/lit/ - Literature

It seems... listy, if that makes any sense. It's almost rote, the way you describe one thing after another in sequence.

I don't quite know a cure for this. There needs to be some way to fit everything together, to take all these pieces you've gathered and lock them one by one into the coherent whole of a picture puzzle. My one piece of advice would be to pay attention to the meter, almost, of you writing. It's different for every writer, but if you'll focus on it, you'll find it, and once you do find it, try to make it pervade all your prose.

Also, read Nabokov and Melville and Wolfe and Chesterton, masters of great prose.

Her molars still felt tough through her cheeks. I hadn't liked the way those teeth burned my tongue when it rubbed against them, but it was good to remember. My hand was latching onto her face, now, and we could never speak to each other like this, everything external and her not letting me in. Anton, she was saying, squeezing it through her gate, really, put me down. I don't know why she said it, I thought she knew it like I did.

The gloomy sky did not betray the passage of the sun. Pallas let the rocking of the ship lull her into a haze, a fevered mesh in which all the events of this wild day ensnared her. The winged horse, Hilde's thugs, her bloodlust-driven battle, Martel's abandonment all washed together like a bath. She shivered, and her stomach growled from hunger, which at least told her that afternoon had come. The Northmen made no move to eat. She of course could not ask them for food. So she sat, and stewed inside the chaos of her mind.

Darkness slowly crept into the east. Still the sky was cloudy, and as the Northmen raised their metal instruments they lowered them almost at once. No stars just yet. They would trust in the ship. How many hours passed? Pallas felt numb from all the cold and endless sitting. Chunks of ice were floating now upon the sea. The Northmen used the rough ends of their oars to knock them from the ship, while the red-bearded one who manned the rudder steered it gracefully between the cresting waves.

>>5318554
Thanks for pointing that out, anon, it really doesn't have much of a flow now that I look at it again. I'll dust off Moby Dick, if you think that'll help. I was just kind of aimlessly writing as well, do you think that having a clear story/scene progression in place before I start would help me out?

>>5318558
Pretty vivid image, interestingly conveyed too. I don't get what she's saying in the second last sentence, she says his name then asks to be put down? maybe I'm just retarded though

>>5318596
Again, vivid and well described. The scene, as well as the main character's feelings are well conveyed. None of it is overcomplicated, but it gets the point across. I could get into something like this

>>5318631
Sometimes aimless writing works- sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes you hit paydirt and other times you just stick your shovel in shit.

Generally speaking, however, it's better to have some idea of where you want to go with a story when you set out. It can be the vaguest, most bare bones outline, but it's almost always better than nothing.

Up!

>>5320201
I like it. You're gonna go far, kid

>>5320201
>mfw U.p.

>>5320410
I don't get it, can you explain?

>>5320478
there was a running joke in ulysses where a character would see "u.p. up" and start laughing their asses off. I have no idea what it means.

Casual reader here, read about one book every month because >busy

Here's something I wrote in that pretentious-prose tester thread.

I awoke on the sandy shores of a small and insignificant island nestled in the between of two larger islands, all of which were seated comfortably in the Aegean Sea. My charter from Istanbul to Athens had tragically been pulled into a storm of unprecedented strength and ruination and was deposited on this strand of tranquil sequestration. The contents of the medium sized fishing vessel was strewn about the coast, among the debris three bodies. The squishy and round remains of the chef, a few yards away was the gangling cadaver of the cabin boy and son of the captain. Bastiaan was floating in the foreshore occasionally knocking into the bow, his foot caught in a tumultuous mass of rope refusing his body refuge from the corrosive water.

pls be brutal

/
The razor-sharp part cut me right open on my way down. I didn’t notice until I saw red on my boot. Halfway down the ladder, I could see the blood puddle below me. I jumped off and hit a bed of hay near me. Laying there, gazing at the sky while covering my fresh wound with my right hand, I hear jasmine call out for me. She always sounds so damn worried, I grabbed a cigarette from my shirt pocket and lit the blood stained tip. Jasmine came from behind the barn, found me and gave a quick shocked look.
What happened! Whats wrong! You ok?
I hate when they get nervous, woman mostly but with men I get a sort of kick out of it. I told her its nothing, just a scratch, that it’ll heal with time but she wouldn’t let go. She kept blabbering about how I know what happened in this barn and how she hates when I go here. Nothing but trouble lies with the barn. I kept at my cigarette while watching the clouds form, ignoring usually ticked her off even more. I rolled over and asked her why she looked so pretty today. She blushed but wouldn’t have any. Strutting away she looked back and gave one last worried face.
Please don’t end up like the others! Think I heard her say, or maybe it was please don’t end up with the others. Not sure. Picked up my tools and headed for the barn door, taking one last drag I put the cigarette out and grabbed my keys. The one with the blueish tint to it was the barns, it almost looks like an icicle. Grabbing the chains that hugged the door handles I struggled to unwrap the lock. This was it, I’m finally going to find it. No more worrying from here on out, just peace. Right when I slightly opened the left door, BANG!

