His pale blue searchlights arcing over leaves. Gun on my hip growing heavier with each of his pendulous glides; black moon of his rifle hung low.
The red clay road was perforated with holes. Grimy, crimson puddles splattering beneath the rattling wheels of filled carts: corn, hay, flour, money, rock and lead. Forest’s brush snipping at the rim of the town; brays of animals from the brush heard when gas lamps scratched at the sunken moon— threatening with each inch of root, each animal sounding, to grow over the road. The town a scab over rusty nature.
>>7828788
you are trying too hard and missing the mark. you should simplify.
>>7815149
Not too bad anon. It seems a little unrealistic at times though. Try adding a bit more to the dialogue. Athena seems like a pretty pretentious name as well. I'd be curious if you had a reason behind it.
>>7828239
what the shat is a 'troubled cure' lmao get off my board
>>7828239
from what i understand song titles can't be copyrighted. one of my favorite books has the title of a hendrix song. if you were picked up by a trad publisher, their legal will let you know if it's an issue
Honestly I think its best to post your work onto this board, it takes you out of it, but fuck it how am doing?
He sat with his eyes held at a distracted angle, their movement interrupted by a pervasive thought. He almost-recoils and shifts his gaze to the other side of the dimly lit room. He was aware of the slouch that seemed to descend heavily upon his posture, his shoulders were tensed in feeble resistance. The dull clinking of ice in a glass came from the bartender’s stirring, shadows had pooled into the indents on his face.
He had walked past a group of children playing in the street on his way to the bar. The road was still wet from rain and had a metallic lustre in the cloudy light. The manner in which they played was rougher than he remembers. They were comfortable in their environment, running through the coarse-edged street with an apparent disregard that can only be developed through childhood familiarity. Their entire focus was reduced to the game’s objective and the enforcement of its rules, which every child seemed to both acknowledge as sovereign and yet willingly bend and break when given the opportunity, a trait he had thought would most likely continue into adulthood. He had felt a fleeting sense of admiration for their innocence, the world was still to them irrelevantly big. They were blind to the hardships that would inevitably alter them and to the bleak perspective that they will develop with age, choosing either to sobering face or to drown and numb and distract from. This haunting premonition, this knowledge of the world they that would soon enter into, gave rise in him to a tragic sense of power. The power’s concept was vague and cruel and involved a replacement of their blossoming innocence with his own sad and hateful perspective. Had his mind always felt so weathered, he thought rhetorically.
>>7829265
EDIT I think its best not to post your work on this board*
She said “Andy, you're better than your past”
Winked at me and drained her glass
Cross-legged on a barstool, like nobody sits anymore
She said “Andy you're taking me home”
But I knew she planned to sleep alone
I'd carry her to bed, sweep up the hair from her floor
If I'd fucked her before she got sick I'd never hear the end of it
She don't have the spirit for that now
We just drink our drinks and laugh out loud
And bitch about the weekend crowd
And try to ignore the elephant somehow
Somehow
She said “Andy, you crack me up”
Seagram's in a coffee cup
Sharecropper eyes, and the hair almost all gone
When she was drunk, she made cancer jokes
Made up her own doctors' notes
Surrounded by her family, I saw that she was dying alone
But I'd sing her classic country songs and she'd get high and sing along
She don't have a voice to sing with now
We burn these joints in effigy and cry about what we used to be
And try to ignore the elephant somehow, somehow
I've buried her a thousand times, given up my place in line
But I don't give a damn about that now
There's one thing that's real clear to me: No one dies with dignity
We just try to ignore the elephant somehow
His foot steps echoed off the white marble floor and down the narrow hall drowned out by the flickering buzzes of fluorescent light.
At the end of this hall is a door, and behind that door is every choice Alex has made since April 3rd, 2074. Alex patiently strikes one of his last matches
enjoying a long slow drag feeling the warm smoke pour into his lungs and releases it into the cold air around him. It will take the guards at least 20 minutes
to regain access to the 3rd floor he could hear them already climbing up the elevator shaft screaming orders to go faster that ringed throughout the halls.
He stood infront of the chrome door and punched 6-8-2-7-4-9 into the the digital panel. The screen turned green flashing ACCESS GRANTED in bold white letters
the door silently opened and alex walked through knowing he was about to change the fate of humanity.
Ive never written anything before and Im sure it shows.
Here's the opening paragraph, one sentence, to a story called: "Sure, the Spirit Breaks Eventually, But the Real Question Is--Whodunit?"
>Michael SomethingorOther, wearing a tweed suit and a distinctly luminescent red tie, lunged from the top of a Pretty-Fucking-Tall Story building and plummeted, luminescent tie behind him, hands majestically outstretched, legs rigid and poised, looking really like an inspired skydiver, all the way down onto the July-baked concrete and splattered in three separate directions (countable) and a few myriad more (fucking impossible), dying instantaneously before the voyeuristic cameraman (his cellphone) who’d only wanted to capture footage of two exotic and gorgeous birds he’d never before seen parting and coupling midair in an ascending spiral when, by the happenchance of his following their trail, spotted with horror and the dumbstruck awe of inexplicability Michael SomethingorOther (later identified by his wife before a more professional cameraman and accompanying crew) perched atop the railing of his extended patio, his hands already outstretched and his body already keening forward in that slow momentum of pitch wherein gravity is just beginning to assess and determine the contours of the object it will soon press down upon with unremitting force towards (and eventually into) the surface below, staring agape as the unanticipated figure of that shot he’d hoped to show to friends and family back home projected forward and quite immediately thereafter took on a frightful trajectory and rapid descent.
>>7817407
It's an okay start to a story. Be sure to get a good editor, I can't stress this enough.
>>7815138
Interested in getting into creative writing. Does anyone know a place to start? I have so many ideas and I'm a decent writer but don't know how to go about beginning. Any opening I write sounds like crap. Any books or websites out there to help?
>>7829851
maybe read a 5-6 books from the genre you want to write in and see how they open them. If you like how one novel opens it then incorporate it into your own style and writing.
>>7829821
Why is it all one sentence?
>>7815138
Both stories I submitted to my university's creative writing journal were accepted for publishing, and I just found out that one of them won runner-up for best fiction piece. Comes with a cash prize. First time I've accomplished something of note with creative writing. I'm pretty excited.
>>7829998
Proud of you anon
>>7829821
>(his cellphone) who’d onl
strike his
>gravity is just beginning to assess and determine the contours of the object
i know the sensation you're trying to say here but you're saying it wrong, you feel me? cause gravity doesn't assess things, it's just there. Idk, it bugs me, I'd find another way to say it. It also seems to me that the sentence falls apart there through the end.
>>7829821
Geez man, I like your style (I think) but as one sentence that is kind of unreadable. There is no artistic reason that can justify making your story actually a strain to understand.
>>7829811
Straighten up your tenses, man. And remember punctuation. But keep working at it! Everyone starts somewhere.
>>7828788
Too wordy, too elaborate. Don't call 'em "searchlights" - just call them what they are, eyes.
>>7828239
Of course not. Lots of novels use song titles or lyrics in their names. That's a cool one too.
>>7826183
Start with something interesting. John having a breakdown or fucking a little girl or something. Starbucks is pretty much the blandest place in the world to start a story in.
Oh yeah and I wrote something but I'm mostly here to critique. http://pastebin.com/4HzKiWvG. It's from a novel I finished last year.
>>7817266
nigger/10
>>7826183
a "john" is someone who requisitions the services of a prostitute. I wouldn't refer to John as "a common 'John.'" I also get the sense that John represents you in a lot of ways, which if he does, it shouldn't be this obvious. Also, I want to kill that obnoxious narrator.
>>7820775
Really? Most girls I've been with are weird about it and I have to convince them I don't think it's weird.
Which, now that I think about it, kinda proves your point.
>>7828788
>The town a scab over rusty nature.
I like this sentence, but everything else is over-elaborate.
>>7829265
I'd cut this sentence. It seems like too much explanation.
>Their entire focus was reduced to the game’s objective and the enforcement of its rules, which every child seemed to both acknowledge as sovereign and yet willingly bend and break when given the opportunity, a trait he had thought would most likely continue into adulthood.
It was another boring bomb threat weekday. The kids ambled in lines, backpacks slung over shoulders. Cops lugged barricades on to roads with glazed over eyes brought on by rigorous drills. Bull horns bleated evacuation routes like airport bulletins. A girl giggled, and a boy read a book by a New York prophet. Inside, dogs pressed wet noses on sanitizer slick hallways while the crack of work shoes on tile ambled about. Shoe's voices passing idle chat of families and gossip. The tvs mounted on doors placed every twenty feet broadcasting white text on red background: PROCEED TO DESIGNATED EVACUATION POINTS.
Jim, earlier that day, as he gazed past Jenny's red hair and into the window at the playground where he had earlier sat watching starlings dance against a cloud choked sky, felt like his lip was detached, and even though his teeth could chew it, it felt like there was nothing there— a phantom limb without an amputation. Other heads sat turned against his vision as the podium's voice spat out squares and cubes. Five to the power of two is twenty-five. We get this by taking two fives and multiplying them. On the bookshelf sagging like a proscenium arch over the window sat shiny common core textbooks, their spines uncreased and signature pads blank. Jim clenched at the sides of his desk as the sounds abraded his distraction, and his neck began to softly glide over from the window as the insistent educational purr won out over the shaking cornfield and betrayed promise of the rainslick slide.
