/lit/ - Literature

Okay, here goes.

Most really pretty girls have pretty ugly feet, and so does Mindy Metalman, Lenore notices, all of a sudden. They’re long and thin and splay-toed, with buttons of yellow callus on the little toes and a thick stair-step of it on the back of the heel, and a few long black hairs are curling out of the skin at the tops of the feet, and the red nail polish is cracking and peeling in curls and candy-striped with decay. Lenore only notices because Mindy’s bent over in the chair by the fridge picking at some of the polish on her toes; her bathrobe’s opening a little, so there’s some cleavage visible and everything, a lot more than Lenore’s got, and the thick white towel wrapped around Mindy’s wet washed shampooed head is coming undone and a wisp of dark shiny hair has slithered out of a crack in the folds and curled down all demurely past the side of Mindy’s face and under her chin. It smells like Flex shampoo in the room, and also pot, since Clarice and Sue Shaw are smoking a big thick j-bird Lenore got from Ed Creamer back at Shaker School and brought up with some other stuff for Clarice, here at school.
What’s going on is that Lenore Beadsman, who’s fifteen, has just come all the way from home in Shaker Heights, Ohio, right near Cleveland, to visit her big sister, Clarice Beadsman, who’s a freshman at this women’s college, called Mount Holyoke; and Lenore’s staying with her sleeping bag in this room on the second floor of Rumpus Hall that Clarice shares with her roommates, Mindy Metalman and Sue Shaw. Lenore’s also come to sort of check out this college, a little bit. This is because even though she’s just fifteen she’s supposedly quite intelligent and thus accelerated and already a junior at Shaker School and thus thinking about college, application-wise, for next year. So she’s visiting. Right now it’s a Friday night in March.
Sue Shaw, who’s not nearly as pretty as Mindy or Clarice, is bringing the joint over here to Mindy and Lenore, and Mindy takes it and lets her toe alone for a second and sucks the bird really hard, so its glows bright and a seed snaps loudly and bits of paper ash go flying and floating, which Clarice and Sue find super funny and start laughing at really hard, whooping and clutching at each other, and Mindy breathes it in really deep and holds it in and passes the bird to Lenore, but Lenore says no thank you.

Little Baby Toad.

>little baby toad hopping around in the grass
>little baby toad, look at the little baby toad
>little baby toad in the palm of my hand
>little baby toad, look at this little baby toad

>little baby toad takes a little baby leap
>little baby toad doesn't know about gravity
>little baby toad broke her little baby bones
>little baby toad now all she knows is agony

>little baby toad writhing around on the cement
>I don't know if I can kill you but I can't watch you suffer
>little baby toad crunches underfoot like a leaf
>I'm sorry I was so tall and curious

>>8309238
Good names.
Your words flow well, but there were a couple odd ones for me
>demurely
>thus accelerated

Nice job overall

bump

>>8309238
Actually very well written. I agree that certain word choices made for slightly stunted reading, but all in all it was good stuff, I'd definitely be into reading some more. Keep it up.


Here's mine:


I met Talpo as I was tending to the chickens. I did not know his prestige then; his honor. At the time he was just another vagrant to me, a wandering and sickly old man with gross grey hair and an extra-long beard that was wider than his jaw. We often got travelers at the farm, and I’d thought him no different than the rest.
We gave him lodging as we had done all the others, as well as free soup and clothes. More importantly, my father gave him excellent conversation, the rare kind that he often gave as a gift to his more deferential guests; conversation filled with politics and travels and cultures that I could not yet understand, but nonetheless admired. Their discussions were generally long and lasted late into the night, though my own participation was often cut short when bedtime neared.
Of course I eavesdropped. I did not trust Talpo, and I did not trust the reverence my parents held for him. I forced my eyes open deep into the twilight hours, far beyond my curfew, and listened for even the briefest mention of something mischievous.
On more than one occasion I had been caught hiding in an adjacent room or cupboard, listening intently to their private conversations. Once I was caught searching Talpo’s room for the diagrams of skinwalking I was sure he’d owned, ultimately settling for a book on human anatomy and showing the mystical, demonic depictions to my mother and father. My mother scolded me and my father slapped me. Then they each reversed positions and I was given a second slap and a second scolding, for what was called in one of their tinker’s books ”Parental Dualism.”
It is my strong belief that they were more affronted by my hostility toward old man Talpo than by my actual invasion of his privacy. They admired him in ways I could not understand; his greatness to them was something that could not be expressed, could not be defined by words or action; they simply settled for these things. I asked them once if their respect for him was because of his beard (it was much longer and better groomed than my father’s.) My father struck me playfully while my mother laughed. They never did reject the theory, however, and so I surmised in my head that a beard was not worth such deep admiration from my parents; ‘Talpo’ was not so spectacular at all!
In the end, though, I had been looking for a reason to dislike Talpo, to find his hidden agenda and oust him in front of my parents. I wanted to scream, “Father, mother! Look! He’s really an Abrus!” and send for the Crab’s Eye while we locked him with the horses. Suffice it to say, my hatred was initially unwarranted.

First Chapter of a Fantasy Novel I'm working on.

Page 1 of 12

>>8309530
Page 2 of 12

>>8309534
Page 3 of 12

>>8309541
Page 4 of 12

>>8309498
Interesting. But it feels strange reading about a child, a young enough one to have a bedtime at that, speaking in such a finely tuned voice. Memories are usually somewhat hazy from that age. What I find most unusual though is that your narrator is a farm boy and is using structure that would be more in line with someone of the middle classes.

>>8309548
Page of 5 of 12

>>8309555
Page 6 of 12

Posting a poem, doesn't fit character limit. 1/3

>>8309559
Page 7 of 12

>>8309563
2/3

>>8309564
Page 8 of 12

Éternel appétit, meurtrier ennui,
Soif du grand voyageur, estomac implosant,
Chatouillement charnel ou repos nécrosant,
Légèreté de cœur, continuelle nuit;

Ainsi varie l’humeur, de bonheur à malheur,
De futur opulent à décès imminent,
De promesse tiède à néant lancinant
Et la sueur séchée recherche le voleur.

Lorsque le cœur se tait, l’oreille s’aperçoit
Que le cœur ne bat plus, que la soie, pour les doigts,
N’est que laine vulgaire amollissant la bouche.

De priape constant à collante impuissance,
Comment devrais-je aimer celle avec qui je couche,
La Vie, si elle oublie qu’existe la Jouissance?

>>8309565
3/3

>>8309568
Page 9 of 12

>>8309577
Page 10 of 12

>>8309257

>>8309588
Page 11 of 12

>>8309592
Page 12 of 12

Sorry for the seriously long autistic post, but I don't know how to use Pastebin or whatever it's called.

So... Tear Away :)

>>8309599
I'm not reading all that shit.

>>8309607
Don't have to :)

Pick and choose m8

>>8309625
Let me rephrase then: I'm not reading any of that shit.

>>8309629
And let me rephrase it my friend:

Don't have to :)

>>8309238
didn't really like it. You seem to go for a certain style of writing but the choice of words does not do it justice.

>>8309257
not interested

>>8309498
You write well but it's too structured, that spark of brilliance is missing, let go a bit.

>>8309530
Nice but I'm not a fan of the "Pathetic really"s and whatnots.
Only read first page.

>>8309570
Les mots sont bien choisis, le poème est évocatif ("futur opulent"), mais je trouve que la première strophe est lourde et mise beaucoup trop sur l'antithèse, surtout avec les virgules, trop fragmenté, ça manque de naturel.
Mine:

She thought I was some rose-in-teeth philoso-seducer, geranium wine and fresh olives on grandma's sun-drenched terrace in some coin caché of the Meditterean banks, between antique ruins and baroque odors. I could tell; her slim fingers twirling lazily in her hair, smooth lips kept half-open when I spoke; as if I was the promise of some fragrant and languorous future. Black patterns in cups and then the bill. The streets were sunny and we got a cab back to my apartment, I held her hand as we walked up the stairs to my 4th floor. Sliding the key in and opening the door was an act of pure anti-will, my irrational fear of folks laughing at my private world resurging in me like it did in my early precocious childhood days. My too neat 2-room apartment set out before us like the promise of our relationship, methodical, unimprovised, careful. I faked a headache to win some time and fetched an aspirin (I nearly choked on it), had a good look at myself in the cracked corridor mirror, calmed my foolish head by fingertip-grazing the soft stubble of my jaw, pulled my jeans up by half an inch, faked a cough (too high-pitched to imply any strong display of masculinity), and set off for the living room, also the entrance room, where she had now been waiting for at least 4 minutes and 30 seconds. "My sincere apologies" over and done with, we chatted too formally over the only table in my palace, a banal flea market wooden thing with 14 mug traces on it. Halfway through our chat I realised I had said the word cliché too many times, my go-to word whenever I attempt any kind of literary critique.

Plot Idea:

Man notices strange shit happening, gradually gets stranger and stranger. He meets me, the author, who at some point reveals that the man is a reflection of his own psyche. The author is living in a world/house/somewhere being overrun by Lovecraftian horrors, although these would only be hinted at. These horrors are warping the author's mind, and this is why the protag's world is getting stranger.

The tendrils reaching out from the sky are the tendrils of insanity licking the author's brain. Not sure where to go with it but I might crank out a short story with this premise. Seems cute. Probably done before.

>>8309766
That movie was terrible.

>>8309269
>>8309498
>>8309670

Sorry lads, >>8309238 is the first passage of DFW's debut book. Personally I think it's terrible. I just wanted to see your reaction.

>>8310017
Me thinks it needs to be broken up more.

Hard to digest content when you have literal brick walls to consume at a time. But maybe that's just me.

>>8309670
I really like your style. I am hesitant about my critique, but I do not like opening sentences that long, at least on the first paragraph of a new chapter. However, I enjoyed how you describe the insecurity of the narrator without going too much in detail (e.g., he took notice of how much time he had spent away). Do you have more?

>>8309498
This got my interest. I especially liked the pacing. Sorry I do not have as much to say.

I want to post a sample of mine but I am a novice writer, and English is not my mother tongue (but I consider myself fluent). I only ask you to please be gentle with your criticism:

“Three copper coins,” she thought. She was worth only three copper coins.

Copper. Cold as the silk cloth rubbing her skin, red as her blood shining under the moonlight; the symbol of an industrious nation, always working and growing. Even in the depth of night the engines did not stop and their dull sounds kept her awake. Even in the high towers she could hear them and see the light of the city: man made machine with a brain conditioned only for labour. Her eyes wide open, and amidst the incessant pounding sounds, the door creaked and her heart speed up. She had not heard him climb the stairs, but she knew he would eventually come. He always did.

>>8309766
FUCK YOU! YOU STOLE MY IDEA YOUR SON OF A BOTCH. I CANNOT EVEN... FUCK!

Okay, let me say it: you'll not develop this better than I will.
>Posting your novellas' ideas on /lit/.
>No one will stole it. Probably is bad.
No one can believe in you...

>>8309238

>DFW fanboys recognizing this overwrought slush and saying it's good

Even the most generous critic couldn't say this passage is anything more than mediocre.

my advice,
smoke spice.
eat a slize,
big size.
black boa,
constricted,
strangulated,
uncontaminated,
belated.

White noise from an old television cut through the glazed stare of a chemically lobotomized trailer park resident. He moaned at the college student who had just come through the door of his parents trailer, an attempt at communication rendered indecipherable from years of methamphetamines, freon, glue and gasoline. The zombified gatekeeper pointed the way for the hoodied scrub from his station in a worn-out cushioned chair, towards a back room where a legless diabetic woman panned through nuggets or marijuana buds as her pubescent daughter lay on the queen sized bed with her leisurely smoking a cigarette. The father, seated on the same bed, was preoccupied with another television broadcasting a History Channel special as he vainly sought wisdom from his corner of hell. The freshman contemplated the young girl and what hope there was for her. He bought what he came for and left into the darkness with an eternal sense of depair.

>>8310142
This is just... bad.

look at me,
can't you see?
taste of the paste,
there is no haste

>>8309257
I read this like a children's song and had a good giggle
Like something you'd see from the Whitest Kids U' Know

play my pussy daddy,
i'll be your caddy.
hot honey,
black bunny,
it'll get funny

mustasch,
much cash.
the jungle,
don't stumble.

Autism hypnothesis: the autist perceives such a speeded-up version of his surroundings that to him language is not so much a way of contacting with an other, but a way of being in constant dialogue with the present. He lives fully immersed in his sensorium, with his conscience displaced inwardly, much as the TV-watcher flips his attention and control inward as he gets bombarded by fast-paced ads and information overload. TV is the proto-autism-making tool, but only the Internet produces mass-autism by selling confusion as culture, that weirdshit-state that the american 'sophisticates' are so prone to take as the great sublime aesthetic landscape of the Present.