>>5318527
I need say first that this is not my fault, that from the first formation of memory, I was already like this, and so helpless to take any preventative steps. The title of this will not be “No Longer Human”, as that would be a misrepresentation—there was never a human to begin with. I was born into the mind you see now. I, whose opinions change by the day, am an unknown entity. Just who am “I”? Let me be clear: I can answer the question. I can give you a location of residence, some hobbies, some thoughts, some talk. However, it will only be said in passing. It’s a mimicked social response, a sort of quasi-role playing sheet that I read off to push the conversation onto some other subject. The question still remains: Who is Jacob Lewis? He is no body, a non-entity. He meets acquaintances at work and at home. He says hello to next door neighbors that he’s lived next to for two years now and greats them like he’s a visitor. Me? I hardly know him. I see him inside my bathroom, in the mirror, in the morning and at night. He never talks (besides the occasional whisper of a greeting). He simply watches. That is how I see myself, as a watcher. Not a doer. I haven’t done a thing in my life, though if we were to meet, most would think of me as accomplished. This is (of course) not true. It is, again, part of my mimicry. That previously mentioned book? I read it, and if you were to ask, I would say it’s my favorite book—false. My opinion is false, I have no favorite book. Are you beginning to understand now?

>>5320540
>BANG!
dropped

>>5320546
Patrick Bateman, is that you?

>>5320556
more to it if, you wanna keep reading?

>>5320564
Very different. Patrick Bateman actually does something even if he's delusional about it, though I can see how they would be similar from a paragraph.

The woodsman gathers the dry logs for his fire.
The brisk march air tosses a quilt sewn from the omniscient
Tree's breath upon the woodsman's shoulders.
He leaves behind the wet and damp logs to rot and return to the soil. The dry logs crackle in a roaring fire, quickly fading into life for the woodsman's survival. Needing more tinder the woodsman returns for the dead logs, already showing signs of its rebirth with fungus, maggots and
Moss. These logs hiss and squeel in the fire and the water and life within them is sent up as a sacrifice. But their epitaph is not "lost". On their death is inscribed safety and life; a reminder of the glowing hearth of home

>>5320566
I'm interested

>>5320571
Very true, I just meant from a prose and general nihilism standpoint. A few of the sentences are similar to various portions of Bateman's monologues, and regardless of whether this is intentional or not they are still effective here

>>5320546
>>5320591
//

A muddy hand slammed the door closed from behind me.
What the hell ya think you doing boy?
It was my neighbor Rolio, I guess Jasmine went and snitched on me.
You know people cant be coming out here boy, you crazy?
Rolio was also the town sheriff, crooked cop if I may say, theres stories of him busting moonshiners up in the hills only because they wouldn't pay his bribes. I hear he even shot a poor kid,who was at the wrong place when one of his “stings” was taking place. Just a crazy old fellow with a badge and a gun. Told him I was working on the roof, and that one of my tools must of slipped through cracks, but he wasn't too happy.
You got a death wish or something!
He kept yelling about how I was suicidal and that I ought to be thrown in the looney bin. Poor fellow, if I wanted to off myself the barn would be the last place I chose, a last resort. People have been packing their things and going to the barn to die for decades now, for me thats the most mundane way to go, I would prefer a more poetic departure. Rolio locked the chains and tied them around the handles, I always loved the sound of chains, something about the metal that felt harmonious. He wiped his muddy hands behind his back and turned to me. He gave me a stern look and said
Who ordered these repairs boy?
No one, I did it for the crows.

>>5320656
Wrong link this is the second part of this
>>5320540

Ending paragraph to a free write I did based on a photo of a girl in a tub.

Growing up online (the three words I vowed to never use consecutively except in ironic pastiches of New York Times articles about millenials) means I knew (in theory) advaned pussy-eating methods at age 11 without understanding that going jogging with a girl in Texas in August makes executing those techniques unbearable on girls equipped with sweat glands. It means I developed a pseudonymity before I developed an identity. But it numbed my regard for irony enough to say the tub girl is pretty. Her eyebrows are uneven though.