>>7829972
>>7830538
>>7830583
Hey. Thanks for the responses. I'll try to give some answers.
>Why is it once sentence?
To explain my intentions for this story would require more words than the paragraph I posted. That sounds pretentious, but it's true. Because the story's still in progress, I'm not willing to discuss its artistic intent until I can determine whether or not what I've created supports the style I've utilized to make it. Also, I like to write long sentences; I become very hyper when writing, and if I can stretch something, I'll stretch it. It's brain exercise and good fun.
>>7830538
>But you're saying it wrong, you feel me?
I think I do. A lot of my stories are cartoonish at heart. Things which don't require personification will receive a hint of it. And my primary concern tends to be with melody; I want the sentence to 'sound' good. It has to sound good to me. I know it won't sound the same to everyone else. That said, I'm aware of the final clauses tripping over themselves. I've sensed it myself. When the story's fully finished I intend to rework the latter portion of the opening. Thanks for the feedback.
>Geez man, I like your style (I think) but as one sentence that is kind of unreadable. There is no artistic reason that can justify making your story actually a strain to understand.
Thank you for the compliment, and for the honesty. There's purpose behind it but, as stated above, what that intended purpose is is moot until I've assessed the first full draft myself.
If you guys would like to see an example of something cleaner, here's the opening paragraph to another story on which I'm working. It's called 'Death Had an Off Day.'
> A man decided to leave his wife. Now, he felt terrible about the whole thing—he wasn’t really that mean a guy, being honest—and because he didn’t want to leave his wife without a boat, seeing as he brought the butter home, he laid on the table next to his letter farewell a sum of about 10,000 dollars. His hope, one has to guess, is that she would make smart use of the money and pay off the remainder of their lease as well as use her own income plus the leftovers of his to substantiate whatever finances they’d become used to alleviating together, alongside perhaps a latent desire to be thought of as a Good Person when all was said done; the emigrants of these things rarely get the sympathy that the abandoned enjoy, deservedly or no. People are pricks.
>>7831059
na that's staying but thanks anyway, theres a paragraph break after "shadows had pooled into the indents of his face btw.
Supine Duncan Thomas, the world-famous marine biologist, with his legs dangling from the edge of the poop, nursed his head. At his side was an old-fashioned pail, printed with the word ‘MILK’ and furnished with ribbed, wooden handle. it contained melted ice and two (half?) empty bottles of champagne. Oddly, however, it wasn’t the low-rate alcohol that he had consumed that was causing him his consternation, or even the metronomic slip-slopping of his yacht—though the combination was making him feel a little nauseated—but rather the earlier apparition, mirage, hallucination, of a large sloth hanging in the sky. It had hung there, in the sky, the sloth, from vacant trunk, chomping slowly on a vine of cirrus, as though that was entirely to be expected of it. The sloth. In the sky. Chomping on cirrus.
Duncan Thompson, the world-famous marine biologist, lay with his arms out spread-eagle on the poop deck of his $39,000 yacht, wishing the sky would stop spinning. The milky cirrus were circling shark-like around the big-bellied sloth, who hung vacantly from the ribbed, wooden handle of the pale sky. The melting ice lay supine on his head.
Thomas Duncan, the infamous poacher, nursed in the nook between ribbed, wooden handle and side, watching with perverse pleasure the consternation of the sloth as it struggled to stay afloat in the milky, bellicose wash.
Hammocked in his $39,000 pail, Thom Duncanson drew circles in the sky with a shark. The nurse watched. Chomp.
>>7817279
I like the concept. I think the intro paragraph is a bit too much though. I like the dialogue.
Is this an extract from a larger piece?
>>7818401
I get what you're going for here, but it manages to be unimaginative in its unimaginativeness.
>>7826183
I dislike the way this presented; it's very unsubtle and as a result very uninteresting. I understand what you're attempting here, but it needs some attractive quality if this is to work.
As it stands there's no charm or wit. We get it. The hackneyed writing represents the banality of contemporary life; however, this just comes across as banal without the consciousness of it that would allow it to work on an ironic level.
See >>7817279 for an extract that creates an effect of banality without being derivative.
Quick question and don't want to make another thread: I'm about to buy a Kobo Glo HD, should I pull the trigger?
question: is this last line a bit too silly for a cosmic horror story?
The Greenwich Village theater riot is a story that’s been told many hundreds of times, and though told more or less truthfully each time the grisly reactions of the spectators have been ignored. Ravings of madness, mass hysteria, practical stage effects used to a regrettably effective degree; all of these and more have been used to dismiss the incidents which took place there as the lunacy, or more insultingly stupidity, of a crowd which took any given opportunity to scream and cause mayhem.
I recognize as I write this that my account of the sermon given by Guru Mritasya will be similarly disregarded. It bears no details which have not been described by prior recollections, and it is not intended to be believed. I commit this memory to writing for peace of mind, because to this day my vocal chords slacken and my mouth fills with spit as I try to describe what I had witnessed. With that stated, I hope that you, Doctor Shapiro, get a damn good kick out of reading this, as this stage in my therapy really rustles my goddam jimmies
>>7831983
This seems like kind of writing that's loved by /lit/ and hated by everyone else. Why does his name change every paragraph?
>>7832591
REEEEE ANSWER MY QUESTION
>>7832642
This is a writing workshop on the wrong fucking board. If you want help you could critique someone's work. Alternatively you could fuck off
>>7832661
There is no discernible talent in this post.
reading ulysses rn so naturally:
Isn't that the dream? to piss with confidence? To spurt your loving stream directly in the centre of the piss-lake, with snotgreen Seafoam sizzling and crackling in a triumphant siren!
When we pull into the lay-bye both the kid and the woman have that meant look of people who are as you expected them. She is no beauty but she doesn’t look at all strained in this. If there were to be an auction you’d have her and many like her as a sure bet to swell your middling stock. I do not mean to simper but in the slight coughs of dust that the truck has kicked skyward she is rock honest and quite the picture of a mother about her business. The only surprise comes in a difficulty of imaging this creature going for the throat in a tight corner, which I only realize now I expected to be evident in some feline leanness about the eyes or lips. The boy is perhaps eight or nine. His limbs have the “get out of my way” eagerness of bamboo shoots looking for drinks in higher climbs.
>>7832694
It is about a child.
>>7832694
Not him but I wish this anti-alliteration assault would come to a complete conclusion. Alliteration allows the reader to remember rather forgettable features in fact and fiction alike.
>>7832694
The opening is intentionally plain.
>>7830501
Thanks, anon. It's nice to have made some progress!
>>7832857
>You try to pull this sexism shit with me?
The fuck?
>>7832874
I'll fuck the shit out of you.
>>7815138
>Got a weird idea a couple days ago...
In the land of Rocetai, after a century of family values, chastity, purity, faith and righteousness, is thrust into a civil war following the reemergence of magic and a revolution of lust, both thought to have been fully exterminated for good, threatens to throw the continent into degeneracy and doom. Libidos are raised, magical creatures once again roam, men and women are falling in love with the same gender,
Our hero is an ambitious young bounty hunter of twenty winters, born and cursed with the powerful and tempting magical ass of a woman, allowing him to outrun and outjump any man in Rocetai, but also giving him unwanted attention from any organism with a third leg... sometimes a fifth, hey, animals have taste, too! To make matters worse, this hunter is target by many powerful parties of the land, for an ancient, obscure prophecy claims that anyone who can truly dominate the firm, soft and muscular ass of this boy and take him fall in love with them will win the throne are bestowed with great, unknown power.
Between lusty monsters of the forests, a thriving slave trade, nude tribal warriors, a bloodthirsty queen and a powerful, well-endowed sorcerer from a forgotten land and time, the young hunter must make his way through the land, fighting off the many dangers. Along the way, our hunter makes many allies, including a burly, hairy forest ranger of the famous Silverbears, an ebony-skinned magic-man with two long sticks, one of which is a magic staff, a priestess who is as kind and warm as she is fat and busty, and a chaste knight woman who shares the same curse in her bosom.
With a price on his head and all eyes on his buttocks, and an unlucky knack for losing his clothes, can this youth use his cursed ass to save all of Rocetai from despair and find a proper candidate for the throne, or will he give in to his much-denied desires and become the whore of the Horned Sorcerer?
>>7832694
>reads like an autistic person on aderall
thnx bb
>>7832957
Thanks for the feedback. I'm still paying with a few things. I always get kind of bored with a concept and wrap it up too quickly, I think. I'm trying to work on that.
>His limbs have the “get out of my way” eagerness of bamboo shoots looking for drinks in higher climbs.
This is a wonderful sentence.
I wrote this based on a dream I had last night. This is a excerpt of the beginning, the story is about 8 pages in total length.
I had lived a happy and carefree life until the day my sister had asked me her favor. Her demeanor had been pleasant at first, a small ‘pardon me’ during the throes of a large party. Unknowingly, I followed her out and away, expecting little more than a talk concerning a man she’d met or a scolding concerning my own recent promiscuity.
Instead, my sister had brought me into our home and began sobbing uncontrollably. I tried to comfort her, tried to pry and find the thing that ailed her so miserably. For a long time, she cried, shivering and shaking beneath my hands. Her skin grew cold, her hair seemed to lose is vibrantly golden color and her teeth chittered so loudly that I became aware of the sound echoing off of the walls and floors surrounding us. I grew fearful of her health after a time. Stories of ghosts and wicked things passed through my mind in more and more detailed spurts and I found myself beginning to shake her violently.
