/lit/ - Literature

What do you guys write on/in?

Regular sheets of paper? journals/notepads? all on the computer? . . . typewriter?

Alright /Lit/ let's write TV Series or at least plots for them

I always enjoyed TV Series because of their powerful characterizations. I know that I can't do it alone and I know that you all have great ideas and minds that can come together to make something.

Does anyone here write while under influence of drugs?

i was thinking about trying to write after a joint or two

who is objectively the greatest writer of all time?

Can someone scan over this and give me a few suggestions? I've just started writing, so I don't really have any idea what I'm doing. Some notes would be helpful.

pastebin/7mRW0XiZ

Hello /lit/. I'm making attempts at writing my own fantasy/sf story. However, as i've only recently begun writing, i'm still looking for ways to improve my writing style. Are there any guidebooks and such that you would reccomend? Also, any general advice on writing and how to improve it?

thanks in advance

Just started writing, made a tumblr only for writing and such things. 15 year old guy, feel free to critique and/or aid me in anything.

http://livesavor.tumblr.com/

I'm looking for unbiased opinions (not my friends' or family's).

I've begun to write my novella, and I look to hone my technique and style.

I'd like for you to read the opening of my writing, and give me some feedback.

This can also be a general feedback thread for anyone who posts (stories, poetry, etc.).

I have a few main concerns with my writing:
1) Is it too preachy?
2) Is it not subtle enough?

Forcing polar opposites together is retarded.

I have no idea what possessed me to write this but somehow I did.

http://pastebin.com/JX4rjj8e

Also general writing thread.

Hey /lit/, I was thinking about getting back into writing. I used to write poetry and short fiction stories...and in my own eyes, I was satisfied with it. Now, admittedly, I never got any good critique, but I'm willing to learn.
So anyways, I want to write fiction - short stories, poems, whatever. Now my problem is finding the correct source of critique, since I don't know anyone into reading; my town doesn't have any writers' clubs and most forums i found were either dead or abandoned.
I came here, to /lit/, hoping you guys could redirect me somewhere, where critique is given, or maybe one of you could even give me your E-mail and I'd send you a sample of my work, since I think you're all into reading.

TL;DR OP wants some critique, where to find it?

Sup /lit/, I'm looking for people interested in talking with me and bouncing ideas back and forth about a story I'd like to write for fun. If interested text me at 3217571902

wrote a short story. is it any good?

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Eighteen… eighteen… eighteen… Fuck, another street where no one has house numbers on their mailboxes. Why isn't is a law that people have to have numbers on their mailboxes? Violators ought to be shot. At the least, those who order pizza should be fined. Some people include it in the tip. Those who don't tip should be shot.

When I found it, I slipped out of my car with the pizza balanced on my palm. This was one of those houses where the front door had evidently become obsolete in favor of the side one, so I walked up to the side one and knocked.

No answer…

The heat of the pizza began to sink through the thin brown cardboard and my hand began to burn. Only another minute…

"Hello?" someone called. It came from the front of the house.

Embarrassed, I swung around, "Yup, sorry! I'm over here!"

Looking up, I saw that the voice came from a woman past middle age through a window screen. "Hi, can I help you?"

Fidgeting with the box, looking at the delivery slip to double check, "Uhh yeah, I have a delivery for eighteen Birchwood?" I said in an innocent voice. As I said it, I realized the slip said sixteen.

"Uhh I didn't order anything." The woman sounded annoyed but helpful.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just realized it's sixteen, not eighteen. That's the one next door right?" Smooth.

"Yup, right over there."

"Thanks."

Switching the pizza to the other palm, I left my car in her driveway and walked across her side lawn to number sixteen. It was a cracked-up white vinyl house with faded roof tiles. There were no cars in the driveway. I rapped on the metal door and waited for a face to appear at the screen.

Something white-haired waddled into view. "Hi," she struggled to say, in a friendly voice. Breathing heavily, she made an effort to open the door for me. "Come on in, come on in," she wheezed.