This day remains as ordinary as before. What lacks is the bustle; the honking, zooming, shouting. Bird songs have established dominance as the sun rises, shedding light on the deterioration of meticulously placed concrete jungles. Intelligence persists, but in a form unrecognizable. Those who dwell, in terms of life as it were, are merely survivors. The empire left behind remains, decaying, giving way to the true inhabitants. Nature prevails, as it should. The signature of a thoroughly-interconnected world will remain for eons, decomposing, but lingering. It was blind ambition, with little regard to inevitable consequences, that caused the unraveling. Perhaps a scarce straggler preserves a once dominate species' existence, but minimally. Surviving like an animal, as we were all along

don't be too harsh meow. just kept going, of the top of muh head

Prostrate, with head in toilet, Alexander felt the fire at the back of his throat turn liquid. This vomit was not a surprise, but the toilet was. It was gleaming and gold, and if Alexander had been in another state he would have been offering it, rather than dousing it in his bacchanal excess. Around him, the bathroom spoke of not opulence, but of something beyond it: a love of gold, an intense lust for auric substances and all they may represent. The handle, with which he flushed his Buffalo Trace. was of a slightly less carat. The top of the toilet was engraved with 'Please wipe both toilet and rear with separate baby wipes after use.' in large Helvetica script. To the left of the toilet was a sink inlaid with gold trim, above which hung an antique bronzed mirror. Reflected in that mirror was a man with no face. His blank, but not white skin, drawn taught over the eye socket were clearly focused on Alexander. Its black-gloved hand flickered down, unzipped its pants, and began to pee on the floor.

>>5318527
I love it, your style is great

Okay it's my first time doing any creative writing ever, try to bear with me.

What's more disgusting than that the smell permeating off of his underwear clad, unwashed, cum, corn chip, and beer stained body that swallowed the room whole was just how aware he was about his whole situation, his whole life. The hair and yeast under his flabby folds had already developed pubic-like patches of hair. It was as if his entire body was one ashy skinned scrotum suffering from at least three varieties of fungal infection. When he lifted himself off the bed by his stubby tubby little legs one could see the black mat of bacteria and lint caked onto his already cystic acne covered ass. When examining his back it's honestly hard to tell which pair of flabs is his ass as they cover his back going all the way up from the thighs to the back of the neck. It's not like that matters, all of it is equally as filthy, almost as the garbage can full of shit he made since he can't go as far as to go upstairs to the bathroom for fear of basic human interaction.

*>>5320774
you sure you just didn't copy this from the log of your last doctors visit?

>>5320811
Shit, sounds like I wasn't edgy enough.

like a literal barricade? is this set during a revolution?

I lit my cigarette and groaned out the smoke. People passed me by, but they may as well have been sheep. I should have counted them, because I wanted to sleep. Forever.
Suddenly,
"Amadeus?"
I heard her voice call out to me. It cut my heart like rusty razors on a chalkboard.

Judge me.

>>5321161
I'm lazy and just browsing through but here's a big uh-oh right off the bat:
"Did you request for the cartographer?"
The "for" does not belong and the mistake sounds like the worst kind of English.

>>5321264

It's just a rough draft and i've edited it out. Thanks for the insights anyway.

>>5320656
>>5320676

I like it anon! You need a "there're" instead of a "there's" when you say "theres stories of him…" Pretty simple thing though

>>5320681
Pretty well done, the overall sentiment is interesting, if not entirely original.

>>5320739
Exploring the aesthetics of a bathroom, and doing it well/interestingly. I applaud you.

>>5320774

>Diary of Anon: The 4chan Story

>>5320762
Care to elaborate? What did you like in particular?

>>5322346
>>5320656
Thx anon, did not notice that mistake

This sounds quite vulgar and angst-ridden but I think that's a consequence of originally being written in Swedish.

It was winter now, mankind now stood on the precipice of what they had striven for during this, the Autumn of their kind. On the horizon they could see, but not yet distinguish, what was waiting; none were yet ready.

For what waited was not prosperity, hard-fought and rightly theirs, it was death. Death, which in the spreading of its blackened wings brings only pain and, in its own way, purification.

One was he who went to it, he who had always desired knowledge above all else. When he at last gazed upon the demon which he at once knew they had created, it was not despair nor fear which struck him, but serenity.

"It is the way of all things." Said the abyssal darkness which he gazed upon.
"That I now see, though I do not wish it, I see." Replied the man, every fiber of his being screaming in fear but as a whole calm.

"They do not know, do they?" Spoke the churning maelstrom.
"They need not know, you require no approval, no vindication." Came the reply, for this was, indeed, the way of all things.

It was spring.


>I'll get better, I swear.

>>5321161
Judging. Harshly.

