/lit/ - Literature

Bois, I don't have it. I used to think I was a good writer. Did creative writing classes, got my MFA, was praised at every step along the way by professors. My most recent advisor said I had a good chance of winning Yale Younger Poets prize. But I just went through my first round of rejections and I already feel defeated. My writing isn't magic the way great writing is. I don't think I've ever spellbound anyone but myself. Haven't written a line in 3 months. I think this is it. My exit stage left, pursued by a bear.

SOME ANON was talking about starting a poetry club. I emailed the address provided, but no response yet. What gives? Do you want to have a club or not??

>>17062418
>tfw i tried to read oblomov but was too lazy to finish it.

>tfw all of /lit/'s prolix, erudite, schizophrenic, paranoiac, hot-take cramming, effortposting namefags have gone extinct leaving behind the likes of tranny and capital latinigger

>>16861002
>my fear to disappoint them/of confrontation is the tepid fire that moves me in everything I do.
KI L LE MA LL

do it coward DO IT fucking KISS the blade punch it into the occiptal bone like surgical titanium howl from the gut fill your chest like a chimp and snap limbs like chickenbone toothpicks

you're fucking defective. think about the hive, the HIVE that you see behind your eyelids, clockwork insects in a bumbling kind of harmony working, always working (the hive is SOCIETY)

sometimes the insects are born blind or limbless. the work is paramount. the broken infants are euthanized and dismantled for parts.

sometimes the damage is subtler. sometimes a grub is born with half a soul, half a mind. it bumbles along and tries its best. the insects try to fix it - try to recover their investment rather than scrap the whole and try again. you can be patched together. think of crusted bandages lashing together a weeping bloody mass like tenderized meat, barely functional. heavy breathing. shambling steps. that's you. that's your soul. that's your SOUL

the world does not optimize for your happiness. you will continue to exist. hell is real and we swim in its fire every second

>"tepid fire" is good. I can relate. I sympathize. It's a good phrase. You made something that rings true. Be proud of that.

I read around 20-30 of them when I was a kid. The only books that stick out to me now were 'Cuckoo Clock of Doom' because it had an unusually cruel ending, and Welcome to the Wicked Wax Museum which was my favorite book iirc. Most of them had the same 'twist' and were very shallow.

Kind of surprising to find out that R.L Stine was almost 50 when the first Goosbumps book was published.

The jungle is a vivid tangled nightmare, a verdant hellscape. You breathe in and taste the fetid reek of rot and rain. It's a fractal hall-of-mirrors maze, blinding green chaos in every direction. The competition for resources is so intense here that every possible niche has been filled. The food chain is a tortured spiral; parasitism and cannibalism, maggots writhing in living flesh. Look at the trees - strangled by creepers, hollowed and rotted by fungus, writhing with insects, toxic frogs, psychotic apes.

You don't belong here. You're a product of natural selection in a less demanding ecosystem. You're a naivete, a virgin, a moving sack of nutrients unaccustomed to life in the real world. You wade through the river and the leeches drip off you, fat and satisfied. You pick wasp eggs from your shoulder with a twig. Every movement must be a calculated an effort through humid air, hacking through vines, batting aside bugs. It's as if it feeds on your kinetic energy, demanding more than even your dripping blood and sweat. Every morning you shit out yellow filth and plump worms. There's something wriggling behind your eyes.

>>13069713
>If Russell Brand extols your metaphysics

Sauce please. And please don't say that he mentioned his name once in passing on Joe Rogan or something.