>>8310270
bieber rocks tho

>>8310216
If you're actually a black woman pretty good.

the grief of the early riser
is bound to his company ,
who wars with the lonely phantoms of his dreams
who braves the hallows of his fears
which, by your mark
fades into the dusk
like a cloud imposed upon a gaze of stars.
Like the rainy blades of green
and the dewy mists of morning,
how they cloud my sight.
As is the fogginess of dawn.

on a morning so gracious
to bring our connection to mind.
Nudging at my shoulder, pointing to you
adorned
and on display.
Painted with a brush so new and fine.
And the wind carries the scent:
what a warm alarm it is to wake to
and be reminded
that I'm embraced and accompanied
day in and day out

for all its humours,
reacquaintance
has found us furnished at the heart,
burning behind the eyes.
On fire with the same force
that lights the sunrise.
Soothing
like the smell after rainfall
before the heat of the day
has a chance to meet my cheek

how warm it is to see
the thawing of the damp,
smoothening the coarseness
of the early hours
as they burn
torrid
with the same fever
that struck the embers
once glowing
shyly
by our toes

>>8310314
I like this one very much.
very last line falls a bit awkwardly, but as a whole it is very well done.

>>8310298
thank you

420

1/3

2/3

3/3

1/2

The air felt light that evening, like it wasn't really there. The moon was not glowing in the sky, and there were no clouds or flies buzzing overhead either. It was as if, Mortimer thought, there was simply nothing to hang on to. He shuffled around the dark valley, his barefeet stepping gingerly over rough stone. All around him were long black boxes, nearly invisible in the night, tall as a horse but narrow as a coffin. He shuffled his way over to one of the boxes and without making a sound moved into a crawl for the last few feet. He could hear a muffled click and snap coming from within. He reached out and touched the box, feeling it's smooth wooden surface. Tiny slits were carved into wood where he could just ever so slightly feel an intake of air pulling against his skin. The surface was covered in these slits, and if you felt for a moment--another click and snap came from within the box--if you felt for a moment you would realize that they were arranged as radial lines of a circle spaced 30 degrees apiece.

Brushing his fingers against the wood, Mortimer swept around to the foot of the box and listened more intently. Nothing but the quiet desert night, and the sporadic click coming from inside. At the foot of the box was a small door, about the size a man could duck under without having to get on his hands and knees. The night was dark, thankfully. Mort stared straight at the wooden surface and saw nothing, no patterns, no streaks, just--it was almost perfectly dark. A good night, it'll be a bit easier. He opened the small door at the foot of the box, making a small creak as it swung outwards. Mortimer peered through the door, but he saw nothing inside. The darkness of the moonless night cast the inside in total darkness and there was nothing for him to see. He thought for a moment, staring into the darkness within the box, but eventually deigned and closed his eyes anyways. There'll be no noticeable difference, Mort thought, but it doesn't matter, so he settled on a familiar thought. The blackness was ubiquitous. What was within existed without. Nothing can displace the void, it pervades all space. He knew it to be true. He felt his face wince and his eyebrows furrow and then a sharp pain, but they seemed far away. Between his mind and self was a foggy span. Not measurable with any straight edge, but it was a distance Mortimer was well-practiced in. He smelled nearby sage plants, but as if through a thick cloth. He heard the sounds of the breeze through the desert all around him, but they sounded like they were echoing through a vast tunnel. And he felt the smooth wood against his hand, and the sharp pain of a migraine in his head, but the feeling had to travel a long way to get to where he was. He was distant from his self, depersonalized, floating around in the aether that existed outside our space.

>>8310405

2/2

He remembered the mean old men at the apistocol table speaking of this space. They had called it Aural Space. They said it was the unmeasurable distance between a man and himself. Unmeasurable, but not incalculable, Mortimer thought. He heard another quiet snap come from within the box. He opened his eyes and peered inside the darkness. He had been wrong, this was true nothingness. The effect always surprised Mort, like he was unable to conjure up in his mind beforehand what this would look like. Inside the box it was darker than it seemed possible. The void greeted him. He reached his hand inside the darkness and felt the slight drop in temperature as he crossed the wavering threshold. He looked towards the ground, trying to see if he could see the point where the light of the moonless night touched the emptiness, and he saw it, almost imperceptible. He could see the absence of any semblance of the floor within the box--it was still the one thing he struggled with. He ducked and stepped into the box, feeling the comforting feeling of the hardwood floor of the box touching at his bare feet.

He was now entirely engulfed by the void. He looked back at the door, but saw nothing of the dim silhouettes of the mountains against the starless and moonless night sky. He could still breathe, but the air was cold against the inside of his chest making it difficult. He heard another quiet snap above him, against the small space above the door. He turned and reached his hand up, brushing against the cold wood, making increasingly wide circles with his hand. He found it. Stuck into the wall above the door was something pointed and sharp, almost like the tip of a cone. Hot, too hot, Mortimer thought as he ran his fingers across the smooth glassy surface of the stone. There it was. He let his fingernail catch a sharp edge across the stone's surface. There was a long crack that ran along one side of the stone. He wiggled the stone free and felt it in his hand. It was still growing hotter, he'd have to destroy it. He reached his hand into his right pocket and pulled out another similar stone. Another one gone. He put the new stone inside.

>>8310362
Would hit it

>>8310412
>>8310405
Your tone and pacing feel very strained. Your language usage is poor as well as your structure. I'd give this one up if I were you.

I like to imagine you dancing by yourself the way you say you do. You're twirling one moment and then angling your limbs in such a fine way that everyone else cannot help but to notice, and then shuffle, and then stare. And there you are, all holy and bathed by the light; the hands of light, containing within them those dust motes that crawl in the light of an open window, holding you closely and away from others, the others that stare.
I imagine you that way, on my porch, my sensitive skin feeling and sticking to the sweet wet polyester of my lawn chair. My skin has always been so sensitive, I've always been the most ticklish kid, even at twenty, kicking away the pinches of fingers of my friends.

Peter's birthday was when the trouble began. His 2Xth birthday, and the landlord was invited, though, he wasn't /the/ Landlord yet, just his partner, that would be over soon. Peter treated his partner and his other friends to a small but respectable dinner at Catiline's. Peter arrived ahead of time to the restaurant, to ensure nothing went awry.

It smelled near death. Peter knew enough about places like Catiline's to know that it was only a matter of time before the well-dressed, fickle bourgeois inhabiting the place would sicken of the lingering stench of money they brought to the place and would search for somewhere else to hide.

Don't shit where you eat, mother always said. It wasn't time for the place to die, not just yet. His friends then, would enjoy this night.

The first arrival, after Peter that is, was Richard, a tall lanky man, oldest among them, wearing the tweed uniform of a professor.

"Happy birthday, Peter!" he said, entering the reception area and giving Peter a hearty slap on the back.

"Thank you," said Peter, "And congratulations to you on the job, any idea when the others will arrive?"

"Don't mention it, and, I think they'll be here when you told them to, gesturing to his golden watch. They were both early.

1/2, will critique when done posting

Did this for a creative writing group a while back, the challenge was to write a scene without using the letter 'I' at any point. I'm still paranoid I left one in though.

(just had this published in Perversion Magazine)

I Don't Have To

I've finished my two eggs. Scrambled. With pepper. Two and a half shakes of pepper. I left one bite full on the plate. Have to leave the one bite full on the plate.

I have to turn off the light above my stove. Off. On again to make sure it’s working. And off. Good.

Everything is good.

I have to make sure the outside is still there. I don’t have to. I want to. It’s just a joke really. I do it every morning. But still. It’s just a joke.

I have to put my shoes on before I open the door to check if the outside is still there. It doesn’t matter that I’m not stepping outside. I have to wear the shoes before I can check. I don’t have to. I want to. It’s just a joke. Really, it is.

I tie the laces tight. Left shoe first. Always the left shoe first. And then the right. I cannot do the right one first, it wouldn’t be right. Left. Then right. It’s the right way.

Shoes on. I can go check. I unlock the door. I lock the door. I have to make sure the lock is working. I unlock the door. I lock the door. I unlock the door. I lock the door. I unlock the door.

No. No, no, no, no. Did I check it twice? Unlock, then lock, then unlock, then lock, then unlock? Or did I only do unlock, lock, then unlock? This isn’t good. If I check it again, will it be right, or will I have done it too many times? I have to do it the right amount of times. I can’t do it less. I can’t do it more. No, no, no, no. Why is this happening? It’s just a joke, really. I don’t have to…

Twice or three times? This is not good. How many times? Do I check it again? I could just walk away from it. But I have to check to see if the outside is still there. I don’t have to. I want to. It’s just a joke, really. I have to check, I have to check, I have to decide on the lock.

One more time. I’m sure of it. That will be two. It has to be two. It doesn’t have to be. Lock. Was that two, or three? I have to check if the outside is still there. Unlock.

I open the door.

The outside is not there.

That’s not the outside. That’s not the normal outside. It’s yellow. It’s bright yellow space. And dogs. Dogs are flying. I think they are dogs. They are animals. And they have children in their teeth? Or dolls? It doesn’t matter. I checked to see if the outside was there. I did do that. I did check. I didn’t have to. It’s just a joke, really. I have more pressing concerns.

Did I check the lock twice or three times? I can undo it if I did it three times instead of two.

Before I close it. I don’t have to. I want to. It’s a joke, really.

Lock. Unlock. That’s minus one. Is it at two now, or did I make it one? Lock. Unlock.

The outside that is not there is being loud. I have to concentrate.

Lock. Unlock.

>>8310501
Sure enough, the final guests arrived. The other landlord, anton, like Peter, was a slim twenty-something, dressed in whatever suit seemed popular at the time. The difference was that, next to him, in a red dress, was a woman. She had the sort of crushing gravity normally reserved for smaller stars. This was the fourth guest, and the only one Peter had not known previously.

"Peter, happy birthday." said Anton, raising his hand in greeting, not unlinking his arm from the woman, "this is Mia." he gestured to her, if it it was not clear, "We're getting married." Peter knew then, that this was going to be a long night.
before anything could be said, they were lead to their tables, and an uncomfortable silence ensued. A somber, cramped space meant to be "cozy" was where they sat. The plastic candles seemed almost real. Almost. Peter was seated across from Mia, and next to Richard, who was across from Anton.

"Congratulations, but... er... this is a little sudden." said Richard.

"Well, it is sudden for us too."

"You don't mean to tell me you fell in love at first sight, or something stupid like that do you Anton?" said Richard, nearly interrupting him. Peter ignored this conversation, disconcerted that Mia had not yet spoken a word.

"I suppose you could say something like that, yes." said Anton, Richard shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"How long have you been together exactly?" asked Richard. It was then that Peter felt something brush against his foot. Bare flesh of another foot. Mia's foot. Peter abruptly spoke "So, what are you going to order? have you decided?" with that, Mia's foot retreated.

"I didn't know you were the waiter." snapped Richard.

2/2.

>>8310514
I really liked this. The sentence structure added to a feeling of anxiety, and the plot twist was interesting to say the least. I wish there was a bit more to it is all, it is very bare bones, I feel like if it was longer, and there was a slower descent to madness instead of just a straight up plunge.

>>8310515

Is this a joke or is your lack of skill some post-postmodern vaporwave trope?

>>8310535
its called a short story :^). I wrote it for fun but I liked it, you probably would too if I didn't use my trip name

does the yr guy is still exist

>>8310475
Liked the start, hated the end. Just needs some editing. Especially in the middle portion.

>>8310501
>>8310529
The style is enjoyable but your classist views are hamfisted.

>>8310511
>with
Line 6.
Absolutely fantastic. I'd love to read something longer if you have it available.

>>8310514
Don't care for it. The style feels old and overdone.

>>8310515
It's shit.

>>8310582
>Line 6

Damn I knew I missed one, thanks. Also that's all I have for that particular subject, but I've kept the work because I enjoyed the style and would like to incorporate it in a larger piece of writing at some point. I've been trying different styles, and I'd say that's one of my more 'flamboyant' styles, had fun with it though.

>>8310582
>its shit

What makes it shit, I don't understand /lit/ and literally cant anymore. They want something different, so I make a short horror story. Very short and to the point for a reader that has a low attention span. Any normal person would understand what it's about without having to reread. Sorry I didn't throw any victorian, tongue-tied, autistic words on to a paper to make you seem above your superiority complex

>>8310582
>classist views are hamfisted.

I was worried that would be a problem, perhaps I will make it shorter, and use less overt diction.

I find it is almost trivial for me to pound out a lavish 3-5 opening paragraphs for any story. Stylistically, I think it's easy to do this. You open with something that kicks off the story and suggests a deeper thematic bent using cute tricks and vivid suggestion.

You can't keep this going though. Or at least, I can't. The plot and the story take precedence. Dialogue breaks up the page, breaks down the metaphorisms. The language has to change - if it doesn't I think you'll just lose your reader in a deluge of WhatTheFuck & WhoCares.

