post lit get hit
you know the drill. Prose and essays accepted but we won't do your homework for you.
there should be a literary version of the critic
I'll take the dive. This 1/2 of my 8000 word short story that I'm editing.
the last time i posted in one of these my lit was so bad the thread died instantly
>>8056912
and here is the link
http://pastebin.com/MSW7DJnH
I wandered from room to room, trying to take in the whole house, so many rooms fragmentary, disparate from each other yet spreading outward, virus-like. I lit some incense and sat on the floor of the emptiest room, letting the clutter of the rest of the rooms disperse from my head - merely reflection in the bottom of the antique brain-glass. I started to mentally categorize the clean-up process; books, magazines, newspaper clippings; dolls, toys, stuffed animals; old cigarette roaches, candy wrappers, crumpled job applications, etc. etc.
>>8056965
First two sentences need their punctuation fixed up. I would put in a period or two to make it more readable.
>>8056920
And now I want to read the second part. this could be great or kind of terrible depending on the second part
“Interesting, isn’t it?”, la Lame proposed, “you give them everything they ask for, but they all beg for the same thing in the end”, Jacques presumed la Lame had recognised his fixation on the raw knuckles and was somewhat elaborating. Jacques’ mouth slightly opened, as if there was something it was telling him to say, but there were no meaningful words he could conjure. “May I smoke?”, asked la Lame, procuring a fittingly pristine pipe from his suit jacket’s internal pocket. Jacques presumed the hanging smoke in the air was enough of a suggestive, but he still let la Lame know it was perfectly alright out of politeness, as he presumed politeness drove the man to ask in the first place. “They all beg for the same thing”, la Lame repeated,
random passage, be mean to me if need be
pic for aesthetic
"In 1992, Bachem Macuno secured a coveted job as the writers assistant on The Cosby Show, through his connection to Cosby's TV daughter Lisa Bonet, whom he had served for some years previous as a dealer of lab-grade hydroponic marijuana. The show, then in its eighth--and ultimately final--season, had been a groundbreaking cultural event in television history and had almost single-handedly turned also-ran NBC into the most dominant American network for years to come (TV historians commonly point to the direly sub-mediocre run of 'Jesse' as the beginning of the end). By this point in time, however, the show itself was keenly aware that its moment had passed--many original cast members had little or no participation, and the richest and most relevant creative territory seemed thoroughly mined. The operation of the show itself had relaxed into a somnolent auto-pilot, and executive producers became distracted with other projects they were developing independently. This relaxed oversight would factor heavily into events surrounding the episode Bachem Macuno authored, and was certainly a contributing factor in what was possibly the most memorable table read of the show's entire run."
http://thelostcosbyshowepisode.blogspot.com/
>>8057626
You have the same problem I used to suffer from, and that is putting in too many adverbs. Try removing all the words that end with -ly and you'll have a work that is more readable. There's also the matter of line breaking everytime someone speaks but that can be fixed quite easily.
>>8057691
Reads like something DFW would write.
>>8057728
i never thought of the excessive adverbs until you mentioned it, thanks based anon. and yeah this all unformatted as is, will do all of that later
Unformatted and raw... basically the prologue to something I'm starting. Keep in mind this is a first draft. I haven't revised or polished it yet.
http://pastebin.com/Qw4cwV49
>>8057626
Don't put a comma after a quotation that ends with a question mark.
'Suggestive' isn't a noun.
You need to work on the way your sentences flow. Listen: "Jacques presumed la Lame had recognised his fixation on the raw knuckles and was somewhat elaborating." 'Presumed', 'recognised', 'fixation', and 'elaborating' are the kind of words you'd read in a scholarly article. They lack the poetic simplicity that makes good writing pleasurable to read.
>>8057770
It doesn't read too well without the italicized thoughts, my bad on that.
>>8057770
Well...it's weird. I read for a while but then it felt like the story wasn't going anywhere and the number of unexplained things started to pile up, and it just doesn't seem to make sense anymore because the number of unexplained the things stop being a curiosity and start becoming irritating.
I think you can describe the different divisions in this society, the deathlocks, psylocks etc. before you move on. Show us more of the world; there is very little imagery in what is obviously a very alien world.
I'd like to post my more recent essays but they're in Italian and I really can't be arsed to translate them - I'd appreciate if you fellas were to tell me what you think works and what doesn't with this "style".
http://pastebin.com/0RkhqJKg
>>8058778
Interesting stuff. You definitely need to start using paragraphs. The other thing is, who is the main character? What is going on? Why are you writing? This piece is symptomatic of a lot of what gets posted here. People too caught up in fancy prose that they forget that the story needs a plot, a purpose, there needs to be more than cool scenes, ideas, and prose. You need a purpose to the plot, a character to anchor the reader, things like that.
>>8058753
Thank you, I appreciate that feedback. I tend to add detail on a second draft. I reread, run into unexplained things, decide if that's beneficial to keep hidden and if it's not, I lay it out better.