“Quiet!” I screamed, forgetting the possibility of being overheard. “Tell me what is wrong, please!”
The shivering within her ceased and I lifted my hands. The chattering of her teeth was replaced by a cool but arrhythmic breathing. The sound of it was odd, it stuck me as familiar.
Slowly, she stood up and faced me. Her eyes were aglow with a violent yellow fire.
“Seles,” She said, her voice sounding as that like I’d heard all my life, yet different in a way I could not quite explain. “Seles.” She said again.
“Marin?” I choked back. I had become aware then that throughout the entire tantrum preceding this, I had forgotten to blink.
“Do you remember the man?” I felt as though I knew her question before she spoke it. The man she spoke of was once her husband.
“I do remember him.” I answered. “What is wrong?”
She turned from me and walked to the door. Her hair had taken on an exotic flowing motion, as if she stood in the middle of a great breeze. As she locked it, my fear had become a seemingly palpable thing. Why did her sweet and sun-touched face now resemble the face of an ancient vulture? What truly was wrong to have caused such a horrific change within her? Where were the guests? Why had no one flown to the scene following the long minutes of crying and my own shriek of ‘Quiet!’
Why had she locked the door?
>>7815149
>protagonist is an underachieving writer
>>7816604
Real good anon, keep it up
>>7833199
I'm intrigued, and I would keep reading, but the writing is awkward sometimes, and some (but not all) of the imagery seems a bit forced. Also:
>I became aware of the sound echoing...
You're writing in first person. Do you really need to say you became aware of such n such? Anything the protagonist says he's obviously aware of. Couldn't you just say the echoes were audible, or something like that?
Mini excerpt from my novel "Sid Royal: Visionaré"
Sid Royal, 26, gazed out over the metropolis he had built. His eyes, glazed, parsed the vast landscape, absorbing every building, every window, every door, every brick, nut, bolt and screw. He recalled with a smile how he watched his once noble underlings built this, but his smile faced, upon the recollection that they have now taken it away.
The beauty of the landscape was not enough to dilute Royal’s suffering. He took one final look at his creation, before leaping from Scott’s Tower, to become one with his baby.
Onlookers watched, unphased. They did not respect him any longer. His body exploded on the smooth gravel, painting walls and cars alike. Nobody flinched. Nobody cared. Only Carlos Goodfellow. Fucking Carlos.
>>7833262
That's actually what I'm editing around on my second pass through right now.
First run was to get everything out of my head, imagery included, and on paper so I wouldn't forget anything that was vivid or vaguely imagined up from my dream.
>>7817564
This is decent. First and third sentences need to be reworked. The second paragraph is strong, maybe expand on it. What religion is practiced in Belanglosland? What's the state bird? What's the title of the national anthem? What obscure pastime or export is Belanglosland "famous" for?
>Currently, the very modern President was emptying...
I think this sentence might be funnier if you removed "very modern" but kept the second "modern", but I'm not extremely committed to the idea, so if you like it then keep it.
bump please >>7832600
>>7833268
this is hilariously bad. You start with a rich, powerful character that nobody can relate to, overcompensate with a serious tragedy that is still unrelatable and which is mentioned in such a way that completely disrespects the severity. The characters react unrealistically and then you end with a ridiculous non-sequiter. Even the title sounds like the sort of thing a narcissist would write about themeselves
>>7833199
This is pretty good, but the characters talk in a really stilted, unnatural way. I don't know if you're trying to depict them as wealthy, high-born people but if you are it's not working. Even the rich use contractions
I haven't put much on paper, but can /lit/ give me general feedback on the short story I'm trying to develop? I'm a bit worried that the story might be kinda artificial and might rely too heavily on a gimmick.
Two decades or so after some devastating civil war, the war-torn US is a carcass of a first world nation. In particular, virtually all medium- or long-distance transportation is impossible because there are landmines pretty much everywhere leftover from the war. Outside of your village you're really not safe taking a single step.
The de facto civil authority in this semi-tribal "nation" has become National Defusing Company (Nadefco), who's business model I think is pretty self-explanatory. There's also their main competitor American Defusing Company (Amdefco) who markets itself as the humane defusing service to Nadefco's cold, calculating, business-first mentality. Amdefco, for example, quantifies its services in terms of the number of limbs and lives a service will save, as opposed to Nadefco who just tells you how many mines they'll remove.
Our protagonist is fifteen year old landmine defusing prodigy Sturvant. Sturvant gets a job at Nadefco as an engineer after passing a practical examination that required him to defuse a live landmine. Sturvant, however, impresses the proctor by using his superior knowledge of landmines to deduce that the live landmine is in fact fake.
At Nadefco Sturvant befriends the reckless ex-engineer Don, who ten years ago was also regarded as a landmine prodigy. Don's flamboyance and recklessness is meant to be a bit of a foil to Sturvant's cautious rationality. For example, Don also discovered in his practical that the landmine was fake, but he discovered it by first suspecting that the booster charge in his landmine (pic related) was actually just banana pudding, and then by tasting it and confirming that it was indeed banana pudding.
After violating a non-disclosure agreement some time prior to Sturvant's arrival at Nadefco, Don was demoted and now must perform what Nadefco calls janitorial labor ( = removing whatever is leftover of an engineer who accidentally detonates a landmine while in the field) for X number of years.
Sturvant and Don gradually uncover some sinister aspects of Nadefco's business model. The business model has one gaping flaw: there are only a finite number of landmines to be defused. Don reasons that Nadefco and Amdefco are actually collaborating in a conspiracy to secretly lay one mine for every mine they defuse. As Don is only a janitor, he needs Sturvant's help to confirm his theories as Sturvant has access to resources that Don does not.
If what follows seems like too much of a gimmick, then their confirming this conspiracy theory could be the end of the story.But so far I kinda think the story is a bit boring. Here's the gimmick:
Don's conspiracies become more and more absurd.Eventually he conjectures that Nadefco's real function is to provide a market for banana pudding.
>>7833459
Banana pudding has little nutritious value and thus there's not much a demand for it in a war torn economy. Don conjectures that this forced the various bakeries and Little Debbies of the world (which he calls Nabapuddco) to pivot and sell their banana pudding to Nadefco to use as booster charge in the mines it’s creating and laying. This is obviously a bit too ridiculous for Sturvant to take seriously.
Don becomes obsessed with banana pudding and begins to research the explosive properties of banana pudding, and all sorts of other puddings as well. He conjectures that the civil war was actually a false flag: the surplus revenue Nadefco receives following the civil war allowed them to delve deeply into banana pudding’s landmine potential. Eventually, Don becomes a renegade terrorist and goes around blowing up various pudding bakeries.
Sorry, this turned out a little bit longer than I was expecting.
>>7833468
Don had now gone off the map entirely.
In the months prior to his disappearance Don’s work had become sporadic. He came to work two, three days at best, per week. The times he did bother to offer an explanation for his absence he’d claim illness, usually food poisoning. Sturvant had reason to believe this wasn’t simply an excuse: as part of his research Don had become an almost exclusive puddingvore. His devotion to a diet of pure pudding was adulterated only by his occasional ingestion of banana bread (for grain) and vanilla wafers (for sturdiness); as Don explained it “even Jainists eat lettuce.” He researched all kinds of pudding including chocolate and vanilla, and a few of his own creation. But of all his mistresses banana pudding was the one to whom he was most faithful. He awoke every day at five in the morning and prepared a new batch of the custard and left it sitting on his kitchen table throughout the day. At the end of the day Don would perform a number shear stress tests on the pudding to measure the amount of shear thinning that had occurred. Don executed this duty with more discipline and diligence than he’d ever applied to his duties as a janitor at Nadefco. He made his measurements at eight pm and dutifully detailed his findings in one of his research journals (Bapuddjos). In addition to raw data Don included graphs, equations, and his own personal asides like “viscosity increases logarithmically with time that -30 degree shear is applied, exponentially with 0 degree shear, cf. ketchup.” The journals began to pile up. He piled his journals next to his piles of cookbooks and newspaper clippings of custard baking competitions, which were in turn piled next to his piles of textbooks on polymer chemistry and non-Newtonian fluid mechanics. The most important force to be studied was compression, since, in Don’s mind, banana pudding mines buried underground would be exposed more often to the downward pressure of the dirt that concealed them, although conceivably an imitation custard mine (which, remember, performs quite well under shearing) could be buried sideways, although then the blasting mechanism would have to be altered so that the mine would blast orthogonal to the horizontal rather than parallel.
>>7833479
Thus, real pudding mines should be buried right side up whereas imitation custard mines should be buried sideways.
Of course, Don researched more custards than just banana pudding and manipulated more variables than just angle of shearing. Temperature, altitude, and strawberry were all given due diligence. But banana pudding was the most scrutinized for the sole reason that Don found it the most likely custard to be used in Nadefco’s mines. Don concluded that banana custard was most likely because 1) bananas possess certain properties, such as high fiber content (which makes for a sturdy mine), which lend themselves to being landmine fodder that are not present in other fruits and because 2) after all, the first fake landmine that Don had ever encountered was verifiably filled with banana pudding.