I know there are two other threads like this already, but both have sort of died. So we're going to make a new one.
Post your work and let others give you feedback. It could be stuff that you're working on, stuff you've already written, you could even go ahead and pitch an idea for something you want to work on and see if we can help you out with ideas.

hi /lit/. new story. do your worst.

I walked into the church through the front door, which opens to the back of the room, the wall directly opposite the altar. Inside the dark wood of the pews and walls gave off a musty odor. The air, tinged with this smell, was full--but not too thick--with an aged stillness, solemn as the silent steps of my carpeted footfalls. There was no one else inside the church.

The altar was a tasteless red and had a crucified Jesus hanging above it. Jesus' stone skin was too smooth to be convincing, his body altogether too small to look like a real man's. No blood fell from his wounds. He was already dead, it seemed.

It had been a while since the last time I went into a church, and I didn't know whether the priest would already be in the booth or if I had to go find him in his office or something. I tried the booth.

Knocking on the post next to it, "Hello?"

"Good afternoon." He sounded old, of course, but not too old.

"This is where we do the confessions?"

"Yes, yes, have a seat in the adjacent chamber, please."

I drew back the thick green curtain and took a seat inside. As my shoes moved from carpet to thin wood, I became self-conscious about how much noise I made when I moved around. Every wall and corner of the chamber echoed loudly. When I spoke, I heard my voice come down from above my head.

"Hi, Father. I never really do this," I said nervously. "It's been a while."

"No problem, at all, my son. If you have forgotten, the custom is to begin with 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been x years since my last confession.'"

"Okay." I took a breath. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." I paused awkwardly. The word felt foreign, from another language." I think it's been… uh, about three years since my last confession. Back when I was confirmed."

Someone entered in the far end of the church. I shifted noisily in my seat.

"What are your sins, my son?"

i've never tried writing prose before. this is my first shot. there's more to this excerpt, if you're interested. tell me what you think

He drew a breath to taste the thick air of the afternoon. It clung to the back of his throat and choked him, but it tasted also of freedom. It was the afternoon now, in the city. Months from now, he would be in the same spot, breathing in the same kind of day. Perhaps he would remember having that thought. It seemed surreal.

Having another week before the job started, he had time to suck in the new air (the window was open) and to hear the traffic before rush hour. It was the time of the day when the sun still warmed the bricks and the streets were full of cars, but it didn't feel like anyone was really rushing yet. The cars were simply in the street because they were in the street. That's where they fit, where they were supposed to be. And he had time to look at the ants.

Something moved around in the adjacent room. At first it came as a surprise, then he thought for the first time that there were people all around him. In fact, there could've be three or four people within twenty feet of him at that moment. Maybe the guy next door was right next to him. Maybe his bed was next to his, and they would fall asleep side-by-side each night, anonymous strangers separated by a couple slabs of wood during the intimate night hours. Or maybe it was a girl. Maybe he would fuck her someday, or maybe he would hear her fucking her boyfriend at night. He became a bit aroused, tasting the thick summer wind.

Where does the inspiration come from? How do you change a blank sheet into a masterpiece? Where do the ideas come from?

Post the opening paragraph of your current writing project.

What did you guys write your college essay about?

>sign up to dedicated writing forum
>looking at a writing 'competition' thread
>80% of it is written at a high-school level

The fuck? This is why writers can't have nice things.

What does good/great writing entail (books, movies, comics, video games, etc.) ?
Is there some sort of criteria that should be met, in an objective sense? Or is it merely subjective?

-aspiring /co/ writer

Hi /lit/, first time on your board but I need a small opinion on writing. I've always been curious about writing short stories just for fun and I have taken a few creative writing classes which kinda helped with putting detail into a story but I would probably put my writing at just average still. What are some common blunders or story arc to try to avoid when writing a short story that readers like yourself find annoying?

What is your favourite book about writing and why?

Hey /lit/

Is there anyone here who can give me ways I can improve my style and expression in my essays? I got my finals coming up and could really use the help.