I think short works are more impactful as a result. Eg, I think >>8309670 is fantastic but let's get real, could you read 100k words of that style? Would anyone even understand what they'd just read if they could manage to finish it? It's like a shot of nyquil and antifreeze - a smooth chemical to drop you down and turn off the lights. If it's just intended to be a 1000 word story or a short prose poem, whatever, but I just don't see the point in an exercise like this.

The best stories use ordinary, everyday language and disguise that deeper meaning in a careful application of that simple palette, imo. You can't convey that kind of writing well on /lit/, too.

>>8310606
You clearly have some skill. Keep it up in general then. I'd love in the future to read more of your work.

>>8310628
It's shit because there's nothing redeemable about it. It's in no way a horror story because there's no sense of horror. The diction is elementary, the structure is elementary at best, and writing something all of one page long for low-attention span readers is just disgusting. Your inability to simply recognize that you missed the mark on a short piece, or at the very least that no one else found anything worthwhile in it (let alone enjoyment), shows me that you think you have skill when in reality you don't.

>>8310637
That's the obvious solution, sure. You could also not be classist.

>>8310650
>>>/reddit/

>>8310448
Care to elaborate? That doesn't give me anything to work with.

>>8310767
It's as if you're trying to do too many things at once and succeeding at none of them. If you want to keep the idea, by all means, go ahead. I don't care for it based off of what I've read. Magical stone in strange box in a desert seems silly and juvenile. But if you're going to keep at it, scrap what you've done and start over. Pay more attention to those things I listed, and try again.

>>8310656
Are you perhaps the Annon who responded to me earlier, about the Fantasy Novel?

You wrote this?
>Nice but I'm not a fan of the "Pathetic really"s and whatnots.

By any chance was it because it was grammatically wrong or was it more of a preferential choice?

I did it to add characterization to the POV.

>>8310851
Not me, sorry.

>>8310864
Ah, sorry for the inconvenience.

>>8310515
It's like if Stephen King was too lazy to write more than a couple of paragraphs.

>>8309775
yeah i feel like ive seen this movie before. honestly, the lovecraft shit? I'm thinking of In the Mouth of Madness. Haven't seen it in a while though.

>>8310107
not exactly original tbqh m.night.famalayn.

I probably won't ever get around to writing it, if that makes you feel any better, but I have had some interesting ideas to go with it. I mean, the chances of someone here stealing your idea and making something of themselves off of it is 0%. Literally. I don't think it has ever happened, and it probably will not ever happen. Maybe a thousandth of a percent chance. The chances of either one of us doing anything decent with the idea is similarly small.

Happy writing though. Maybe we can compare notes/novels at a future date.

I first heard the name "Bill Wilson" in the fall of 1987. It was in the wake of the stock market crash that happened the day before, on Black Monday. I remember the morning I sat down in the cafe before class. I had picked up the paper, and, as usual, flipped through the pages looking for whatever caught my interests. There was one article that sparked my interests, one about the conflict in Lebanon.

The article talked about how the situation was getting worse and worse every day. This was three years after the Multinational Force left. People were starting to think leaving was a mistake. I remember it said that in all the chaos, it was apparent that the presence of a higher military force in the region was somewhat of a beacon of hope for those who sought out the westernization of the country. It had a number of names attached, names of people who had served and had survived the conflict. These were... exemplary mentions, people who made it through the absolute worst. It's funny, one of those people was a man I had later met and worked with about... thirteen years later. Another one of those names was Bill Wilson.

Of course, back then, he wasn't associated with the CIA. Not everyone who knew him would tell you the same thing; that he was a veteran, a war hero, a father and husband. Instead, you would ask who this man was and people would look at you with a face that told you they didn't know who you were talking about. Bill Wilson has always been a common name, one that people wouldn't regularly distinguish.

I never knew I would hear that name ever again. Twenty-six years. I guess that's a record.

keep the girls dancing
steal their time in the noise
every half attempted love flaking away
a stiffening of the joints
a hushing of pride
selling out never looked so fuckable
or felt so risky
electric noise clenches the jaw
sensations flying overtop
birds of prey to those desperate for contact
rhyme fell long ago, but the words march on
pattern, placement, purpose
falling along the wayside in favor of rambling
self imposed truths of being
the girls won't dance to free verse you know
and yet still the bastards abound
these ever creeping moments crack relentless
coherency is a pipe dream
eloquence is a tool left for men with time everlasting
the darker days have yet to arrive

ass
mess
less
class

r8 my poetry

>>8311147
the yeats of our generation

>>8311029
>I had picked up the paper, and, as usual, flipped through the pages looking for whatever caught my interests. There was one article that sparked my interests, one about the conflict in Lebanon.

even if this is a meme post, i still think it should be a quality one. these two sentences are awkward and the plural form of interests is also weird here.

>>8311147
11/10

masterpiece. i cried.

bump

Fuck it. Don't care

>>8310650
Thx for telling me my extract is fantastic :)
What makes it so in your opinion?

>>8311029
Incredibly basic writing. This is something I'd expect out of the average 16 year old.

>>8311573
There's quite a few issues here. Honestly, I'd drop the entire idea, consider it just as an exercise, and move on to a new idea.

>>8311617
I thought about it. I honest to god thought it. I thought about writing it purely from the soviet perspectives Richard Matheson style

>>8310515
Fifty Shades of pretty damn shit

>five dots
>then seven
>then six
>then five again
>ALL CAPS DIALOG

How do you sleep at night?

>>8310475
Is that it? The ending doesn't feel like one and seems unrelated to the main idea. The last sentence in particular destroys all suavity; I almost imagine that the narrator is masturbating.

The first paragraph is honestly great, though.

>>8310529
Pretty efficient style, not beautiful but good for telling a story.

>>8311029
Pretty colloquial, but not too bad. Sounds like the narrator is directly speaking to the reader. It needs some more work.

>>8311624
Didn't say you didn't think about it. Saying you should let this piece die and move on to something else.

I found myself walking on damp sand, along the shore. A thick fog obscured my vision as it filtered the light of the moon; I could not see further than a couple meters ahead. I barely saw the foamy tip of dying waves, on my left. As I inhaled, the salty mist that filled my lungs almost made me cough. On my right, the sand continued as far as I could see; I imagined the sand becoming earth, and earth becoming grass, but my imagination was not sharp enough to see those transitions through the fog. A distant foghorn tickled my ears of cotton. I stopped and listened carefully, trying to pierce the veil of the sea. I could not ear any buoy nor horns. The same grayness laid before my eyes, abandonned by every lighthouses, every beacons, every hint of something beyond this desolate sight.

I heard the horn again, minutes or days later, and resumed walking. The shore curved softly while looking always the same. The path behind was eaten by the fog and forgotten; I wondered if I was walking in circles, but reasoned that ships don’t sail on ponds. I took a look behind myself : there was no footstep up to the one I was leaving in my stride, but I told myself that the water washed it away.

À l'orée du jour, l'insomnie bourdonne
Dans mes oreilles et le soleil,
Pas encore doré, laisse s'échapper
Sur l'horizon des échardes orangées.

Un spectre brumeux, effervescent,
Survole ma carcasse enfiévrée :
Des lambeaux de fantasmes défilent,
Des désirs fantomatiques de femmes.

Calme-toi, ma peine ! Je le sais,
Seuls les préjudices m’apaisent,
Alors calomnions-les ! Encore !
"Catins" ! "Elles ne valent rien !

Pas même un quatrain !" Encore,
Te disais-je ! Cessons ces rêveries,
Transmutés depuis en regrets. Ah !
Et mes passions qui les recréée !

Any Frenchfag here?

>>8311780
Interesting enough. But you're overdoing it. Your prose feels like you're trying to fluff it rather than having a natural feel. You also go a bit too far into detail; you want your reader to envision something themselves as well as this makes it more engaging for them. I'd remove some of the details that don't directly affect the story. For example, saying the waves were on the left. There seems to be no reason that you should be so specific and if anyone to that point imagined they were walking along a beach with the ocean to their right, you've ruined the scene. You could say, to one side the dying waves, etc.

>>8311846
Other than the right/left (which is excessive, I'll grant you that), what is overdone?

There isn't much of a plot, it's a piece focused on the atmosphere and the dreamlike universe, so it is natural that I add a lot of details. What did you think was uninteresting?

>>8311808
D'abord:
Les deux premiers quatrains sont beaux, imagés mais remplis de sens. Le troisième est fade (surtout qu'il manque des rimes) et le quatrième est correct.

>qui les recréée !
Coquille?

Si l'on regarde la forme, c'est peu impressionnant:
Mètre inconstant (10, 9, 11, 11, etc), alors les césures sont également au hasard, rimes inconstantes aussi (belles rimes internes dans la première strophe, par contre).

Je trouve la fin un peu décevante, considérant le début prometteur.

>>8311947
You're too specific. Part of the romance and art of description is leaving parts out to be interpreted by others. If I'm not mistaken there's a concept in Japan based entirely around this. Not saying it needs to be so extreme as what that school of thought describes, but you should leave more room open in general. Your work is suffocating.

>>8309670
Promising, I think. I'll comment further. Hit the word cap.


Several hours later the boy had gone, and He was unable to recall that voice, remembering only a distortion, or the voice of another. Darkness seeped across the desert, held at arm’s length by the mesmeric colours of the bulb decorated machines. He faced the riders half-slumped over the railing. Only four of the gliding horses were mounted, two couples who circled and shifted up and down, blissful and myopic. The swirling colours detached into abstracted entities as his thoughts burrowed like a millipede across his view.
Discipline is the will bowed and obedient to an earlier iteration of itself. He understood but resisted this type of formulation, it was too hygienic. He could not deny himself in this way, smothering impulses, neglecting them until he shrivelled into purity. Instead he gathered himself under the reddened rubric of an internal rhetoric, all connectives and promises. He attempted to suffer along with his unfulfilled desires, and they found a displaced salvation in him. No desire thought badly of him, all concatenate around the mutual frustration of a shared waiting, and in the constant of fantasy he allowed his desires articulate and further determine themselves, certain that left to their own devices they would always uncover the solidarity in his withholding. Thus he was a hedonistic man not lost to pleasure, but disciplined within it. He oversaw the perpetual growth of intertwining impulses, and with each successive splitting and reabsorption, the soul of his art awakened and aged. As such, having felt out the ache in his bound arm, and having massaged it thoroughly with his free hand, his right hand, fixed as it was, rubbed his left arm in order to earn its keep, but also not to be outdone. These doublings doubled back, and fucking themselves toward with one another.
There was no absolute logic here, only a well exercised flexibility, and of course, Jimson had limits, forever ready to sympathize with the walls he hit. It was a cold, cloudless evening and he had held his water for several hours, and while the urge to piss had left him, he didn’t like that. The binding was not supposed to be punitive, but it had dragged on long enough to cause him to wonder. He had been restrained by a woman of eccentric taste, but she was not erratic, and there was no reason to believe she wouldn’t return to release him. At worst she would arrive with an excuse, and hopefully with something to eat. The food stalls fanned the smell of old cooking oil across the cold air, and saliva pooled in his mouth, which he spat out at intervals, relieved by the idea of expelling fluid. He was parched and felt stupid for rejecting this self-produced gulp, but his thirst could wait and forgive, and he would drink deep soon.
Be nice. I was really upset last time someone provided a mean critique.

(>>8312546 is me) there's a few typos in my post. I'm embarrassed now.

>>8309670
So, my only comment is that some paired down palate cleanser lines could be a nice accompaniment to your rich prose. Otherwise it might suffer from try hard syndrome, which unfortunately is something only applied to unpublished writers. Bit of a catch 22. Anyway I like it, but I'd need to read more to know if it works.

This extract system is inappropriate really. I feel like I picked out a silly section myself. It's an involved section that pays off after having some experience of the character's earlier actions.

>>8311780
this guy:>>8312011 is not totally off the mark, but he's being unfairly critical. /lit/ is full of people who waiting to spring at the chance to be mean-spirited and scathing in the name of "honesty". Advice is also encouragement.

He is some encouraging and simple advice. 1) the right/left thing makes sense. It's not wrong, but the rest of your prose style doesn't justify it. Find the salient aspects of your style and treat them more or less as rules. Style justifies itself over the course of a written piece.
2) Watch out for pleonasm. Although, to be fair, I think you have. It's hard not to nit pick amateur work. Perhaps the sense of redundancy I'm picking up on lies in the unnecessary separation of sentences. e.g. "I could not see further than a couple meters ahead. I barely saw the foamy tip of dying waves, on my left."

What about "I could not see further than a couple meters, barely seeing the foamy tip of dying waves,( on my left.)"

Here's a thing I wrote today.