On the days that Don did show up to Nadefco he worked at his own leisurely pace. The tasks he did manage to accomplish were done shoddily. For example, part of his duties as a janitor were detail in a Janitor’s Report the conditions of the corpses he found in the field. The human resources department of Nadefco felt that by considering and analyzing the wounds of a field engineer’s corpse, Nadefco could understand how the engineer had died and then speculate on the mistake he had made while defusing. Janitors were asked to note the position of the body. Had the body been projected or merely crumpled? How severe were the burns, and where was the location of the wound(s)? Don, however, had been neglecting his paperwork, and when he did take the time to fill out his report he rarely did so in sufficient detail, as Harrison from the mortuary department complained to Sturvant.
“Look, all of his ‘ideas’ and ‘research’ aside, you would at least expect him to show some basic concern for human life.” Harrison held up Don’s most recent report and shook it in the air. “This guy,” he said, indicating the report “this guy could’ve been you, Don’s only friend here, one day Don might find himself cleaning up after you due to a mistake that could’ve been avoided if Don had properly documented the states of the corpses he finds.”
Sturvant, who never made mistakes but forgave Harrison’s lapse in judgement, tried to explain that Don’s mental state was very bad, that he probably wasn’t in a position to be filling out paperwork, much less performing janitorial labor. That he really shouldn’t be coming in to work at all.
“Sturvant, yeah, Don’s gone a bit crazy. But this, this is just crossing the line. Look here, look what he wrote in the conditions of the corpse section.” He handed the report to Sturvant. In a section to which half a page had been devoted Don had merely written “well-done.”
>>7833262
>>7833339
Thanks for the notes, I really appreciate them.
Here's the second part that follows right after >>7833199
As she whirled upon me, another change had come over her. The skin along her neck and arms had become bruised and flecks of an ash-like substance had begun to float away from the large purpled areas, then, quickly dissipated into nothing above her. She lifted her hand, palm facing down, thumb tucked tightly to its side. Her eyes became watery and her mouth curled into a smile so vicious and strained that I had to gulp away the image her chewing away at my throat.
“I require a favor.” She said.
**
The image of that night still haunted me at every waking moment. As quickly as it had all unfolded, it just as quickly rescinded and the world was right once more.
“I cannot tell you all that I wish.” She began. “I can only beg you. Visit the old home. Find the roads we traveled together in our youth. Follow them until they go no farther then cut your own path. Do this thing, sister, but care that you bring your correct self. Falseness and fear will spell only your doom in the eyes of the great Witch and she will devour your fear as a lion devours a common mouse.”
She finished her request and the world grew alive again, save for myself. Now my sister was the one who came to me and cared for me so lovingly. The memories of her chattering teeth, her off breathing, and her eyes –how harsh and deathlike was their gaze- caused me to become feeble and I fainted.
It was not long after that I was far away from my life and traveling on the road toward our old one. Happiness seemed like a veil meant to cover the sense of dread that permeated all that I passed by. Trees blew in the breeze, their branches pointing me ever deeper in my quest. Shops grew bleak and seemed to withdraw from me, their occupants staring with a glazed look of curiosity and what I began to assume was an unexplained sense of hunger. Animals froze mid-step and gawked, giving no impression that they either feared or hated my presence.
I had begun a march toward something that all things held an innate curiosity to discover. Like a parade for a newborn royal, my journey was constantly followed and constantly admired by something that could neither praise nor object to it.
Eventually, I was among the old forests that had surrounded the home where I had been born. The roads had been marked and tread over for years, but the denizens within the trees and surrounding homes made themselves scarce towards my passing. Now my journey became silent. The rising and falling of the sun and moon reminded me of the death knells that followed the recently deceased. No birds sang at daybreak and no wolves or coyotes howled at the peak of midnight. The world was wind and the sound of insects. On the last day, I cried, if only to remind myself that I had not died and gone to hell.
>>7817560
Rothfuss kinda does this in Kingkiller
>>7827120
Momus - Trans Siberian Express (1992)
I'm writing a sort of childish short story for my class. In the story I've made a villain that wants to destroy a roller coaster. I want to let him destroy the roller coaster but I can't think of how he's going to do it. He doesn't want to hurt people so it has to be in a way that not that many people are injured. Anyone have any ideas on this?
Rate this story I wrote for a girl.
http://pastebin.com/xYuHypFF
>>7834444
rating: really pretentious
rating: do not give this to the girl
she will say wtf
Wrote after breaking up with a girl:
I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you perhaps ask.
I do not know. But I realize it and I am tortured.
The smell of roses and lilies and other flowers pervaded the Chantry of the Blessed Maiden. Up near the altar, two laymen quietly swung their sensors about the bejeweled corpse of their dead Emperor. Above the body hung a sunburst wrought in gold and silver with a massive sunstone firmly ensconced in the center. All about the late Emperor came the wails of women and the silent prayers of men.
Cathryn watched the spectacle, her lips pursed in mild disgust. They weep as though a god had died, she thought. The extravagance of her lord-husband’s funeral had nearly drained what little coin the Blessed Ruby Crown had left. She had tried to convince the Steward, Gius Michaelis, that her husband would be disgusted at the wanton waste of gold which could have easily gone to pay the many debts accrued by his predecessors. “My lady,” the steward had said in a thick Veenian accent, “Your late husband was one of the greatest Emperors to have ever graced the Throne of Saint Ciaran. A man of so great a stature deserves a magnificent celebration of his life." Cathryn had not liked his excuse, but with her husband dead she no longer held any sway over the Emperor’s Council.
In the five years that she had been wed, Cathryn had failed to produce a single son, or daughter for that matter. It seemed to her that the Maiden Herself had forbade her womb to quicken. Even so, Iulius had still loved her and she had loved him.
Cathryn turned to her bodyguard, “Escort me back to the palace,” the Brass Knight nodded and stood alongside her as she left her seat. The Dowager-Empress ignored the stares and odd glances as she walked silently to the gilded doors. Before she left, she took one last look at her dear Iulius.
Remember me. That’s what he asked of her that last day in his chambers, as he lay dying. When I am gone, remember me, Cathryn.
She would. She would remember him unto her own death.
“Milady?” Sir Quintus’ deep voice brought her back from the past. She turned to him and nodded. The Brass Knight took her arm and led her down the Chantry steps to her carriage.
>>7815138
There’s a freshness in the cold, early morning air of fall that those in cooler climates know all too well. The way the air initially stings the warm skin, the chill the wind sends up the spine of even the most bundled persons, the way the grass crunches beneath the pressure of the foot walking on it, how the early morning sun illuminates the variegated, slowly-dying, foliage. It was on one of these clear Saturday mornings that Donovan and Janey drove in silence on the Interstate towards Kernway Penitentiary to pick up Donovan’s brother, Paul.
>start writing about my life and what I've leared in it so far, sharing some ideas I was intrigued with
>write a whole page
>come back to it after a week, edit
>suddenly 5 pages appear out of nowhere from the depths of me
>next 5
>realize I might spend some considerable time putting the ideas and my experiences on paper and even stretch it to the lenght of a book
i will probably just keep writing and reading more books and use it as a self-check diary to re-read after some time, maybe even edit it and publish it as yet another /lit/ book. i have no wish to publish anything for at least next 10 years. i am a perfectionist and i know that i must develop as a person to give to society something they will value.
How do I find myself in the same situation every night? The same dark room lit up by the same empty glow from the same rectangular devices. It didn’t matter what TV show was playing, as long as there was something broke the silence. It never mattered. I‘m too entranced in the luminosity of my laptop to pay attention. Hell, everyone else is usually glued to some screen or another. I guess in some ways we are like moths to a flame. Do we hope for something different to happen beyond them? Or do they just mask the feeling of being alone?
I spark up a cigarette and linger around Facebook as if something new had happened in the minutes since I last checked. Nothing. It’s not unusual for this late at night, early in the morning depending on how you look at it. The boredom hits hard. I would do anything just for someone to talk to. After all, we are social creatures.
The ads taunted me as if they were stealing the very thoughts from my head. “Chat with thousands of singles near you,” “Find your perfect match,” “sxcbabe69 wants to talk to you.” It wasn’t like I hadn’t been on dating sites before and there was always the chance that there would be someone in exactly the same situation. I bought the bullet and hit the ad at the top of the list.
Signing up was a nightmare. Page after page of invasive questions. “On a scale of one to five, how happy do you feel? How unhappy do you feel? How successful are you?” It reminded me so much of those bullshit analyses they use in psych evaluations. I just clicked away.
Three. Three. Three.
I continued to click the middle ground. I didn’t feel that strongly about religion, politics, or any of that worldly garbage that didn’t directly affect me. I wasn’t going to rack my brain over a monotonous conversation with some right wing religious nut at this hour. Fuck that. Then finally I was greeted by the most terrifying part of the process. “Describe yourself.”
>>7834211
He could put glue on the track?
The man peers out from the foliage onto the small village. No movement. An old and weather-worn sign says
"Welcome to Walhalla
Population 234"
He moves out into the open and views the old, disrepair buildings. As he traversed through what must have been the main street long ago, a long dusty road, he noticed some graffiti.
"The waiting is hard
fucking takes so long
draped in sun
hands in sand
earth acid cleanses me
it cleanses me clean
but the world
it never comes
it never comes"
He could see the mountains above the town; the trees had recently been stripped bare by a bushfire which swept the entire area. It resembled the balding head of a elderly man. He decided to stay in the town overnight.
Later on, he had an epiphany of sorts. Almost everything around him was totally forgotten and unknown. The once-dense forest. The small mining town of Walhalla. The long-faded stars. The filthy mirror which he could barely see himself in.
