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/lit/ - Literature

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>> No.19972283 [View]
File: 269 KB, 1280x1407, tree guy.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
19972283

>>19972276

>> No.19822209 [View]
File: 269 KB, 1280x1407, chad tree guy.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
19822209

>>19822204
absolutely based

>> No.19568938 [View]
File: 269 KB, 1280x1407, 1617630180524.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
19568938

/sffg/ is dead, so that’s something. I wonder if that explains why many genre fiction threads are being made recently.

>> No.19381380 [View]
File: 269 KB, 1280x1407, 1617630180524.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
19381380

I’m surprised that science fiction doesn’t touch upon religion all that much. It would make a nice theme on how technology has stripyman of its religious beliefs.

>> No.17951494 [View]
File: 269 KB, 1280x1407, 1617630180524 2.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
17951494

>>17951477
Yes, I'm done now. I was never going to become the next Faulkner, the next Nabokov or the next Joyce, but I hid behind the language barrier to avoid criticism for months, maintaining an illusion that was fun to live in while it lasted.
This will be my final post on /lit/. I've been humiliated and exposed as a fraud. My writing is pretentious, infantile, banal drivel. My observations are dull, my language grade school level. My tenses are mixed up, I use colloquialisms, ellipses and onomatopoeia.
I was never cut out for writing. I began writing my "book" on January 6th. Since then I've produced 63 thousand words for it. These words are a tide of garbage without value, without insight, without form. The themes of time, space, infinity, memory and pointless duelling are not present in my work. It was never real writing, it was anime and weebshit.
I have failed. Goodbye.

>> No.17950669 [View]
File: 269 KB, 1280x1407, jesus_praying_in_gethsemane.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
17950669

>>17950398
>Any progress on your novels?
Yes, I'm done now. I was never going to become the next Faulkner, the next Nabokov or the next Joyce, but I hid behind the language barrier to avoid criticism for months, maintaining an illusion that was fun to live in while it lasted.
This will be my final post on /lit/. I've been humiliated and exposed as a fraud. My writing is pretentious, infantile, banal drivel. My observations are dull, my language grade school level. My tenses are mixed up, I use colloquialisms, ellipses and onomatopoeia.
I was never cut out for writing. I began writing my "book" on January 6th. Since then I've produced 63 thousand words for it. These words are a tide of garbage without value, without insight, without form. The themes of time, space, infinity, memory and pointless duelling are not present in my work. It was never real writing, it was anime and weebshit.
I have failed. Goodbye.

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