>>8312546
Assuming you intended the first paragraph to be disorienting to read, I'd say it succeeds at that. If this is an opening rather than an extract though, I think you'd lose a lot of people by starting that way.

The second paragraph's bodily fluids are a nice contrast to the first's vague abstraction. It's certainly attention-grabbing.

>>8310511
Best thing in this thread. Well done bud

>>8312631

It's the beginning of the second half of a chapter. So no, it's not meant to be disorientating. It's probably a poor extract choice. I put the the first half up here a while back and someone haaaated it. So I felt weird about posting it again.

Yours is good. Don't take this the wrong way, but I see some of my own sentence structure
in your piece. Things I write that I'm not sure I should write, things like "subjected to" come to mind. Anyway, it's not a fully formed thought. Ignore it.

Your piece is personal, confidently expressed, and unpretentious. Perhaps being a little more pretentious in the hope of achieving something beautiful would be a possible direction for you? I'm thinking Raymond Carver.

>>8310511

Really enjoyed this. Great stuff anon. Not a fan of the word "daren't", but that's my only weird & useless complaint.

>>8312570
Thank you very much for your kind words and for taking the time to critique. I am aware of the tryhard syndrome, but honestly this is how my prose comes out naturally. Here is a little bit more as requested (continuation of my first post), though I do feel this extract is slightly weaker.

The room dimmed as the moon rose; her eyes, before silver and placid, had given birth to golden points of enamorment. My warmed-up blood after 2 bottles of red. Now it is just fragments. A trembling index on my white shoulder, lie down on the bed she said, and so I did. My knees tightening and shaking, my mother looking at me from my bedside table, in her autumn cotton frock in Florence. The smell of wood and paint, the common man's bedroom musk, clashing with my own eccentricities, clashing with her obliviousness: at the highest point I am always the most aware. Rattle of rats on the roof, they're laughing at me I thought. Her breath was steadier but still as relentless when she slept, her head making a splash on my neighbouring white pillow. I listened with half-open eyes. Eventually my lids felt the weight of the night and closed until the sun was unveiled.

>>8312754

No problem. If this is the way you write naturally, than you've got something. I wouldn't worry about experimenting with my suggestion though! I think some additional more simple, clauses between your more filigreed prose could elevate it. You already have control over a style of language most people fail at. Plus, this anxious man character, there can be no doubt that he's inches away from a guy writer trope. The fact that it doesn't feel that way is testament to your writing ability.

I know my poem is bad. the only question is how bad

What it do?
Piggies left for the farm
So fuck em and the street
Responsible, we ain’t responsible
Dial-late like em pupils
The number you promised you’d never call
Flip the kid, splash the spool
Of entrance exit
So photographic and God
You could put your finger through it
And feel him from the inside

The chest decompresses like
A euthanized dream
First time you didn’t know
What ta do, he’s
Vacantly watching
Dim stars
Stew in city light
And the semi-circle
Stands reflected in
This exasperated seep like
Liquid velvet
But rats don’t know Hollywood or Opera

Brotherhood is a
Callous crutch, the same strength
That brought you to this mistake
Point being balancing acts
Are bullshit
But it’s vanishing
Before ya fuckin eyes
What was once scatters in ways unfamiliar
Despite you, what? Having been a part
Of things and people
Breakin apart
But the Rat King
Drags his dead

Visitation of mourning Queen
But rats, ya been disowned
Consequences render like,
Did you hear what happened to Al Capone?
It’s the division of the butterfly
Where severed sameness is misidentified
As opposites, but human origami is just
Empty spaces filled
Man, she’s fucking weepin
And blaming but
Kennedy always takes the bullet
And Jacky always cries

Whole world heard
What they took
Hushed vows
We ain’t shook
Ones twos threes, dominoes
Ye witness a falling king
For they rule as one
Nature of war is like
Skip the fucking funeral and
Just ether em

Ain’t found peace, just piece
Gat, understand?
And we a legion but
Cast a length of shadow
A body-twine which
Eats the street
Did they feel it?
Coming down the pipe
The sea of us, see
The fucking price
Of the take?

Now they’re just
Reduced to sirens
But they ain’t singing
Just
Choir of dingy animals
Cloppin along in their cruisers
Ought not linger but finger
The trigger, cap the dead ringer?
Yes and yet can you disagree,
When now ya part of a synecdoche?
Rats killing rats
I mean, what do you mean we?

>>8312819

If I read it without being too serious there's a comedic affect to it that's pleasant enough. That's the best I can do buddy.

>>8312834
you meant to say effect, not affect

the foul, maddening buzz
weighing on his head
Such a furious welcome home,
unfit for the Sovereign
who tends to his skull-sized
lonely domain
and the crass, miserly
pleasures of his palate
still entranced by
the simple joys of summertime
the bloodred lust,
the rich, luxuriant warmth of
a june morning
Oh the benevolent promise of boyhood:
the many fleeting victories encased
in glass
and sweet, ornamental jewels
taunting
flashing her crystalline charms
flirting with the want
straining on your bones,
nestled in the marrow
like the clay of the sculptor,
like the grief of the drunk;
prodding at those
delusional spirits
tending
to the green of your greed
-- exultant
of the most high,
fortunes of stature
fortunes eternal
fortunes everlasting!
these familiar, sour temptations
they still buzz
purring in their sleep
cold, subdued, squandered
sunken
in the rust
of that old abundant Kingdom
throned by conceit,
then devoured

>>8312961

That I did. Thanks.

>>8311947
Merci pour ton avis, camarade ! Mine de rien, c'est très encourageant.
En ce qui concerne les rimes, c'est volontaire. Je leur préfère les assonances, les allitérations et les paronomases.

Is this how you pastebin? I tried to make a Ranger-esque story.

http://pastebin.com/VXTUbFCM

>>8313247
Or is it like this? God I'm such a newfag.

<script src="//pastebin.com/embed_js/VXTUbFCM"></script>

>>8313007

This is comfy as fuck, desu. Bravo.

>>8310157
it's not that bad dude I quite liked some parts

she giving me a striptease
but i know nothing like im socrates

Beautifully, beautifully he rose. His hunched back and crooked teeth could not hide the ten thousand years of noble ancestry that flashed beneath those blue eyes, that shone in fine silver hair, that flapped in the wind, revealing his kingly scalp. The leathered skin opened its mouth, and in a voice that echoed all across the plain like rolling thunder, said

"Come down off your cross, you homo son of a bitch."

A breeze blew through the tattered carpenter's jeans, through the holey hoodie, extending this regal dress to the north east, and his rhetorical opponent crumbled before him. Mightily, mightily he walked away, victorious in all his endeavours.

Gently, gently he presses it. He pushes just enough. A soft boy sighs, then laughs, finally invoking God's name. A smirk is exchanged between the two.

But no love is here. No, the soft boy is incapable of love, beautiful as he is, kind, sweet and gentle as he is, he is passionless. Little excites him outside of his flowcharts. The human element is lost on him. The only thing he appreciates is power. Tonight, he gives power freely out of pity. But it will be gone in the morning. All across this western plain, where worshipers echo sentiments of ancestors, who rest upon the bones of the slain, a truth rings out above all else:

No matter how gently, gently he pushes, his soul is lost forever.

>>8312610
If you think I was being overly critical with what I said, I can't wait to see your reaction when you send in your work to actual agents...

>>8312631
Not terrible. Kind of dull. Edit it down a bit.

>>8312694
I didn't haaaate it. Just said it wasn't good and you should scrap it.

>>8314228
You can still enjoy it. That doesn't mean it's not bad literature. Plenty of people enjoy Twilight. Doesn't mean it's good. Not many people have enjoyed Stoner given it's very recent rise in popularity. Great character study.

>>8314276
No.

>>8309670
cool it with the adjectives and the commas, man.

No one will be my flower
Even my infant daughter
Will become a whore

My wife will lose interest
My children will hate me
And I will be alone

Thirty years later, something maybe
After the cancer scare
My kids will call

Then I'll be patronized
for another fifteen
"Oh really Grandpa"

Fuck

Banana-split, salad dressing and gumbo

My Aunt catching us dry-humping in the back room, it was such a task to get anything done without interruption, you wanted me to grab more ass
Your thong with big yellow letters - 'Sweet Thang' - I believe the panty itself, purple?
(Forgive my ill memory)
Engagement terminus, your screams filled the party with gossip, apparently my whiskey-dick too
Remaining opinion: you taste of childhood achievement, your axiomatic gush on my sheets makes one warm to know the tongue can be put to use (at least)
Brainwork - food eating contests, our quantum in this tardy edge.

>>8309227
A few lines from a song I wrote recently:

Recede now the payout
With this gun to your head
Each bullet has tasted
The thoughts in my head

Those thoughts are all dead now
“I promise, I’ll change”
Some darkness is brighter
Than the brightest of lights

I hardly hear them now.
Just auditory clues,
cues to signal– keys to
slot in neuropaths and
drafts to notes to sheets to
this music. Peace in the
pieces– where I sit but
don't listen. These songs that
tend to sidle step in,
change some stone to flesh and
numb law to love. I want
rest but instead this sly
test sets in for the night.
I hardly hear them now.

I think that, in general, nearly all the poems here focus too much on sentiment (emotional or not) and forget the greatest value of poetry: beauty.

I'm probably guilty of this too.

>>8309599
Okay, read the last page for fun. If you're going to write a full book, use more periods please. The overuse of exclamation points/question marks is a little annoying. It's interesting, puts together a nice world but a fantasy novel BUT BUT BUT please use descriptions instead of inner monologue immaturity like "One. Two. One. Two." Talk to me about those stanky feet. Make it nice.

Anyway, good job, keep writing, peace

>>8309670
Starts really strong, great descriptive language, good character development, becomes a bit immature when inner monologue becomes informal IMO.

>>8310098

Wow, wonderful writing, and finally, a /lit/izen comfortable writing from the perspective of a woman. Especially as ESL, this is very strong. Keep it going. I can't tell if it's 1920 England or 1850 Germany or 2205 Mexico or what.

>>8314363
why no
Pls anon I'm not going to get better if you don't tell me what I should be avoiding

>>8314276
It's not a no from me.

>>8314689
In fact, now that I've read it, it's a yes.

Here's a poem I'll write right now as exercise:

Orchestral orchids,
a violet dancing to Beethoven
and growing in stop-motion
photography has captured my life
and I'm not sure how to set myself free
wring the turpentine from my stringy lungs
over the clearest river you can find
let the murky tentacle wind.
now,
open my f-stop
let the light in to crystallize on the dirty dishes
what a miracle the mess we leave behind
before we even live.

Tell me what you think of my **style**.

>>8310515
>>8310548
i remember you. i called your trip a "randomly generated pen name," which it is. your stuff still wouldn't be readable if you were anon.

>>8311808
Assez plat et forcé. Le propos et la manière de proposer ne doivent pas être si séparés dans ta tête quand tu écris. Il faut garder le symbole entier quand on le pense, même si c'est moche au début. Eduque ton sens du Beau, cowboy

I have a plot that's premise is redemption. I.e bad person gets ammnesia becomes new person. Should I keep them as the new version or have a conflict between the two personality's.

piopl
ohhoiho
nillml
lllhoi
ihihihihihihihihi
kill og;mo

>>8314704
slightly dark yet aromatic of roses, deeply textured, physically moving—essentially the majority of forced self-aggrandizing shit

>>8314704
forced, self-aggrandizing, what a color-blind person might deem colorful, like a bait-less fish-hook, quite cliched, and sandwiched by two very unnecessary statements—THOUGH IVE READ WORSE, K?

I'm a cucumber
in a pickle
jar ajar. Will I turn
into a pickle
in a pickle
in pickles
in pickles.

Flung past light-speed

This is a sci-fi/fantasy idea I've been thinking about. It's a way to explain (in-universe) how faster than light speed travel is done:

Imagine two intersecting lines. Now look at the angle between them.

Lets think of angles the way that many mathematicians do:
An angle is a slice of a circle.

You can draw radial lines outwards from the center of the circle according to the angle. You can draw infinitely many slices of circles of varying sizes.

Now imagine you have a book and you slam it shut.

Think of closing that angle.

The tips of the book traveled a certain distance. (Note: this distance is known as the arclength).

Say you had a bigger book, but it was opened with the same angle. Imagine you're also stronger too, for argument. You can close this book just as fast, at a certain percentage of the angle per second.

Now let's just think of it as two extending line segments of length R.

The angle is "a" in radians.

Imagine these line segments extending out to a huge number of light years of distance. You have these two extremely long line segments, and the distance between the two points is many, many light years away from each other.

Now saw you were to close the angle between the two long poles. You could close the angle just as easily (because this is math) regardless of the length of the radial lines.