He hadn't spoken to anybody in 4 years.
Like a bushfire, he took a winding and illogical path. Unlike a bushfire, he had a destination.
Jesus, this scene is bleak and Hilton feels discomfort that extends well into emotional synergy, his stomach twisting slowly like a corkscrew, doesn’t like this one bit: not the kevlar, not the rubber bullets, not the mob: full synchronicity; individuality dead and gone. In his car with a cigarette, Henk is joining the fun, it's an opium den, he’s even brought his dream stick.
‘Thought I forgot my lamp.’ Jimbo’s special lamp bought cause it was Made in China, which he feels has now become vintage wholesale, now that Taiwan’s name is all over the Happy Meal toys.
‘Just open a window...actually don’t, there’s police are here.’
‘They’re just here for the show man’
‘And also to do their job, with guns and fucking shields like it’s Thermopylae.’
‘It’s just rubber bullets, besides, not like they’re gonna execute you Death Wish style’
‘I was thinking more like Platoon.’
‘The fucking Green Goblin man’
‘You don’t have a drink, a flask or something, too shaky to drive.’
‘You worry too much man have some of this’
‘I’ll have your fumes, that should do me.’
‘Righto’
The two figures sit in the car, lights off, spectating as if the front window were a screen. It’s a TV dinner on the dark streets of Mulderneaux, the air is spicey, laced with rotundone, it begs to drift onto tongues, slip into the olfactory system. It is taste aversion. The fumes of discord, pumped by Eris as serum, in another ‘social experiment’ to bait the masses, trial the Lethal Dose requirements. WARNING: LOCK UP YOUR CHILDREN AND BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES TONIGHT THE DOOM WALKS, HARD AND SHARP AS THE PITCHFORK IT CARRIES, AND PYROMANIC. EYES SHIFT, WINDOW BLINDS CLOSE, THIS ISN’T THE WILD WEST BUT SAVAGE AFRICA. TerminatorTM. Africa indeed, where lions roam the streets as strays, they yawn in the midday sun under the robot lights, your taxi driver is a giraffe in a flat-cap who shifts cocay-een on the side. Would you like some? Now the pack is running, they have the scent, but they’ve smelt it all their lives - the anger, oppression, conditioning - and the structures are bleeding, municipalities torn apart by broken budgeting, an absentee government. But the pack wants blood tonight, primal and impatient, they don’t look to the leader of the herd - the big rich buffalo, President Athi Tolo - they sniff the lower ranker, the injured weakling and nothing but a symbolic police presence interrupts the feast trajectory.
Okay /lit/ let's see if you guys can help me with something. It's part of a mock image I'm making and meant to be humorous.
13,120 FT: Beginning of the Abyssal Zone. Water pressure at this level reach around 11,000 pounds per square inch. A lot of disgusting, disturbing-looking freaks dwell down here, where life consists of aimlessly drifting around an empty, black void in a perpetual state of sensory deprivation and no perception of the passage of time while awaiting death and hoping there's a discernable difference. If you're one of them, it sucks to be you.
20,000 FT: The Hadal Zone. Pressure levels reach 16,000 pounds per square inch, over Very-Fucking-Many times the amount on the surface. Only the most horrendously hideous evolutionary rejects live here, where surprisingly it is possible for life to get even more black, barren, and boring than it is in the Abyssal Zone. If you live here you're fucked.
How's the wording/sentence structure/grammar etc? Is it at least somewhat funny?
And yes, in case anyone noticed, I did steal the Very-Fucking-Many part from another post I saw ITT because I just thought it was kinda funny.
>>7835888
Feels like you're trying way too hard to be funny. There aren't any truly organic moments of humor in the piece, which makes it fall flat.
>>7835964
Hm, yes I think you are right. But what can I do to improve it? Can you give me an example please?
>>7836091
Well, that's kind of the problem with humor writing. My advice wouldn't be any less stilted or inorganic than your piece. It's one of those styles that you just sort of have to have a natural feel for. The only suggestion I feel confident making is for you to read books and authors that you find funny and try to get a feel for WHY they're funny.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1V3DTHW94kShTyYVKIwFmnhqwCiW1i3ozTh1I9pKEpL0/edit?usp=sharing
Would appreciate any advice please. I know what I want to write, but appreciate there may be some stylistic problems/bad prose
>>7835888
It just sounds like a typical 4chan teenager and by your writing I can pinpoint your age down to a very fine margin, some simple things that make this happen are:
-swearing is funny (teenagers)
-hideous rejects (kind of school playground language); see also 'sucks to be you'
-boring (teenagers find things boring)
Just grow up basically.
A lot of the critique I can give to a lot of posts in here can be summarised as:
"No one cares."
We, the readers, seriously don't care about your supposedly original take on examining an ordinary person's life. We know all about staying on a computer and you don't have the literary genius to pull it off whilst being entertaining. Here are some other things we don't care about:
-you had sex with a girl/you didn't have sex with a girl
-you can string random words together
-you can be 'funny'
-characters who sit there doing nothing all the time
-the history of your made up kingdom
People care about stories! Things that are extraordinary and happen to people which sum up the human spirit! Nobody cares about Middle Earth they care about Frodo! Nobody cares about Raskolnikov, they want to see if he gets away with it! People want action, intrgue, and suspense! I think a lot of you people are convinced that "literary realism" is actually writing mundane descriptions of people who closely resemble the writer, pondering their own failed relationships and being bored of daily life. We want to see characters full of life, like Rapunzel out of Tangled. Does she sit bored in her tower lamenting no! It's her DRIVE that makes her interesting, at the very least if half you people don't have DRIVE (we're on 4chan after all) try to make your characters have it!
>>7836341
off yourself to reddit
>>7836314
Ok. Point taken.
How about this. I just really need help with the wording, please. Even I can tell it's too verbose.
On an unrelated
Few days ago I saw a thread where someone was recommending a few books on writing fiction.
Anyone here can recommend any such books? Im kinda curious about it. The only one I can remember was from Stephen King, but Im not a fan of his purple trash books.
Originally in german, but here's my favourite quote so far of the book I'm working on:
Frustrated, because they couldn't go to war, the boys set up a pecking order wich would have impressed the most rigorous general, and because I couldn't exactly speak up for myself when I was a kid my place on said pecking order was located somewhere just under the autistic special needs students.
“Oy, Jimmy,” called over Tom, who held a red book in his hands. “Check this out. It’s fucking nuts.”
Jimmy sped to Tom, almost bumping the book out of his hands. He looked at Tom. “What is it? Don’t tell me it’s--”
Tom waved a hand to the side. “God, no. Come on.” Tom perused the book for a while and decided on a page. He passed the book to Jimmy. “Fucking told you it’s crazy.”
Jimmy read for a while, tapping his feet on the wooden floor. The book was hard to comprehend--he would read a sentence only to not have understood it at all. “Well. I don’t really get it--but, um, it sounds cool.” Jimmy turned the cover over, and read the title aloud--The Communist Manifesto. “Where’d you find this?” Jimmy asked.
“In my dad’s basement,” Tom said, grinning. He swiped the book from Jimmy. “I can’t stop reading it. You don’t get it right now, but it’s amazing. Fucking amazing. You’re gonna love it. Love, love, love it!”
Jimmy looked at Tom for a while, then looked down to the book, and then back again at Tom. “I’ll…” Jimmy hesitated. “I’ll try to find it in a bookstore. If I can, I mean. Yeah.”
“Atta boy! You’ve always been my favorite.” Tom said. He slapped Jimmy’s back playfully and laughed.
Jimmy felt his face get hot. He turned his head to the side. “Um...yes, Thank you.”
-
Jimmy had gone to his local Barnes and Noble the second he’d gotten out of school. He held the book Tom loved in his hands now, and felt giddy about reading it. But his mind ambushed him with trivial worries: what if he was just too dumb to understand whatever was in there? Tom was really, really smart after all. Jimmy wasn’t. What if Tom had only said he’d enjoyed that book as a joke? As a way to see just how far Jimmy would go to like the things he liked?
Jimmy tried to ignore his mind’s restlessness. He got into his bed, book in his hands, and took a deep breath. Opened the book. Read. Still--he didn’t understand. He tried again. Nothing. And again, and again, and again--and yet, nothing, nothing, nothing.
>>7836450
>>7836314
>>7835888
>>7835964
I'm this guy again. Can you guys please tell me what you think of these two revisions?
350 FT: Size of biggest foot in the universe. The disembodied appendage is an entity all its own, inexplicably self-aware and residing most of the time in a mysterious plane in which everything is bigger and smellier, and interdemensional-wormholes are literal. If the foot dipped itself into the water, it would be fully submerged at this point, and might not smell as bad after, which would be great news for everyone; and if the foot actually gave a shit about anyone but itself, maybe it would do that; but it doesn't, and it won't.
13,120 FT: Beginning of the Abyssal Zone. Basically, this is Nature's toilet; a place where being alive is more like being a turd, and life consists of aimlessly drifting in an empty, black void in a perpetual state of sensory deprivation while waiting for death (and hoping there's a difference).
Again the idea is to be kind of humorous, maybe a little clever, and well written.
http://pastebin.com/EjjLVgu7
Just fuck me up bro
>>7837159
>le epic drugs tale
I enjoyed it, even if I don't think much of the lifestyle you portrayed. Maybe I'm just a prude. You write very well. There was one slightly jarring misspelling of 'rhythmically' and a few questionable bits of syntax, but that's all really.