Thank you again for reading it.
>>8057533
thanks for reading, but I don't think you would like the second part. Here's a little bit more though
http://pastebin.com/6HfRAUce
I don't write much
The wind whipped trees trembled outside the 8-paned window of Jeff Hambonne. It was late, yet the summer sun was still high while Jeffry's life was closer always to the horizon, and he could feel it. Branches from the favored sugar maple in his front yard hit the window that hung from the wall. A sudden gust ejaculated a swarm of seeds from the tree; Jeff was reminded of his childhood. A gentler time, where the wonders of a helicopter-propeller-whirling-dervish seed from the wooden mother-natures lining the streets of the grooves in his mind baffled and excited him. A primary colored playground found it's place in a nook, a niche in hambonejambon's cranium that always came back to him. In his darker moments, in his lighter moments, that roy g biv plastic and metal wonderland always found it's way to center stage in his thoughts. The coolness expressed on the heat-sensing subdermal nerves present on his skin was caused by a temporary cloud over (or rather, under) the sun. His younger body was very sensitive to this change in temperature, lack of radiation on him. Comfort from the cold overwhelmed Jeff, The change, however sweet was temporary, fleeting and the feeling soon changed. Walking, his feet could take him anywhere, his fuel was time. In those days, time was plentiful. The trees swayed as they always did and the sound drowned out the scenery around. The walk was short, even then, and Jeff who at that time went frequently by Jeffry soon came upon the shaded paradise of steel and dyed petrochemical polymers. The highlight of the experience was not the swings, nor the slides, but the literature on the walls. Much like the graffiti Jeff soon would witness in much of his daily life. These were different, they were the first, the first are always different. What was written didn't matter, thinks like a heart with initials written in them, or cuss words. But they were secret, like a prize for those that could find them. Experiences of the kind that came but once were had in this maze of memories and ideas immortalized in the petty plastic mess that was the home of Jeff's fondest memories.
Example:
We sank into depression a million depressions, stared up at floating images white puffs of smoke and soft cool breeze we drifted away in that breeze, perfectly content with death in that very moment we were sad that we could not go and went back to where we were we stayed under the tree never talking but rather staring magnificent sky I wish we would all just die… I was glad that nightfall finally came and relieved me of this day so I can go home and masturbate before I pray the Lord my soul to take and sleep and live during the best time of my day when I’m not there I’m drifting in a land of never becoming and joy true bliss and joy and never contempt and never disruption and only perfect all the time and everything you desire just like that in the palm of your hands you couldn’t imagine the happiness the playful attitudes of all of its residents to show them the best time in the world couldn’t be done, because they live that everyday, the best time of their lives is right now in this moment in this second, every second of their lives is perfect to them a utopia a paradise of unimagined things and wonderfulness.
We scanned the field to see if there were any turkeys on our path home and trotted down in the blackness of night and the sad moon casting its white light onto earth. We could see the forest but not the trees. We could see ourselves, but not who we’d be. I wish that we could stay this age forever and never leave the moment to be anything but young, and youth. Youth the greatest the censorship of life’s pain, is the greatest gift given to every single human being, well not all, not everyone experiences it but everyone’s lives can’t be all doom and gloom it has to be distributed, with a lot of people having shitty lives and very few having great lives, the eternal balance the scale of definite amount, the proportion of never ceasing truth. That most are unhappy, face in the dirt, while very few are truly deep down happy, life cannot get them down, not even death, heartache nothing gets these people down, they are always happy always at their best. They never stop beating the drum of youth innocent pure youth and passion of unprecedented amounts. We can aspire to these goals but never reach them an innate part of us always destined for failure, we are as we are, we live as we should. …. We can never be any more than we are meant to be… everything.
>>8056902
”Where you going?”
“I’m here right now.”
The darkness she so frosted my pants, beige and pinned, was an underling to the darkness that surrounded us. It shored in a wave, tumult and turmoil, waving by in centricisms and similar wafting, in and out of my central lotus. Like the sultanates most prominent underground stage.
Her sultry ingenuity and her general complementary vice, peppering the plated table, the table shaped as a plate, I ate too much to think of those things you served things on, though abundance was the most prominent feature of tokyo’s sultanate of dark euphoric women, straight edge backs, and on willowing trees of invisible scent cash that their dresses only flew around in. The casino tables and rollers were naturally opulent, bombastic and rich, though in monetary terms, some in a few minutes, monetarily. Then I walked with my cash winded bridge out into the sea where old men played their smiles on moustaches in the urban prefecture of a park in Tokyo. Arab men seemed of royal heritage in their hallowed heads and scarf. But they played a poor game of backgammon in a concentric pattern of gyrating and near empty hands, like the spoil of some Baphomet on younge impressionable women. My head dimmed from opulent to dinned jeremiah. I ate my cinnamon.
>>8056902
I feel kind of awkward posting my stuff because it's from the perspective of a schizoid type.