This would mean that you could make the ends of these line segments travel towards each other (because we assume the line segments don't sway or bend and are perfectly straight (again, this is math)) very very very fast, because you're just closing say, 60 degrees and you're infinitely strong, closing the angle between these perfectly stiff and rigid poles. Because the poles are so long, the distance between them when measured directly, is many light years, but they can be moved together in a snap. Thus these two objects at the ends of the radial arms are drawn together faster than light speed.

This only works for ships though that originate from their home base. It's a tangle between any two given ships at any time, being controlled by meme-space magic. It allows a fighter to get to a docking ship nearly instantaneously.

1/3

>>8315284
2/3

>>8315284
>>8315289
3/3

>>8309599
Tbh senpai I quit after page 2. Not that the writing is bad, it's done well. It's the plot. I don't want to read about Miss perfect and her shit struggled at some dumb academy. Take that writing skill and apply it to something more fucking interesting

Trader:

You are here because you loath
All made in his image

They lied
There is joy in hatred
In hatred there’s release
From all the things that make you weak
I won’t make you weak

I will make you whole
I can make you unending
I will usher bliss

But there is no love
I bring no kindness
Only business
Only business

>>8314770
H-ha ha ha... M-merci pour t-ton avis.

>>8310656
>You could also not be classist.
what the fuck does this even mean

>>8315311
You are here
because
you loath all made in his image

they lied
From all things that make you weak
i

can make you unending

I bring no kindness
Only business - only
Business.

>>8309564
Well you can actually write which I think is rare for /lit/ critique threads. Did you do the writing in the excerpts, too? Really, it's quite good. There are a couple of times where I feel like you sacrifice clarity for the sake of poetry, and I don't think that's a necessary sacrifice to make.

The following is a 6k short story, any feedback would be much appreciated: http://pastebin.com/fg6vGag6
(pic unrelated)

>>8315387
It actually does flow way better. Thanks anon.

>>8315422
I think i'd make it:

i

can make you ending
bring you no kindness

only business only
business

just bumping up that one. tough to say really.

Just putting in a little bump here guys, keeping the flow going you know the drill

>>8309227
Wrote this [an extract, obviously not complete] years ago and won it in a junior high school writing competition.

I was born to an English family that was paralysingly ordinary. It was a compact and loving family of four; my parents, my older sister, and myself. My early childhood could only be described by words that carry jovial connotations, idyllic, perhaps. Back then, seldom did the temperaments of the English Midlands affect me; should the skies weep, the house would erect warm fireplaces and loving conferences with blankets and hot chocolate, and in days when the land was feeling content, my emotions would be hand in hand as I would play joyfully in its' wares. In all my idyll, I foresaw little of the macabre adventure that was to come.
After the endurances of my mortal life transpired, I can no longer recall the factual broad strokes of the more lighter transpirations of my life. I was perhaps seven, maybe eight... equally likely nine, when I met Sev. In retrospect, I would consider it my first romantic encounter, despite that at the time I was obviously too young to digest any romantic capital. It is an incurrence for me to even attempt to describe Sev with any platonic objectivity. My ambivalence towards him is only coupled by the trauma inflicted on me in which he was complicit in. Nonetheless, before fate turned her gaze at me, I knew only Sev as an outlet to the gloom that challenged me at the time. Let me divulge; by this point in my reminiscence, the idyll is over; gone, despite its' relative lightness and lack of human casualty, it was the first taste of irresolvable complications in my life. You see, at this point in one's life, one would show their true colours, as per a universal law of commensuration between the early cognitive development of one and a display of their true emotional and intellectual capacities. My emotional and intellectual capacities far exceeded that of my older sister's. Teachers, guests, familial friends... the list of those who spotlighted me and cast my shadow over my older sister would only hauntingly perpetuate. My parents received this with confusion and foolishly impulsive responses. Perhaps I should not blame them; after all, they were so perfectly mundane that they managed to to ignore the fruit of all my life's work when it was due. My sister, however, received it in a fashion that would colour my parents' attitude as mellow, for she scorned and chastised me with an energy twofold powerful than that she channeled in our sisterly bonding of my younger years.

Amidst this turmoil, I had once departed home without a warrant from my parents, to what I would consider my second home; a modest paludal woodland enclosed from all sides by suburbia, with a maze of streams cast from a main river to the West like the aged crevices between bricks in a historically fantastical house; the place in which I spent much of my time bonding with my

>>8315284
>door person
Stopped reading there.

>>8315361
>>>/reddit/

>>8315604
is doorman better?

>>8315570
Not horrible, especially for the age you wrote it. But it's thesaurus puke in the worst way.

>>8315618
Yes. I still won't read more because that still gives me the feeling you've done similar things throughout, on top of dash speech.

>>8315625
>implying dash speech isn't the best form of speech

>>8309227
Bell rung for the morning.
Crisp, cold air in the lungs.

Dinner at the Soviet decree.
Sleep at the Soviet decree.

Hushed chats in the corner.
Eyewash for the fool and cigarettes for the sausage.

I am no Sisyphus
No proletariat
Conscious for a few
Seconds, hope or dismay
Then to the work again.

Drudgery.
Work work work.
I only hope
One day I
I will see
Crumbled stars.

>>8309227
She stood alone. Around her a sea of heather undulated towards far hills as clouds shifting ribbons of red and purple gave weight to the heavy air. As she stood there isolated in her thoughts a frown etched itself to the familiar grooves in her face.
'Pardon my lady', a voice cut through the solitude.
She didn't respond.
'My lady we must continue, we-'
'Yes,' she said as she turned and strode past, 'let's go.'
She soon came to the path, and as she mounted her horse another rode up beside her.
'Elisa,' the rider asked, 'are you ok?'
'I'm fine.' Her response was terse as she turned to face the rider and smiled.
'Come, uncle, lets continue before the rains drown us.' she said, smiling.
'Rain?' he replied. 'Are you sure?
'Positive.' she said, holding out her hand as the first drops fell. Not waiting for a response she turned and rode off into the darkness.
'Great...' he muttered to himself giving the horse a kick and leaving only dust and an empty crossroad.

>>8315622
>thesaurus puke
Don't see any of this. You people always complain about this shit. It's like you have a third grade reading level. There's nothing in there.

>>8315691

>>8310387
>>8310390
>>8310393

I enjoyed this. I reckon you'd be good at poetry, if you haven't already tried.

>>8311116
use punctuation pls

>>8311573
>starting with saying her life ended
Not good. I don't even know her yet.

>>8312546
This is nice.. kind of smooth. Not plastic like DFW though.

>>8313007
Pretty good. I'd like it to flow better, but it still creates an atmosphere. Quite ponderous.

>>8314437
Kind of funny to me

>>8314663
"foggy-closed" seems a bit of a jam to me
>androgynous sleep
doesn't work imo

Pretty good though.

>>8315230
Really really not convincing but then again I am a physics student.

>>8315904
Kind of dreamlike or memorylike.
>this is how dark inside a bullet
no comprendo.

>>8316081
>Not good. I don't even know her yet.
Don't post again.

>>8315689
I edited this passage to the below.

She stood alone. Around her a sea of heather undulated towards far hills as clouds shifting ribbons of red and purple gave weight to the heavy air. As she stood there isolated in her thoughts a frown etched itself to the familiar grooves in her face.
'Pardon my lady', a voice cut through the solitude.
She didn't respond.
'My lady we must continue, we-'
'Yes,' she said as she turned and strode past, 'let's go.'
She soon came to the path, and as she mounted her horse another rode up beside her.
'Elisa,' the rider asked, 'are you ok?'
'I'm fine.' She said, pausing then turning to face him.
'Come, uncle, lets continue before the rains drown us.'
'Rain?' he replied. 'Are you sure?
'Positive.' she said, holding out her hand as the first drops fell. Not waiting for a response she smiled, turned, and rode off into the darkness.
'Great...' he muttered to himself giving the horse a kick and leaving only dust and an empty crossroad.

>>8316091
>filling the freedom fighters with frightened terror

now that is inexcusable. fuck off

>>8314694
>>8314689
>>8314363
>no
>it's not a no
>in fact, it's a yes

this isn't exactly gr8 critique m8s but i appreciate the (you)s

>>8316104

Definitely an improvement, but

>Around her a sea of heather undulated towards far hills as clouds shifting ribbons of red and purple gave weight to the heavy air.

You're gonna have to kill this darling eventually, bud.

This is where Harry found himself this morning, except that instead of starting into the stand of a computer monitor, H was starting into the space where the stand of a computer monitor should be, that is, his desk is empty today. Or at least, this desk is empty, completely empty. None of the personal knick-knacks or family photos or office toys were on his desk either, his stationary was not in its drawer and the bottom drawer that was usually empty was now full of someone else’s personal knick-knacks etc. etc. Now his ears awoke to the sounds of quiet giggling behind and next to him and the more awake, fuller H was in complete control.

“This isn’t my desk” he said into the desk.

“No, no it isn’t, this is my desk” said the desk.

Desk was beginning to lose its wordiness to H now and he swivelled on the chair to see a James W . looking down with his trademark, well trademark to H, shit-eating grin.

“You like my desk impression Harry?” The other workers around him exhaled a little harder than usual.

“Ha-ha, yeah I guess. Do you know where my desk is?” Only after saying this did he realise what a stupid question that was and winced to himself. A ‘here-we-fucking-go’ may have escaped from under his breath.

“Yeah, it’s over there” James said through the side of his mouth and used his thumb in a closed fist to point over his shoulder. “Du-uhh”. This produced an audible snigger that didn’t seem to get quieter the further away that Harry got from it; maybe because he was listening harder, or maybe because the more distance between him and the workers, the louder they started to giggle.

>>8316318
staring*

I am autistic and retarded.
I do not know what's left from what's correct
I do whatever I wish
Now fuck off
and let me have my fit!

>>8315196
Why the fuck has nobody critiqued this?

>>8316463
good stuff isnt critiqued

>>8316431
surprisingly cathartic—i feel like i really understand the plight of the autist, not even kidding

>>8316277
hmm but I love it :(

>>8316463
Rarely, instead of critique, I will just offer an edit. There's not much to edit here.

>>8316464
Idk man, I wrote that and I'm pretty sure it's terrible

>>8315176
appreciate it, 'migo

>>8311170
>>8311613
>>8311703
It's just dialogue. It's not supposed to be what's written.

Even the last guy said it:

>Sounds like the narrator is directly speaking to the reader.

They're talking to an entire group of people in the story at the same time.

What would actually be written is not in there and it is just a meme post so don't take it seriously.

>>8315904
This reads like one crazy long sentence instead of a whole passage. There's possibilities here but you definitely need to run a heavy edit over it.

>>8316270
No, it's crap.

changed a line

pls I went to the effort of critting and everything

>>8316318
I don't personally like the style but at least it flows. Feels a bit amateur.

>>8316522
i dont have a clue about poetry or anything but "swim between cloud castles" seems like a bit of a cliche. it gives me that disney feeling

>>8316463
I don't critique poetry because I'm not good at poetry and would only be doing you a disservice.

>>8316532
You miss the point of the thread entirely. Don't give a 'critique'. Just give your thought on it.

>>8316522
I kept waiting for you to reveal a parody. This is just,
awful.
I'm almost afraid to be too specific because you write like you're so excited about it, like everything is how you want it. But it's just silly and unimaginative. All the wrong influences of past greatness.
Hate it.

>>8316531
yeah it's meant to be a bit.. not ridiculous, but fantastical, like a childish dream

>>8316548
come on.. all the wrong influences? elaborate please

>you write like you're so excited about it, like everything is how you want it.

pretty much.

>But it's just silly and unimaginative
?

>>8316512
Appreciate the feedback. Yeah, I can see how it could feel that way. It is supposed to be the opening to a larger thing, and I have always liked it when books hit the ground running, but not if it is grating. Do you think tossing in some paragraph breaks would help?

>>8309227
I re-wrote a short story because I felt it's opening wasn't character or reader focused enough. It's just a page currently, but does it engage your attention? Are you at all curious?

My bent is more philosophy than plot, but I'm beginning to think that's not too wise. Although, I think writing without philosophy is what's killing literature.

>>8316656
Oops.

Excerpt from something I've been working on. I've got 15,000 words so far, not sure how long I want it to be.