>>7837197
Thanks. I don't really live like that all the time.
>>7837336
It seems very hollow. But then so is my life of sobriety. Do you have a blog or something?
>>7820645
Grats, you made a romantic encounter sound like something from The Road.
>>7837378
You're right, it was totally hollow. I saw her once after that and it was terrible. No, don't have a blog but here's some more - less thoroughly edited so perhaps not as good.
http://pastebin.com/X3GpLRyq
Thanks for asking though, it's reassuring/boosting to be asked.
Hold your breath until I tell you to let go, ok?
Im taking the elevator up to a room, room 103B. In room 103B everyone is going to die. Not probably die, hopefully die, or maybe die…they’re going to die, all of them. Because of me.
A man told me on the street today on the way to this elevator “There are things going on all the time, and now that we have greater access to seem em’ them happen in front of us it gets confusing, but in the end love sets it all free, well that’s love…the only answer”. I shrugged and had my mind focused and concerned:
My pistols better not jam, im counting on at least 2 round to penetrate 2 and kill…well at least but the guy on pause until I have a chance to reload. Who knows, maybe the brain matter splattered on his face will do the job for me.
I don’t care whos in 103B, ive killed children before, during my time as an enlisted. Goddamn I hate that word and everything that comes with it….sometimes I think that hate is part of the reason why im hear this morning killing everyone in 103B.
RELEASE!
Goddamn are you still with me? Good because I believe this is going to be a great hit!
There truly is nothing better than to empty a room filled with people, Im not sure if it’s the burning flesh mixed with gunpowder or the fact that I cant feel my hand or hear anything after the first magazine is……dare I say it too soon? EMPTY
I hope your heart hasn’t calmed down because were gonna need this adrenaline together.
Oh wooden oak door with gold plated letters and numbers? It really is a bad thing that so much terrible things will happen in this room soon at such a nice place, I would eventually move here if it wasn’t such a security issue.
Okay, im going to kick the knob down and finally meet the people of room 103B, just remember what the man said on the street.
…..
I love what I’ve done.
I've gotten good feedback so far, but then again I've only shared it to people I'm close to. I'd love some honest opinions.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JTuilGY7nBB9wFtrR7LZc-f6M2LkAGt2ET_RCnOui7g/edit?usp=sharing
"Lord have mercy, oh please."
She wept into her Crylex pillow that cost an ample $400. Her skin seethed with the white-hot anxiety that comes from sweltering fever-dreams and cool-down nightmares. Falcons darted and loomed in and out of the distance, planes weaving a web of air trails.
Insectoid gutter-screams.
Mud-flinging windchimes in post-modern America.
Is it really sincere to be sincere? This is the question she asked herself in her continuous stream of superfluous tears. Her husband sought a divorce.
>>7815138
“Fuckin Chinese buzzing us...again!!” the captain said through clenched teeth, throwing his hands up. He spun around in his chair, clearly expecting to hear his crew vent as well but came face to face with the admiral.
Admiral Amy Ling looked at him, expressionless, standing there in her parade dress uniform and looking spectacular. There hadn't been enough time for her to change into battle dress. Everyone else on the bridge was silent, waiting to hear what the admiral had to say.
Ling walked over to the radar station, and then calmly looked at the sonar.
“Status report”, she said, calm and flat.
“Status report?” spat Captain Cleese, “they're testing us again, I'm gettin real sick of this bullshit, we oughtta blast one of them fuckers outta the sky! Teach em not to mess with an Aegis, baby”, Cleese replied, creating a few chuckles on the bridge. Ling looked at him and paused, still stone-faced. She turned to the radar chief
“Russom, have you confirmed the targets are Chinese military aircraft?” Ling asked.
“No... they're bogeys at the moment, ma'am” the corporal replied.
“How far away?”
“40 kilometers, ma'am, they'll be here any minute”
“Oh fuck sakes man,” the captain started, “they're goin like mach 1.5, obviously it's that J-20 bullshit they've got. Admiral, I mean come on, they aint civvy planes, are you kidding?”
This time the admiral didn't even look at the captain when he spoke. Her eyes remained on the radar station.
“Russom, have any of the aircraft locked on to us with their radar?”
“No ma'am, no radar locks”
“Petty Officer Chua, have you identified any...” began Ling
“Admiral, seriously now, they've been doin this bullshit all day and all night....” Cleese started
“Chua have you identified any sonar contacts?” Ling cut him off.
“No sonar contacts ma'am”, Chua replied.
>>7838225
The admiral walked over to the weapons station, her eyes darting back and forth, she pressed her lips together tight and furrowed her brow. She stood there, looking intently at the weapons control. Everyone on the bridge was at their station, eagerly awaiting orders. The captain was gripping the railing tight, holding his breath, and finally he burst,
“We can't let em fuck us around like this, admiral! They gotta learn to respect the NATO navy, if we let em pull off this shit, then...”
“Captain!” Ling said, raising her voice for the first time, “when I need your input I'll let you know” she said, shooting him an icey glare. He stood there, nostrils flaring, jaw quivering, clearly on the verge of speaking, but just barely stopping himself.
“Weapons” Ling spoke
“Ma'am” the weapons station replied
“Wait for the bogeys to close on our position to 1000 meters, and then fire the phalanx defence system in their direction, but as low to the water as possible.”
“Yes admiral, warning shot, aye” the weapons tech replied.
“Correct” the admiral replied.
The bridge was silent.
“Ma'am, 1500 meters,” said the weapons tech, “1400...1300...1200...1100...” the weapons tech flipped a switch and looked out the window. A loud buzzing sound like a giant hornet could be heard to starboard. Ling walked towards the windows just in time to see the bright yellow streams of tracer rounds fly out into the ocean. Right away she saw the fighters pull up. Her excellent vision allowed her to distinguish the bogeys, they were indeed J-20's.
“Ma'am we have radar lock, the targets are J-20 Chinese air superiority fighters,” said Russom, “and they have disengaged.”
Ling stared out the window for a moment longer, then made towards the exit.
“Captain, a word” Ling said quietly, walking out of the bridge through the hallway and out onto the catwalk. The wind was loud, offering some privacy.
“Admiral, all due respect an everything,” said the captain the second he closed the door, “these Chinese assholes been buzzing us 12 hours straight now, an I guess a warning shot is better than nothin, but... you know you're takin it real easy on em”
“Captain, you aren't seriously suggesting we open fire on the aircraft of a foreign nation while over international waters?” Ling asked calmly, just barely audible over the wind.
“Look, I'm just sayin, like, they're bein hostile, you know? And we gotta meet might with...”
“We have our rules of engagement, captain, and I will follow them. I demand that you do the same”
“Rules of engagement!? They shot one of ours down yesterday!”
“That was because he entered Chinese airspace and did not turn around when ordered to do so”
>>7838229
“Are you fucking kidding...” the captain pounded his fist on the door but stopped mid sentence. “Admiral, look, I'm happy that you rose through the ranks an all and I'm happy the navy is promoting multiculturalism, but maybe putting a Chinese admiral on a ship to face the Chinese isn't the best idea”
Ling's eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. She stood there, aghast, speechless for a moment. She slowly recovered from the shock of what she just heard, and restored her blank expression.
“Captain I am a Canadian and in command of this NATO battlegroup. If you ever question my loyalty again I'll have you removed immediately. Dismissed” Ling hissed.
“Aye aye, ma'am” the captain sighed. There wasn't sarcasm in his voice, only the sound of disappointment. Ling could tell the captain really believed what he said, looking like a doomed man.
>>7837942
good intro, if that is the intro
I dreamt I was a Caterpillar. But I was eaten by a stork. I webbed myself into a cocoon, as I was swallowed and survived. I lived in the storks stomach until one day I broke my cocoon and started fluttering around. The stork fell in love with a woman and brought her a baby.
The baby was me.
I woke up today with those sentences in my head. Does it mean anything /lit/ ?
https://www.dropbox.com/s/hfou9d5vpzhcet0/Intro%20-%20Draft%201.docx?dl=0
First draft and a first attempt at writing in a long time. Don't be gentle but please be constructive.
>>7838705
I can picture some sort of new-aged healer telling this story while being really over-expressive with her arms.
>>7839049
Not going to download from a dropbox.
I hang out with a bunch of experimental/noise musicians in my area, so this was bound to happen eventually.
I did a spoken word recording with my main nigga, and this is what we did
It's a new idea, and needs a lot of work, but any help identifying what was successful about this (as far as the words, and the blending of them with the music) and what needs to be put into the garbage would be cool.
>>7839068
oops
https://soundcloud.com/weeperthgs/thgs
Swinging a gentle arm across the canvas, the brush ripples at the edges of the stilled water, a trail of natural weakness expressing itself in the trembling motions of the young boy. Should've used a darker palette for the sea really, looks like the sky is invading through the horizon. Maybe just a few touches of foam to patch it up? A little white, a little blended grey in the shade of the arches... And there, a great surging way out at the fringe of the bay. Not exactly what I had in mind, but I suppose storms are rarely intentional. This one at least is a safe distance away– so why am I hearing so much thunder?