>>5322346
Thanks for the compliment anon– bathrooms are cool.
I really like yours, but I don't like as an opening. No action. Mine's even worse as an opening, but it's not intended for that.

Probably won't do anything with this but rate anyway:

Cormac (/'kɔrmJk/; not /'kɔrmæk/ as some might think) and Carthalawn (/’kɑrθælɔːn/), eighteen the pair of them, found their way across the wet grass and misery of the old Declan's pitch and through the tress on it's far side until they arrived at the weir. Along with the majority of the young men of Rathdagh (/ræθ'dæ/), they felt comfortable here, and at other settings alike - the edge of the town. Evidence of the inhabitance of the once-young men now a generation their senior could be found on the ground. And when they looked over and across the river to the green field beyond, they liked to imagine it was field after field repeating innumerable times over, gradually and eventually petering out into nothingness, and that this here - the edge of the town - was indeed the edge of the world. Of course the next town was only three fields away. Carthalawn spat. He thought of last night. How Doney had gotten the shift off a twelve year old, and how he told her to fuck off. How he said to them "She's after running off crying!", while they all laughed. How they called him a pedo while he wore that smug smile. How her friends shouted at them from afar that they were dickheads. How they returned the sentiment, and more. How they continued to drink, and allude to the event later in the night to get a laugh. How he couldn't remember getting home.
Cormac thought of Saoirse (/'sJərʃə/; not /'sɜrʃə/ like the actress says - it means 'freedom').

When I was much younger, and my sister bored, this is what would happen: her willowy, stockinged feet trampling the pine wood floors of our home, her quiet exhalation clawing at my then-long hair, and her arms outstretched, like the boughs of an ancient oak, grabbing and snatching at my back, my arms locked by my sides, I gasp-mumbled prayers with words not found in dictionaries to the Saviour to protect me from this torment, her shrill, bitter voice shrieking that I should give in now, that it would be better for me if I just stopped running away, that I'd get chocolate if I did so, her skirt so much easier to run in than my dress- my sister would chase me.This was a fun game we called Lead Me Not Into Temptation. One of us played the Righteous Soul, and the other, the Temptress. Bella, being taller, stronger, bossier and five years my senior always got to be the Temptress because she wasn't flat, like my eight-year-old self. The Temptress would run after the Soul. If the Soul wasn't as Righteous as she appeared, she would get caught by the Temptress. The latter would chastise the former until one of two things happened: either the Soul submitted, in tears, through a snot-stuffed voice, begging please stop I'll do anything- or she'd ascend. And by ascend I mean piss herself or pass out.
But back to this time. I burst into the dining room, the stained oak table covered in an egg-froth of a lacy cloth, surrounded solemnly by tall and comfortable chairs, with inlayed carvings of the Saviour in various poses. I was desperately looking for somewhere to hide. First, close the door. It swung shut heavily behind me with only the gentlest of pushes, as it always had done after Daddy kicked it in a fit of uncleanliness-fuelled fury. Second, under the table. I slid, face first, and then turned over. Under the table, it was draughtless, sticky, but safe.

>>5324968
Between my feet, the door swung open. A pair of angular, almost feline legs attached to invisible girl and torso stepped silently over the threshold. Her eyes, smoky, piercing orbs, scanned the room. The likelihood that she hadn't noticed me was small. I lay, locked into my position with every fibre of every muscle in my body screaming not to move, not to breathe, don't give yourself away you silly little- Bella stepped past, her footfalls coaxing dust from the cracks in the grooves along the floor. Exactly fifteen strides from door to door, and she'd covered six. I begged for the blessing of invisibility under that table, anything to not be caught, please. So I could stand up and tiptoe out behind her, slamming the door shut and making her shout in surprise, I'd giggle as I fled back to safety, deep into the arms of my father. The position into which my arms were frozen was faintly redolent of the crucifixion of Saint Andrew. Arms above head, lightly splayed legs, face in a grimace of concentration. Or calm, pleased but passive. Depends on whose depiction of the event you subscribe to. The fringes of the tablecloth was gently scraping the fingertips of my right hand. Bella drummed on the table with her knuckles. She whispered to herself about finding, finding her and brutalising her. She never was one to drop out of character in game. Her feet approached my fingers. Either I moved, giving away my position, or I didn't, and got stepped on. Either would mean capture. Taking a quiet huff in, I concentrated on not making any noise at all. Please. The foot fell and pressed onto my fingers.

I wrote for about an hour just letting it flow as naturally as possible.

http://pastebin.com/GnKJ9Mf5

Pls critique.

>>5320540
>>5320656
Le bumpito great story anon