>>8316656
Truth is more important than philosophy. You can write with philosophy and lie. Or you can be a "pleb" and write with truth. People will like it because writing when done truthfully is the closest approximation of a soul transfer. That is, by putting down your thoughts on a sheet of paper you communicate your interior to the consumer, for him/her it should be like plugging a cable into your head. And by thoughts I mean something more expansive than just thoughts which as a term doesn't really do justice to the whole experience. Now, here's the trick. If you ever want to do that truthfully, it's going to be very embarrassing. It's far more embarrassing than standing nude in front of another person because you're only exposing your flesh there, but in this case obviously you won't have anything more to hide. So when someone criticizes you or has a negative reaction to it, he's not commenting on your oddly-shaped tit or balding head which is rather easy to dismiss as being out of your control, he is rather dismissing your entire being as shaped by experience and actions you choose in your life. Even these threads are at times painful to read, especially when people lack tact in their criticism, because you're flinging poo at something far more personal. Probably also the reason for the lack of quality writing in them, nobody wants to have their "real" writing criticized. And in reality, I suppose even in private very few dare to write the bare bones of it. It's far easier to assume a mask and write something you feel is technically proficient and claim I was influenced by so and so. That doesn't really leave you open for real criticism, if you screwed up, you screwed up in imitation but that wasn't really you right, so you're safe. See, I tried to write something truthfully in my own notepad never to be published but was so emotionally strained by the idea of it that I couldn't even put pen to paper. You know who you are, others don't know who you are but they know when you're lying.

Stella cans, curry-stained polystyrene,
White lattice overlaid on nothing
with one node
disconnected.
Touch one corner and the shiver of one
turns into the quiver of each
and then all at once.
“Mate you look fucked”
and then I don't know
what I'm looking at,
a person on a saggy couch
sagging with it, vacant.
“don't you?”
I hold my gaze
and then
a stranger, nothing, gone,
same thing,
In another room just like this
a door opens,
this one, my handle turns, boom.
Head hurts. Is hospital
really like this? Cold lino,
really big floor
big floor.
Shhhhhhhhhhhh. Absolution
fills me, expanding expanding
not body but feeling,
hear and feel, see and feel,
be and know.
Another body beside me,
I remember the fall
as he drops,
“Shit!
You ok mate? Pizza guy's here.”
Hahahahahaaaaaa
ha..
Am okay yeah, more than, haha,
no prison.

>>8316674
"Miss Enriques is not only one of the best singers in Maracaibo, but all of Venezuela" Mr. Shiner took a drag and asked for another mojito. "We spent the night together a few weeks back. Nice girl."

There should be a "said" or some kind of speaking verb inbetween that.

"Apparently being an american truly is the greatest aphrodisiac". Sounds over-winded, and really, outside of America, very untrue. Being rich is an acceptable alternative aphrodisiac, however. You also mistyped "surpsises", and again, that's a bit of a cliche.

The rest is fine, not really my type of genre, but not badly written.

>>8316703
Thanks for your words anon. For me, truth is always a fitting delusion, so there's a small masking comfort there. But it is stinging to the soul when someone chides your most personal pourings, and more so when you believe that honestly to be your own truth.

I'm trying to write with more honesty, and it's a long process. My focus on philosophy really, is the lack of morality or guidelines post-modernism has created. I think it's killing us as species and making life more ridiculous each day.

>>8316724
The good:
>curry-stained polystyrene
>Shiver of one turns into the quiver of each

The bad:
I know you're trying to go for a vague feeling behind your poem, but you should be careful of going too abstract and blurring your sharpest pieces rather than enhancing them.

Pretty bad imo desu since I'm new to the whole writing scheme, so can I get some good critique?

Nothingness. Then light. There was a slight breeze and a calm sunlight. What seemed like a cool morning on the strings of the wheels was, in reality, a dank breath of heat on the pre-noon empty. The tall, winding grass of green and tan hue swayed softly over the flat plains, as always. The blue-green rover rocked gently, forward and back, through the sea of mystic weeds. The rush of the engine penetrating the rubber feet conjured a false breeze blowing horizontally on the driver's pale, bearded face.

His silky chocolate head did not bulge as he'd expected it to, nor did his eyebrows twitch like shrubbery divided by invisible hands, no, it stayed still in the air. His eyes, though fixated on the imaginary road ahead, were sunken and lazy, deep in shadow and nearly-wrinkled. Though his eyes lingered in his skull, his thoughts scrambled like a storm over the Caspian.
"This wind," he thought,
"Is my jacket not fit?" He lamented on his silent ramblings a little longer, confounded by his insolence at the task at hand,
"My brother, do I know his fate yet?"…
"Is today the day he dies?"

The driver shifted in his seat, a chill running down his spin like freezing water, or the cold finger of the Devil come to take him away,
"This is a mistake, my mistake."
The driver's sweaty grip on the smeared black wheel tightened and loosened in tangent rhythm, but alas something told him this was not an option, not a choice to keep driving forward rather than back. It was no deep reflection or forethought that conjured a sense of no going back, no wading in blood, no fate as such, since now he could see it straight ahead; His destiny.

>>8316769
>I know you're trying to go for a vague feeling behind your poem, but you should be careful of going too abstract and blurring your sharpest pieces rather than enhancing them.

Noted. I am, after all, writing for a reader.

>>8316836
Yes, it's an unfortunate chore. Could I be so bold as to ask for a reply on my own page? I've edited it slightly.

I've already posted in this thread (>>8309670), here is another extract I am much less confident about.

These wealthy slim-wristed dandies. I want to be just like them. Look at them smiling on a canal champetre, at the greenery or the golden-cheeked girl. He opens the bottle of rouge like it's the basest water. I watch him from the bench by the canal. The white polo shirt sticks to every sinew of his tanned surface. The handsome man's stubble and... let's go for a game of tennis! I follow him through the foliage. Tucked in a cradle I can analyse his second serve. Even his backhand is a bourgeois masterclass. It lacks all semblance of personality, yet he makes no effort to conceal it. He has the golden-cheeked girl and the canal, after all. I want to be a careless aristocrat. I want to go to operas with the long-lashed girls, opulent lipstick and all. I want Botticelli's Venus' maternal eyes on me when I'm nose-deep in coke. My sweet reverie disrupted by an insect crawling up my vulnerable right leg (shorts). I squash and squish it like a proper bourgeois and manage to pull off an unconcerned beurk both scathing and nonchalant. Presently my attention is moving on the girl. Her teeth are whiter than the court lines. Her skirt is flimsy but not revealing. Her grip is sensual, here comes the ball, look, that tender smile before she hits it. The ball responds to the sweetness and lodges itself in the corner of the court. These floral girls, what are their caresses like? A floral caress under dusk's mauve sun. Here I go, silently, out of my cradle, back to the rusty canal bench.

More-or-less a rough draft, intended less as a first chapter and more for myself as a means to establish the feeling of the story.


Dark powers, and the men who use them, have been a documented occurrence since the dawn of time. Tales are told from the corridors of the great pyramids of Egypt to the humble houses of worship lining your towns and cities. Many will rightly dismiss these stories as parables or embellishments—nursery rhymes intended to frighten small children. Regrettably, this one is not so. My name is Laika Erikson, and mine is a story most unpleasant.

My tale begins, as most do, with a mother. Mine was a simple woman; educated, to be sure, but simple. She received her doctorate from King's College in the same year she met my father. Almost impulsively she abandoned her plans of going into international politics, instead opting for a husband, a child, a happy suburb near the outskirts of London, and a part-time career far below her skill set.

Nothing could get that woman down. Thirteen years I spent in her household, and the most salient memory? She was content as she was capable. So, when I tell you that she swiftly began losing her mental by the age of forty-one, you might believe me when I tell you why. Six months prior, she met a man. She wouldn't say who, and my frankly inadequate father knew better than to ask. She and I never spoke of it directly, but knowing glances screamed she was unhappy with the man she'd married, and longed for romance. However, a sudden honeymoon and renewal of vows indicated her remorse, and the affair seemed to end as abruptly and inexplicably as it started.

Through years of investigating the events surrounding my injury, I've revealed the man's identity to be Edward Charles. Details are scare, but I've discovered that he was recruited as a child into a prestigious school for the gifted, which he attended until his rebellious departure at the age of fifteen. Following this, he lived a life marked primarily by petty theft and womanizing. This lowlife with two first names had a propensity for using his 'gifts' without care or caution. The accumulated vileness and filth perpetuated by this man could fill a book.

I can't tell you how that creep went about seducing my mother, in part because I refuse to think what horrendous mental games he might've forced on her. One sequence of events is for certain, however: a glass moved, a woman screamed, and a girl awoke shrieking in a pitch black operating room.

Are you still with me? I'd tell you the rest, but I'm late for class.

>>8315622
>>8315570
wrote it when I was 13, 100% I didn't use a thesaurus a single time though. I did have a penchant for using unnecessarily complex words and poor pseudo victorian prose

- with my older sister in my former prime. Upon crossing its' Northern threshold from a few paces South of my front yard's point of egress, I was immediately perturbed by the lack of soothing resolution which I had hoped the little nostalgic heaven would imbue in me. Despite my disappointment, I was unyielding to my emotions, and hoped to seek solace as I traversed closer and closer to the heart of the little woodland. I had no internal geographical nor chronological compass, but at some point when the sun was inclined at me in a comfortable angle, I came across a peculiarity that years of study and life experiences in the future would not resolve for me. A tree, misplaced in every way for the worse, like the former elite socialites who were thrown into common society during the postwar depression; this tree had a breadth greater than its' second in the woodland by threefold, its height remarkable but not macroscopically visible from afar, its bark a hue darker than the void of a lightless ravine, with its roots impetuously forming wave like structures that rippled unchallenged through pastures of a great radius, but of all its aspects, the most formidable was its sole inhabitant.
I recall no exactitude in the verbal exchanges between me and Sev during the days we spent together that followed his emergence from the great tree, but it is definite that my emotions towards him were on the unswerving positive. While matters at home turned on me with envy and poor handling, Sev encouraged and fostered my intellectual capacities and displayed a pragmatic but emotionally weighted approach to my problems. I also learned about Sev's complications with his family, and although I found sympathy with them, they were at a magnitude at the time so many folds of mine I had even tried to deny the severity of them by feeding him platitudinous and happy sermons. While I was constantly introspecting and trying to bring clarity to my own feelings with my family, I felt no such need for lengthy contemplations to discover my feelings towards Sev; they were definite, and definite they were on the positive. At least for now.

>>8317178
What do you want us to say about this? You know it is shit already.

>>8317178

It reads like fucking Last of the Mohicans.

>>8317178
Good god, I couldn't think of anything worse than cementing myself in a writing style that antiquated and at such a young age. You show it off like a gift, but it's a hampering curse to any sensible writer. There's being well-read at a young age, and then there's being precociously stained in the pederastic rape of bad books.

Please tell me you dropped that style past the age of fifteen.

>>8316537
You're an idiot.

>>8316548
well fuck you if you won't actually make a case

>>8317064
This is actually good. Obviously Kafka springs immediately to mind so good luck escaping the association.


upd8 full of doubt

>>8316607
Definitely. Overall though certain parts just don't flow. If it's part of something larger then finish the whole piece first but perhaps add a note that you need to revisit, edit, and trim that section for later. You don't want to get caught up editing before you've finished.

>>8316656
>>8316667
>was sure of only two things:
Stop this immediately.

Could be interesting? Feels a bit lacking so far. Not bad, not good either.

>>8316674
I disagree with >>8316769, you don't need a speaking verb there, it flows well without. On the fence about the aphrodisiac line myself. Really not bad though overall. I'd certainly read more. You should also write as much as you need to to finish the story. I find it helps if you know where the ending is and what you want it to be. That way you can always ask yourself, what is going to happen that leads me to this point. Even with that thought, write as much as you can. You can always take things out later, but if you don't write them in in the first place you may be missing out on truly great scenes or work in general.

>>8317211
I've actually gotten no constructive criticism from mates irl or on the net outside of /lit/ although i know its pretty crappy

>>8317246
yeah i dropped it when i was nearing 15 but straight away adapted another shitty iteration that is neoexperimental Woolf esque prose

>>8315196
I honestly love this.

No joke.

>>8317074
>canal champetre
Champetre isn't a word I use often but if I'm thinking correctly that doesn't make much sense. I could be very wrong though. Not bad I suppose. Definitely know your voice well. I don't take a particular interest in the subject matter but I also hate the poor, so take that as you will.

>>8317178
Well that explains it. Yeah, never write in that style again. Find your own voice before you start anything else.

Something I've been working on. About half done

The copper flames of liberty are shaded green by rust
Since the gale winds behind them ceased to herald holy gust.
Little driving our actions save for sublime greed and lust.
You may say all is lost, yes I know:
‘Neath the calloused facades that damaged souls suture and sew,
For the iron and salt in them to bask in boiling glow:
Fuck the declining average of future highs and lows;
For regardless, I know that I’m fucked!

Ring it loud, ring it true!
“I am fucked, how about you?”
Half a mind shared amongst the kings that we’re indebted to.
Purple dawns the horizon for the hues of red and blue.
Sleeping eyes are forsaken by Luck.

There’s a truth that unites us, from the righteous to the whore;
Social contract will decry it, but it is what we breathe for;
Love and pain will justify it—in the end, there’s nothing more
Than the drive to survive at all cost.
It’s a must that we lie and denounce the sallow sky;
Shroud the sleep; shroud the aether, lest our dreams solidify;
Yet in spite and in defiance, there’ll remain a shuttered eye;
For regardless, I know that I’m fucked.