No, wait– it's just Papa's careless footsteps climbing the spiral staircase. There's no question that he drank himself into a raging tempest last night. Missed the real violence of the bay with the distractions of his own, though hopefully his mind is foggier than all this brightness we have today. Mornings are rarely his strong suit (or at least one of his less turbulent moments) and I know how guilty he gets seeing the bruises. His conscience pushes him even further into the bottle and then he forgets why he ever felt bad in the first place. Best to keep out of his w–
“Addy, if you'd care to take a pause from all this serene contemplation”, his arm arcing in mock veneration at the surface of the water beyond the window, “It wouldn't be too much trouble for you to wander into town for breakfast?”
I paused as the momentum of his trailing hand caught the door and clouted it against the steel bookshelf, dislodging a worn volume of poetry onto its spine with a sharp thud. You could hear the echo spiralling to the bottom of the stairs, collapsing under the weight of its own intrusiveness step by rusted step.
“But it's the middle of the day.”
“Precisely, and seeing as our fast has remained unbroken since last night it would seem a perfectly appropriate time for feasting, no?”
“Where do I have to go?”
“Where are we going, my dear boy: the walk and fresh air will do me good”, winking through a bloodshot eye as he began drawing tobacco and rolling papers from his breast pocket. He span round sharply with the careless vigour of a younger man, grazing his shoulder against the doorframe as he left. “We leave in five minutes, and I expect no tardiness!”. Papa isn't usually so erratic at this time, and he certainly isn't one for spontaneous gestures beyond the drawing back of an open palm. I slipped my toes into a brown pair of weathered boots, and dared to linger a gaze through the window on a fishing boat until it passed over the horizon and disappeared out of reach.
>>7839049
Its nights like this that I hate my job. The pounding rain against my skin, the cold catching in my lungs, blood seeping down my face, enough to make me wonder how the hell I got here. Why can’t I just have a day job like everyone else? A regular nine to five, sit at a desk, answer a phone to a hundred miserable assholes whose phone won’t load porn fast enough or the housewife who can’t figure out how to reset the modem. Instead I’m here, with a few cracked ribs, definitely a broken nose and three assholes ready to go for more.
‘You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you Harry? Ya just had to be the hero.’
His goons laugh on either side of him, idiots laughing in fear of their boss. Doran ‘Jokso’ Joksonva, enforcer of the Serbian mob, six foot four, three hundred pounds of raw soviet era muscle. The lines and cracks are deeper than the last time I saw him, grey and white joining his slicked black hair. He’s starting to show his age. Not that he’s lost a step, he must be fifty years old and still moves like a teenager. The only thing that’s changed is he’s gotten smugger.
‘And miss an opportunity to see your gorgeous mug again, not on your life.’
‘That’s what I like about you Harry, never been one to back down from a fight’
With a hand wave he walks away, his massive gate striding back to the car.
‘Cлoмити нoгe!’
‘What boss?’
‘šupak, he said break my legs. You call these idiots gangsters Josko?’Half a smile broke across his face, like he agrees with me and closes the door to drive away. The two left are new, you can tell by their apprehension in their faces, unsure as to who should move forward first. The youngest must be around eighteen years old; barely old enough to know how to use his dick let alone be in a gang, dressed in knock off designer jeans and shirt, trying to impress those around him. The other is maybe twenty five, fat and soft, dressed in gaudy jewellery and a tracksuit like some kind of horrible 90’s throw back. No joke either of them but young and stupid, all brawn and no brains. Reaching into my coat pocket, rummaging to find what I’m looking for around my cigarettes and receipts.‘What the hell you doing old man?!’And there it is; my trusty dusters, an easy equaliser.
‘Fuck this, get the asshole!’
This should be a decent fight. It’s nights like this that I love my job.
>>7839086
>his massive gate striding back to the car
What, did this asshole drag a fence with him to this street fight?
>>7839166
Misspelled gait, apart from that is it atleast OK?
>>7839086
this is ok but nothing special. a tough guy making wisecracks in a fight is pretty standard fare for the mystery genre.
>>7836135
Anything guys?
>>7836135
It's not terribly written but I wasn't enthused by it. I hope this isn't the beginning of whatever you're writing and rather an extract from further on, because this is how it reads.
You have a tendency to overwrite:
>He had been having dreams more frequently but they meant very little to him. Perhaps it was just dehydration getting to him.
Is the 'getting to him' really necessary? The repetition adversely affects the flow.
Here's another example of where you are guilty of repetition:
>He grasped her handlebars with genuine prayer as they set off on their journey together again, Nayeen grasping him firmly around the waist.
'Grasp' twice? 'Firmly' is redundant in the second instance and is implied by 'grasp'.
In some places you also need to consider more closely the meaning behind your words:
>There was no life except the occasional vulture or jackal and the rusted, skeletal wreckages of vehicles they passed every once in a while.
Do abandoned vehicles count as 'life'?
These are just a few examples. I hope they help and that you are able to apply the same thinking to all of your writing.
Good luck.
>>7815384
>in these threads
Almost everyone is a hack.
Ella clumsily led Katie into the shower stall. She wasn’t quite comfortable being the dominant one, but she saw the situation. Katie stood naked, feeling exposed in a way that she never felt, with the also naked, but somehow powerful, Ella staring at her with those blue eyes, like she could see all the way through her. Ella leaned over and turned the shower on, running cold water over Katie, who shrieked.
She let Katie get all wet and shivery and then she stepped into the shower also. Once she got in, she lay sweet and light kisses on Katie’s face awkwardly, not really knowing what to do.
“Do whatever you want to me,” whispered Katie into Ella’s ear.
“Like what?” said Ella, shivering, timid.
“Tell me how you want me to be, push me against the wall,” said Katie. “Play out your fantasies.”
Ella thought for a moment, confronted with the beautiful, starkly naked Katie, she was at a loss for words.
“I know you’re a dirty girl,” said Katie.
Ella, emboldened by Katie, pushed her stepsister against the wall and moved in close. She hesitated for a moment, shocked by how forward she was being, and then worried she would lose the momentum, stuck her thin, pink tongue out and, holding Katie tightly by the chin, licked the side of her face, running her tongue the full course of Katie’s face. Katie sighed. The initial weirdness disappeared and Katie realized she liked it.
When she got to Katie’s eyebrows, she stopped. Pulling back and looking over Katie’s wet, trembling face, taking in the results of her bold action, she leaned in again and took the tip of Katie’s round, button nose in her mouth and sucked it for a little before sticking her tongue out again and running it along Katie’s face.
Ella, taking control of herself, pressed her body as tight as she could against Katie’s and went in again, this time for a real kiss. They locked lips in the most natural way, like their lips were meant for each other, like a key going into the right keyhole, like two puzzle pieces connecting. Their lips sat so comfortably together, it was almost a shame they’d have to part at some point. It was a shame they couldn’t stay like this forever.
>>7840203
We write literature here, slag.
>>7840195
>in these threads almost
Everyone is a hack
He was awoken by the sound of his alarm clock going off at around five-thirty. The sound it emitted was more than enough to bring his mind back from the nightmare he was having. None the less he let it rang for five more minutes as a deterrent until he was sure he won't fall asleep again once he pushed in the stop. Once he did that he stared at the ceiling for a moment or two, before getting up from his bed.
He switched on the lamp placed on the bedside table, and got dress for his morning activities. Green long hunter shirt, wool hunting pants, and fraying boots. The clothes were perfect when hunting in the woods. He grabs a small notebook and wrote his to do list for the day. On the top of paper, what was written on it was, the current day, July 20th. With six objectives which consist of checking the hen house for any eggs, also feeding said chickens. Check the vegetable garden to see how far along are they. Check the animal traps he planted thought-out the forest. Hunt the buck he saw a week before today. And make something for dinner
He then would walk in the dark kitchen room and opened the cabinet doors. The breakfast in which he would eat only consists of a glass of water, loaf of rye bread, and green apple. He finished his breakfast slowly, thinking back on how his grandmother would make breakfast when he was little. After finishing his breakfast he threw the remains of the apple to garbage, he put the bread crumbs into a muslin sack and the cup into the sink.
please tell me if it's good or not
>>7820645
'Ennh' is not a sound I've ever heard or made.
>>7840274
You're not a native English speaker or this is bait
>>7840216
I'm not, I'm great.
>>7840331
English is not my first language.
>>7840331
is their something wrong with it?
>>7840351
Yeah the tenses are all over the place. I think you'll need to get a much firmer grasp of on the english language before you can hope to produce good work. Don't give up though.
>>7840565
>He was awoken by the sound of his alarm clock at five-thirty. The sound it emitted was more than enough to bring his mind back from the nightmare he was having. Nonetheless as a deterrent until he was sure he won't fall asleep again once he pushed for it to stop. Once he did that, he stared at the ceiling for a moment or two before getting up from his bed. He switched on the lamp placed on the bedside table, and got dressed for his morning activities.
>Green long hunter shirt, wool hunting pants, and fraying boots. The clothes were perfect when hunting in the woods. He grabbed a small notebook and wrote his to do list for the day. On the top page of the paper was written the current day, July 20th. With six objectives which consisted of checking the hen house for any eggs, also feeding said chickens. Check the vegetable garden to see how far along they are. Check the animal traps he planted thought-out the forest, hunt the buck he saw a week before today, and make something for dinner.
>He then would walk in the dark kitchen room and open the cabinet doors. The breakfast which he would eat only consists of a glass of water, loaf of rye bread, and green apple. He finished his breakfast slowly, thinking back on how his grandmother would make breakfast when he was little. After finishing his breakfast he threw the remains of the apple into the garbage, he put the bread crumbs into a muslin sack and the cup into the sink.