>>8317342
Thank you. I've been reading my ass in Kafka and thought I'd try my hand at something in his vein. I'm kind of rifting of his Kafkaesque plots, but avoiding letting that depressing atmosphere dominate it. It will end slightly comically, with Barnaby being allowed to go to the hospital roof (there's no groundfloor in the building), where he finally has a cigarette with a goofy Kierkegaard and a mute Camus, before deciding to go back to sleep. The scenes between, will be kind of my own sophists take on a Plato's Cave situation, using the sunlit shadows of the other distant sick.
-------------

Now, seeing as you've had quite a hard time, I think you need some help. I don't think you're a bad writer, but this poem is getting too jammed up. In your first stanza, you should keep that whimsical tone for longer before introducing the "sun-dragon" (which is a nice metaphor). It starts off immediately as almost schizo, and the line "he'll come, jealous, has a cell for us" isn't grammatically correct. I also think starting your stanzas with "To" isn't the best opener, I'd prefer something more engaging to the reader, direct, like a "we" or a "you'll".

Your second last line doesn't flow well enough for such a crucial part of the piece, and I'd be careful on relying on infinite (which is one of my favourite words, but, at times, a horribly abstracted adjective in my opinion).

Please keep writing, and know that people laugh at the posts of Nobel winners here. Criticism is healthy, but not descriptive.

>>8317372
Oh yes, a rather a cliche opener thank you. Would this perhaps work better? "Blinking in the dim, Barnaby puzzled over two things: firstly, how he had woken without ever falling asleep, and, secondly, that he needed to escape this hospital urgently."

What is the lack however? I'm trying to keep reader interest rather than descend into a philosophical dialogue, so this is quite key at this stage. Is the character flat? The scene too languid?

>>8317392
I'm using it in the French sense, which means bucolic.
>Not bad I suppose
Yeah thanks, honestly I find it pretty weak and devoid of any interest, just wanted to see what /lit/ would think of sonething I have a poor opinion of
>I also hate the poor
kek, why?

>>8317458
>he'll come, jealous, has a cell for us
oh yeah I changed that to "with a cell for us" too late. not sure if that's the best line either; I wanted to imply that the day shuts off the proof that there is more to be seen, and the stars are exactly that proof.
Maybe I should change 'rubies' to 'diamonds' to make it more concrete.. but then I have an emerald moon just hanging there in its own little disreality

>keep the whimsical tone for longer
yeah I agree actually. cheers
>to
hmm it is kind of meant to be vague and distant, aspirational, and then at the end to be direct, like, this is what you actually do.

>Your second last line, infinite
hmm, pic related, the idea is that it covers a finite area but is literally infinitely intricate, infinitely long, like any fractal really. Not sure how to better describe it.

>Please keep writing, and know that people laugh at the posts of Nobel winners here. Criticism is healthy, but not descriptive.

Yeah it's okay, people have liked my other poems (which were rather different to this one). At least lit's taste is better than mu's. And I did need to change it anyway

>>8317436

oxidization turns copper green

http://pastebin.com/RKcQQrT7

Please just tell me if this is absolute shit or not

>>8317552
It's not absolute shit but I'm definitely not calling it good either.

>>8317575
What's the weakest element of it

>>8317578
A good deal. Your syntax is very poor, there's many grammatical errors and you pace all over the place.

Keep writing and don't give up.

>>8317578
You're going for a certain style but clearly you're not confident with it. Don't try your hand at sonething you don't have full belief that you can pull it off.

>>8317110

Would love a critique on this.

>>8316810
The writing is poetic and interesting, but I suggest you work on your clarity. There are a lot of sentences here which I just don't understand the meaning of. What is the pre-noon "empty?" What are the rubber feet? The man expected his head to bulge? what does that mean, his head bulging, and why would wind cause it?

>>8317110
>>8317624
How do you want us to critique this? It's more like the blurb on the back of a book or movie than a story, so any criticism wouldn't really be relevant to how you write stories. Post some actual writing of the story and I'll have something to say about it.

>>8317064
You talked shit to the other guy for writing anachronistically, but you seem every bit as stuck in the past. If you have any plans on trying to get something published (not this, by the way, because the moment an editor reads the name Barnaby you manuscript is dead) read something more contemporary than Kafka and try for a tone that will not come across as obnoxious and supercilious.
Also, you overuse the word inexplicable. Twice is two times too many.

>>8317630

Word choice, sentence flow, structure, reveal, etc.

This is all I've gotten so far, and the only thing of intent I've written in years. I have no idea if it's shit. I would keep generally the same style of build up and reveal if I were to expand on it.

>>8317458
I would avoid the obvious path here. Find a completely different way. Split the two ideas completely and half.
>Barnaby woke, blinking in the dim light. I hadn't fallen asleep and so why should I now be waking? The primal need to escape took hold in an instant.
Something like that. Obviously my style is wholly different, but something in general that doesn't state the obvious. Part of the reason I think I find it lacking is because it feels boring. You put a lot of emphasis on words that tell me how I should react to Barnaby's situation rather than allowing me to figure it out. Most people, myself included, know what a hospital looks like therefore I don't need that explained to me in detail. Instead spend words explaining what makes this hospital room different and more foreboding. Things like that that make me have to think for myself.

>>8317484
>I'm using it in the French sense, which means bucolic.
I see, makes much more sense. But yes, generally, I would say you have some skill although, as I said, I don't care for the general theme. The poor simply disgust me with their ignorance in all things. I hate all people who hate the rich would probably be a more appropriate statement though.

>>8317552
>http://pastebin.com/RKcQQrT7
No.

>>8316081
>>starting with saying her life ended
>Not good. I don't even know her yet.
It was more symbolic than literal

>>8317665
>symbolic
figurative

k last edit, I think. still not sure of the last stanza though.
>>8317665
ok, gotta admit I didn't read all of it.

---
To swim with swifts
under an emerald moon
and sky of dying embers.
Sparks of quartz and diamond
travel for years, for you;
lie down and fill your head.

Don't wake the sleeping sun-dragon -
his finest jewel lights
the night; he'll come, jealous,
with a cell for us.
Do you think he slumbers
deep enough to dream?

To feel the cryptic chill
of caves that wind with time
to find, blind, a path
through dark, thick and damp,
through depths that dispute
your existence.

To pluck rubies from heaven's tree
with drifting orphans,
fitting four, five at a time in our mouths,
reeling from the red elixir.
Selling them to sensible children
with a sly wink.

To take root in eternity's dust -
entire species, shattered -
flicking through leaves of thought designed,
a page at a time,
to stick to the roof of your mind
and coat your tongue in questions.

New horizons, Koch curves over clouds,
impossible cartography.

Today,
tug at the tether,
vestigial tail,
the chain that leaves your
mind to wander.

>>8317637
Thank you anon. I'm not really interested in publication or trends however. Perhaps my style is old, although I wouldn't really say I have a style as of yet.

I'm going to re-do this again, but at half the word-count.

>>8317660
This is very helpful, much obliged.

>>8316810
Sorry, not sure how I managed to skip this piece.

I don't care for it. I wouldn't say it's shit, but it's bad. You need to cut back on the heavy adjective use for starters. You're trying to draw too specific an image and it's a bit jarring. Maybe it's because I'm tired but I have no idea what you're talking about here
>What seemed like a cool mornings on the strings of the wheels...
and here
>The rush of the engine penetrating the rubber feet...

Don't give it up, but definitely going to need some heavy editing.

>>8317659
I mean, it's totally fine. It's not shit. Word choice is fine, flow is fine. There are some grammar errors and sometimes you say things which kill the informal voice (Nothing could get that woman down. I can't tell you how that creep went about seducing my mother). But it's not really a story. There's no description. It's like a summation of events. If that was the start of your story (which you said it wouldn't be), I would find it hard to be interested because I wouldn't know how you actually write. I would say to just jump into it and tell the backstory in a more interesting way.

>>8317675
I promise you I am not just trying to be shitty. I have several very smart friends who are deeply frustrated right now because they can't seem to get any of their work placed in print, and it is because each of them exclusively read classics and exclusively produce work in a classical mode which is simply neither saleable from a editor's perspective or desirable from a modern reader's. You say you aren't interested in publication, and maybe that's true for the moment, but my bet is that, like most people here, you want to have your stuff printed and read. I'm just saying, for your own good, at least try reading some more contemporary work. If it doesn't make you want to change your style, great, then it really is the way you want to present your thoughts, but don't end up frustrated when your work has no place in today's climate.

>>8317738

Alright, thanks for you insight. You may see from me again.

"Yo, Federico”, she said coyly, “wanna play?”
“Who.. me? Well, I don’t know...”
“Yeah, let’s make a thing of it.”
“Make a thing of what, exactly?”
“Come on, lets play together, Federico, I know the way you look at me... I notice, I like you too... Let’s play. Finally.” She took a sharp breath and smiled, waiting for a response.

Federico hesitated. He was hard pressed. Facing him was a highly-sexed academic over-achiever. She looked at him with pure yet lascivious green eyes. She bit her lip gently and grinned. He knew its power, the power of the lip bite. He cursed under his breath. It was over, and she knew it too. Sweet Svetlana of the lip bite. He was about to give in.

Something about his body language made her move forward and begin to unbutton his shirt. “Svetlana, I...” he stuttered in protest.

She stood on the edge of her tiptoes in her dainty blue-black ballet shoes and put her finger to his lips, and smiled a devious grin. Her smile was genuine, she really wanted this.
“Shh”, she grinned.

Under her potent spell, he wavered on the precipice of a moral conundrum. He loved his girlfriend, but sin was calling him, badly. Cruel Lucifer was breathing down his neck and he could feel it with every passing moment he looked into her emerald green eyes. Her allure was too strong. Her eyes, her skin pale, her make-up; her piercing mascara. She was utterly unfathomable to a rational mind, who had dared to rule out the existence of God. She was pure beauty and pure sin wrapped up in one, and he was a mortal. Anubis would weigh his heart against a feather if such an after-life existed and he would lose. His mind said no, but his crotch said >muh dick.

>>8317749
No, no, please anon: I deeply appreciate your words. I'm afraid I'm young, haven't even began university in fact, and have been playing a classical catch up game for a while due to dropping reading in my earlier teens. I couldn't tell you the last book I read from this century, and I've been over-reliant on the test of time rather than my own brain for what I should pick next.

Please, what books would you recommend? There's a real philosophy I want to communicate to people, and it's at best bullshit right now, but meaningful at least to me, and I'll do anything to improve my means of saying it.

>>8317782
No

>>8317820
:D
i-I'm sorry.

Everybody has a name
Some some start with w , some with a
but it was a a that really made me think
a a who really clouded my mind to stink

i will never utter the name again
the a who i used to call a friend
a ayy lmao it would sing
ayyy lmao my good old friend

>>8317782
>Svetlana

ugliest fucking name I've ever heard

Understand the cohomology (sic) of astral cosmology as I dictate here unfalteringly. The noetic is birthed from tragedy, it falls ill by the World as heavenbound books read by the wayward children, and the young monomyth sifts by the sieves, the midautumnal sephirah, raking his memories into a linear set (time) until The Man calls him in for fear of backbending X (eternity in the wardrobe). Terry loom, the nightingales croon. Jeremiah, we are only surroundered by our ilk, not so very much to our like. Do you fear The Man when we are his syncophants. They speak his name here allowed, but I do not dare evoke evil in the harem. Without the bottle I wade in sorrowful eve, oho, lingo w’this status quo of Hyperspace frev’r boomeranging. Pas vraiment, faux ami. Not all hope is forlorn (walnut, sez Nutcracker). I shall gnaw at the walls or summat, make a racket, climb out the labyrinth. Grab my bottles, they are the very essence or the trigonometry to my mistakes (Timothy, hear us). Click tic tic, break out of intertextuality, tricalickabang, break out and do not urge me coming down the winding path. I want to see petrichor, do you imagine it as I do savory green, lush, hypnagogic. There’s vesper, on time for starsighting with me by the cold mezzanine. On that sidenote, always count on a prude for a whack of prosaic in the nude. I end singing you my valedictions, a paradee. Tra-la. Tralala. Oh, my name you ask. Old doggone Yester barked to Morrow vouchsafed to the newborn. Go get up, ask yourselves at which corner avenue they ditched your shed skin. Hwæt an alephbeth in me perishes so…

>>8317846
Kill yourself you absolute fucking faggot

>>8317630
>buldge
Oh shit, that's a typo. It's supposed to say "budge". Anyway, the rest of those are meant to be alternatives for just words that I personally feel make writing too straightforward and desu boring (like "nothing happening during the day", and "tires").

I just can't find any other alternative, making it all clear and at the same time interesting enough to be distinctive.