I ask others on lit to see any improvement, is it any better
>>7840802
Not really. Keep reading/studying anon.
>>7815138
Holy shit, I made this thread a week ago and it's still here. Shit on /b/ and /pol/ never lasts this long.
>>7841163
/lit/ moves very slowly, anon
crossposting from other thread
Something I wrote when I was autistic: http://pastebin.com/raw/rHQfhyhB
>>7834760
Sounds fucking retarded.
>>7841562
>too much technical jargon
Noted. I've noticed a problem among all my writing is that I assume the audience knows too much. Sometimes I get scared though because writing as if you're audience is brain dead is also bad. I need to work on finding that sweet spot.
“Thank you,” shortly said Arthur putting the smooth fabric on his face and feeling the same smell as two years ago.
“Just how stupid are you?” said Rebecca in a voice as sad her expression.
“It was just… I needed something to clear my mind.”
“Not just that,” continued Rebecca in a tired tone, “You constantly do one stupid thing after another. Agreed to the destruction of the world to get power, threw it all away because of one small incident, took journey across the whole continent with no idea what to do when you reach the end and even now you still don’t want to accept your role. You are the one among millions, you stopped being a normal man four years ago when you took this power. You think I don’t want to be with you? It’s you who can’t be with anyone. You gave away that luxury because you were chasing greatness and now you are greater than others but don’t want to admit the responsibility of it. Millions of people can disappear without leaving a trace on humanity, but every action you take changes the course of the whole world. When will you understand what you are, Arthur?”
“I’m trying, Rebecca,” said Arthur quietly, “But no matter how much I want to reach for something greater, I can’t do it because I’m just a man. I may have lost my right to be normal, but I stayed the same. And in the end of the journey I will still have to make a decision as a man, not a King.”
Rebecca moved closer, putting her hands over Arthur's that were still clutching at the scarf.
“It is still your choice, just like it was four years ago. Kings don’t get born to this world from divine power, they are just people who chose to become more than they are for the good of other people.”
“It must be nice to not have memories of the old world,” replied Arthur with a sad smile.
He let go of the scarf. Rebecca took it and gently pressed against her chest. She turned away and walked to the campsite, once again leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts. He shivered from the cold water and took off his drenched robe. With Rebecca gone Arthur started walking again, slowly moving along the edge of water. He looked in the lake and saw the reflection of stars distorted by the ripples. Once again he lifted his head to look at them, tiny light coming from immeasurable distances of vast emptiness. And in this moment his attention fell to one of them: it was very small, hiding in the presence of the brightest star of all on this majestic sight. The star was so small, so tiny it was barely visible, but Arthur suddenly thought, that without this tiny star, the largest one would lose its grandeur. And like that, suddenly Arthur saw every single star on the sky and every one of them had its meaning, every one of them could fill the sky by itself. Maybe if one disappeared it wouldn’t make the others follow, but it would still create a completely different sky.
>Read something amazing
>Gets me motivated to write
>Start to think about what I read
>Have no idea how they managed to write what they wrote, how they formed their thoughts, how they did anything to make their writing moving and powerful
>Start to overthink things
>Get crippling anxiety and do nothing instead
Every day of my life. Someone just shoot me. I'm tired of this.
>>7842767
>write something
>think it's good
>wonder if maybe I'm just incapable of realizing that it's actually complete shit worse than Eye of Argon
>get too scared to show it to anyone
>>7817362
10/10
>>7815138
An arid highway, that’s what it’s like; right in the middle of the godforsaken desert. It looks pretty well maintained from a bird’s eye view, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel the opposite. Traffic, potholes, cracks running from tip to tail. The clouds boil and swirl a wicked dervish, hellish red and blazing mauve ripples, tire tracks off the pavement, for those who just couldn’t wait only to join back when it was plain convenient despite the needs of others. It’s incredible, really. Truly it is. You plan your trip and it’s going to be fantastic. You plan, knowing all the stops you wanna hit and you piece it all together. You don’t just want to see the sights; you want to be part of them. Leave your own little mark on the world, right? But strike me down if everyone isn’t riding the same delusional wavelength, the road’s own personal Poseidon letting all the monsters of the sea drag you right down to the briny depths of a tan dune whenever he damn well pleases. But others look to the highway and right through you, ignoring your trip’s catastrophe and planning a vacation on the same exact route. Hell, you ignored the lost before you. Ignorance is bliss blah blah blah, that’s just the calm before the storm, honey. The rise before the fall, the cliché before the cliché. Hubris, right? What a trip that is. And what amazing trips it’ll take you on. But when you’re on the arid highway, dehydrated and drowning, is when your trip comes to an end. And in the end, you’ll wish that you stayed at bird-eye’s length from the Pavement Styx.
I sat unsatisfied with my own satisfaction. The fork in my mouth carried with it only remnants of the Caesar salad, poorly crafted and despicably priced. Lack of consequences leads to lack of standards. When someone presents to you a Caesar salad devoid of quality, and you accept it, it’s an indication. Not necessarily of their own incompetence or even your tastes but of your lack of enthusiasm for things. Is eating such a Caesar salad really a matter of enthusiasm? Probably. But then it’s about why that salad is even allowed to exist. What chain of events led to the validity and commonality of a Caesar salad with improper dressing going for a whole six dollars? I didn’t know the answer or why I wanted to know the answer but,in the midst of my chewing, this problem of life had become vital for a small span of time. Pausing my complex intellectual coup, I realized my experience with the salad had come to an insufficient end. It would’ve been lazy of me not to put the tray on top of one of the eleven garbage cans within my potential line of sight, so I chose the sixth and did so, but not before I allowed the styrofoam salad container to drift lonely into the can’s newly emptied stomach.
The food court’s inhabitants outnumbered the average at this time on a typical day. Quarter to four in the morning leaves few people and even fewer doubts about intentions. The passion for food court cuisine within the room would have been tangible had it been amplified by the closing of other food court areas within the state. When one’s usual stop for early morning restaurant ring around the rosie doesn’t serve its purpose, those hunting for such a thing will be satisfied even if it means an hour drive. This didn’t happen, of course, but I would’ve liked to imagine it an exciting event had it. I slid on through the mall despite my disappointment, and I came quickly to the realization that I had parked in the parking lot on the opposite side of the complex. This realization brought with it a series of three feelings: dread, towards the increased amount of walking required of me, followed quickly by anger, towards myself for not realizing that my eventual location would inevitably have been that food court, followed slightly less quickly by disbelief, that I had been thinking about this series of emotions instead of making my way towards my transportation from this demagnetized place.
The time it took me to walk to my car proved ample for contemplation of that which was in store for me in a few hours. Gorilla had been pretty adamant about the meeting time of noon, which I thought was a tad conspicuous, especially when he had used the adjective “high” in front of it. His theatrics were not wasted on me, however, because I appreciated the romance of ridiculous description. Our compatriots, less so, but this of course didn’t stop him from abusing his slightly bedazzled persona to distribute drama.
I want to take the time to think about everything; everything thats little. Like the empty school halls and the dim lights over all the lockers. Like the empty suburban streetlights with only pavement to shine on. Maybe think about someone else. It doesnt have to be someone you know from school. But know that someone somewhere, is at a party and theyre out there. Maybe think about someone else, a smart business man, he is going home to his kids. Then think about yourself. Lonely, its not a bad thing. Infact, its a comforting feeling for me. Everyones asleep in the house except for you.
>>7843134
Second sentence needs reworking, either section it to several or add at least one more part to it and put "and" before the part about tire tracks. I honestly have no idea what that "Poseidon" sentence is about, but maybe that's just lack of context. The sentence "The rise before the fall, the cliché before the cliché." is too much of self-aware bitter irony for the rest of the text, it falls out stylistically. But overall style I like your style, maybe trim down on adjectives a little and don't go overboard with metaphors.
>>7816604
trying too hard
>>7817279
meaningless
>>7817362
probably a joke
>>7817407
please stop
>>7817564
not too bad. dont get masturbatory though
>>7818401
empty
>>7818871
be more coherent
>>7820035
not bad but too wallowing
>>7820645
what the fuck is ennh
>>7822866
mediocre
>>7826183
theres no substance. youre trying to be conversational and it doesnt pay off
>>7828788
calm down
>>7829265
vary sentence structure
>>7829811
just stop writing please
>>7829821
trying too hard to be unique
>>7831983
very intellectual if youre into nonsense
>>7832718
use more contractions. "she is no beauty" sounds so much clunkier than "she's no beauty"
>>7833199
work on flow. read your sentences aloud so they dont get cluttered
>>7833268
so dumb
>>7834775
0 flair whatsoever my wife's son could write this
>>7843146
Pretty funny. Especially since the first paragraph leaves you thinking of nothing but CEASAR SALAD it makes you largely ignore more boring second paragraph and delivers straight to third where actual comedy starts. Not sure though if this would be largely popular, modern public prefers more raunchy and aggressive jokes to such quaint avant-garde humor.
Where do you do writing most of the time?
Do you listen to music or anything else?
Type or write?
>>7844682
Most of my ideas and first-draft poems are scribbled down on extra-large post-it pads that I keep around the house.
Bulk writing happens at the computer.
>>7834444
>do you know
>know what
>i dont know
urg.
also:
-ly
-ly
-ly
-ly
i dont like itly