>>8317691
So should I do as this...
http://nybookeditors.com/2013/05/editing-tip-1/
... suggests?

What else would you suggest in order to keep what image I'm trying to convey but still cut down adjective usage and such?

I've been experimenting with the absurd, having read some Daniil Kharms

A STONE CAST AGAINST THE MAN AGHAST

the hazy streets echoed with the wail of blooded serpents
a man stood still
as the new breed flooded the cobbles the man hid behind the pedestal
the writhing wretch of wailing willows marred the approach of jonah

o jonah
the man cried

the taller man held his arms out for jonah
and jonah ran to the man who stood on the pedestal
in the shadow of the pedestal jonah reached for the ground and rose with a pebble
and cast the pebble unto the brow of the smaller man
the small man cried as the pedestal man sighed
and jonah cast another

>>8317924
Find better words. Trust your reader.

>>8317933
But I trust no one. I am legitimately paranoid.

>>8317937
>But I trust no one.
Why are you writing, Anon?

>>8317942
You know how people doodle to calm down? I do that but with writing instead of drawing.

>>8317950
Then why do you need a critique? If you write only for yourself what does it matter if it doesn't flow, or your diction is poor, or whatever else issue someone else may discover?

>>8315570
>>8317178
This is kinda comfy t b h

how does this sound as an opening to a novel?

The sky is blue and the sand is yellow. My partner is all black. Not because of skin color, but because the bright morning sun blinds my eyes so that I can only see his dim silhouette contrasting the bright colors of the desert landscape around us. My glance steadies on this man as I decide to ask him where we are headed. My mouth wants to open but I see on his face that he does not want me to ask him a question, or that he at least does not expect one. So I continue walking by him through the sand, keeping one step behind.

>>8317991
Openings are less important than you think.

>>8318034
What would you have said about it if I hadn't mentioned it's an opening?

>>8317907
Sorry Svetlana, didn't mean to upset you baby

>>8317907
How's living in Slavland Sveta

>>8318044
I'd say it's absolute dogshit. It is. Doesn't matter where you put it.

>>8318034
Actually no, if you know what you're doing.

>>8318073
why?

>>8318044
Tough to say. Nothing grabs my attention. It all feels so forced.

>>8318079
It's boring. No imagination. Awkward.
I don't really think there's anything positive I can say about it. If you were to tell me you're 14 I wouldn't be surprised at all.

>>8318095
shit tier critique

The opening thingy isn't perfect but you're just being caustic for mere indulgence, I doubt you even know how to fix it.

>>8317991
If anything, I'd say slow down and work on your sentences so they're less plodding. That third one is a particular offender. Read it out loud and see what comes up. You might find yourself adding more to it as well.

>>8318150
Adding more to the opening*

Count to three and say cheese

The flash of the camera isn’t what you hate the most, it just really hurts your eyes. What you hate is knowing that you have been immortalized when all you want to do is disappear. If you could count to three and will yourself into non-existence, that would be ideal outcome of things, but instead the camera flash hurts your eyes and you feel disappointed.
Everyone around you is smiling, after all, why wouldn’t they be. This is a wonderful occasion to be celebrated and remembered. The only one who isn’t smiling is you. That’s no good, please smile for the picture. In a sort of hostile way someone asks whether or not you’re having a good time. The obvious answer is “yes, I’m having a great time”, but you can’t seem to bring it to your lips. As you chew on it briefly you spit out “I’m having time”. You are having time, time is passing and you’re just standing there wasting it. The sun is slowly killing itself and you’re doing the same, just letting your body waste away until it’s nothing more than little pieces of dirt that people wipe off of their shoes.
“Smile and say cheese”. Retreat inside of yourself and think about things for a moment. You’re in a dark and warm place, nothing moves outside of you at all. The temporal decay has been halted, although only for a moment. Now that everything around you has stopped you can experience it in vivid detail. There is the smell of cheap beer, sun tan lotion, and something acrid that is probably sweat. You’re surrounded by pale flabby middle aged bodies, well down their own path of decay. The man closest to you looks like he was stuffed into his khaki shorts and polo shirt. His stomach peaks out, it is comprised of a series of twisting blue veins and wrinkles that make it look like cottage cheese. And of course, there is the camera.
The flash has not yet occurred, although it will in a moment. When it does you will be there smiling with the rest of them. It will simultaneously obliterate and incarcerate, destroying everything in a single blinding moment then gathering up the pieces as it rebounds. The puncturing light rips you apart and brings you back together, so you can enjoy this wonderful occasion for the rest of your life. Count to three and say cheese.

>>8318162
>you
No.

>>8318150
>shit tier critique
Not giving you a critique.
You can't fix that shit anyway. Shit's embarrassing.

>>8318167
Did you learn that in freshman English?

>>8318162
Some awkward writing ('that would be ideal outcome of things' is clumsy), especially around punctuation, which imo you should vary (not just commas and periods, but dashes and colons and such). 2nd person is probably not the best perspective, first would prob be better. I do like the concept, although be careful of melodrama, and most of the inferiority is well-executed. Overall solid, but some changes are necessary.

Attached is mine, old and unedited. Anything helps.

>>8318184
What?

>>8318193
Next time you do a car review can you do the Hyundai Genesis coupe? Thanks RCR, big fan

>>8318193
It has the style, but it gets distracting and the content itself isn't that engaging

If anything, apply restraint. I'd rather focus on what you're saying than get yanked around by all your sound-bounding and repetition. Those techniques are a good tool to have but, don't let it take over the work.

Porcelain walls too sturdy to break
reflect all of the light in on itself
The stark white teeth of the beast
they gnash and gnaw
Every night they whisper; this is not your home
The largest open space is the dining room
the rest is a series of cramped hallways
Over cream cheese bagels and ginger ale
I discuss how the bright fluorescent lighting
is immeasurably worse than the dark.
In the morning
I ask them to keep my shades closed.

>>8318193
I suppose this could be good in the context of a larger story, but on it's own it's just seems boring and self indulgent

>>8318229
sound-bouncing*

>>8318220
>RCR
What does this mean?

>>8318229
>>8318237
I agree with the tedium of it. It's more an exercise in style, I suppose. Some storyboarding would be good for me, I just dread the act of planning work. It saps any interest. And thanks for the critique about restraint, that's definitely something I need to work on.

>>8318267
Oh, and forgot to add: it is from a larger piece (12 pages on Drive), but continues in much of the same manner.

http://pastebin.com/Hb2eHHMy

Is it any good? Is it readable?

>>8318299
>I've only read the first line, but I can tell this'll be a recurring problem: overdescription. Why does it matter (aesthetically, thematically, etc) that the sunglasses are aviators, the urn white, the clothing torn and denim? These details aren't helping immersion, just serving as poor placeholders for a lack of confidence. Don't be afraid to describe, but don't do it just to do it.

>>8317391
hey thx friend

>>8310119
>>8310119
It is from
His FIRST book. But yeah how that got past an editor I'll never understand. That first sentence should end with "and so does Mindy Metalman" and the next one should start with "All of the sudden, Lenore notices money's feet are... Yara yada yada (awful name choices too, Dave).

That being said, anyone can see that the style is highly detailed and interesting to read - which is why he became a much better writer later in his career.

>>8318385
InB4 typos - I'm on my phone.

Four score and seven 'ours ago
I read Proust while having diarrhea.
The words flowed in simultaneity
to my sphincters spastic spontaneity.
Don't remind me what rhymes with turd (absurd)
Or S-F, not an-narisco. Baked like Bisco.
Shaped like Cristo. Countin' my monte-Nabisco.
Where do the dishes go? In the sink.
What did you think? That this was a game?
You and everyone you know, someday, will die.
Fucking references, and the will and willing.

I'm going to win an Oscar.
I just know it.
I'm such a triple double quadruple threat, like
I'm good looking, good at looking like I'm good at things
like looking at things while thinking about things.
But alas the quotidian resists not the umbrage of the soul,
which the honey nut cheerio quells and calms
for fat people. Not sorry your'e fat
like I'm not sorry about this and that.
I love you though, some people wish
their parents said to them early
or never get this sentimental or you'll
scare the intellectually I don't care
about anything. Nihilism is the only thing that matters.
JK are just letters. Just like Pyong Ying Yang Twins.

Caress me with your supple bumpy tongue
and let it lounge on the portico of my soul's four
million dollar mansion that I worked so hard
to make for various pressures I promise I
put on myself: Batman costumes and sunscreen
or maybe like clothes or something, which is like
forcing an overused thing like like in blank:
cliche.
Have fun in the park in the clouds of the basement of the sky.

>>8318320
I would've assumed the problem was the opposite, an excess of dialogue with little description outside scene setting. The sunglasses and clothing are (cheap and obvious) ways of marking a bogan background. You got me on the whiteness of the urn being an arbitrary detail, but I don't think this is the bit that makes my writing shit

>>8318422
>>8318441
>>8318467
Same fag
All shit

Keep practicing ... IMO the levity and half seriousness aren't blending well, it sounds dithering

>>8318511
Thanks. Wouldn't want my readers to wither and dither hither and thither!

>>8315419
I can't begin to explain the anguish I feel at the shortcomings of my artistic abilities, I am defined by my art and a failure in my art is a failure in myself.

>>8315294
Well if you want Kohai, you can get another POV in my novel if that suits you.

Page 1 of 3

>>8319175
Page 2 of 3

>>8319179
Page 3 of 3

I'm new to writing fantasy in a serious kinda way. Is it better to yammer on about world building or characters and their interactions with the world? Curious here.

It's true that men have their barbaric side
But it's the way to acquire and defend important things
It's like a double edged sword
>Important things, like family and people we love?
That too...but for a man...
Besides the things you mentioned there is another important thing
>One more...important thing?
A dream
It's something you do for yourself
Not for others
>A dream...
Some dream to rule the world
Some just live by a single sword
If you gamble with your very life for a dream
Like a whirlwind that dream will swallow all other dreams
Its not about rank or how one was born
Whether it's realistic or not, humans still like to dream
A dream can support you; it can kill or torment you
But if you abandon a dream, suppress it in your heart, its suicide
Every man in his lifetime, should at least hope
For a life he can sacrifice
To the god of dreams
The life that seeks...
Just to live another day...
Is unacceptable!

there is no point to type in the metaised (or the cyber-acrolect, as your resident techno anarchist puts it) vernacular of the internet but there is also no point in assuming stiffly connoted formality by conforming with writing conventions like applying commas subordinate clauses or other useless sh(1t. if something is serious and you want someone who doesnt like sombre grammatical phonological teleological accuracy (a sane emotionally applaudable person really to be able to jump the hurdle that is autoimposed shoehorn of the former or latter from being a f(=u)ck tard and browsing websites that have socialisation beyond the analogic formality of writing0 Dear vapid f(-u)cking balding middle aged neighbour your very lovely dog took a massive sh(-i)t on my car but i cleaned it no worries just letting you know in this very milieu there are no ulterior motives from this email by the way i like your new run of the mill in not only financial aesethetic but in every f(-u)cking possible way car which has no plausible reason to be lauded its darker gray tone really chromatically resonates with your decaying pastorale clay bricks best regards your non denizen friend
the prose has been established and has grounds for it now and the theme is to as well to an extent but there is no hint at the subject matter even in the first paragraph not even thinly veiled or maybe there is but in that case its to thinly veiled and it wont be impactful soon. hallmark of bad writing desu the connecting cute anime girl vibes nuances should be spread evenly on the bread that is not only the plot of the story but every last letter of the text including the preface acknowledgments index as well as the repeated title on the anachronistic and inconvenient cellophane dust jacket. at least thats my opinion and i think its well founded because nobody else exists i am a lockean ontologist if i am the only person that OBSERVES the fu(-)cking world and nobody else does because they are just cones and rods only my heurestically conceived ideas are valid at all so shut your thinking process the f)u-ck up^ because it l(a-i)terally wont affect me in the slightest not one bit

>>8319020
>I can't begin to explain the anguish I feel at the shortcomings of my artistic abilities, I am defined by my art and a failure in my art is a failure in myself.

http://pastebin.com/PiPqQRBb

Part of an autistic story I am writing. I will return any feedback I receive as soon as I can. If you really want critique leave an email address with your post and I will email you the critique. Thank you in advance to anyone.

>>8318267
Regular Car Reviews. He makes a joke about the technique in one of his reviews. Basically he thinks your writing is shit.

>>8318299
>http://pastebin.com/Hb2eHHMy
Not reading all that for just a critique thread. Your writing isn't that great. Very juvenile.

>>8320244
>The clouds writhed
Stopped after this.

Potatoes, salmon, yoghurt, asparagus,
chewing gum.

At the end of the aisle, beacons of blue, green, and yellow -
shall I compare it to a summer's day?

Its cost and cool satisfaction
equal a cheap ice cream cone;
clear sky North sea in my head -
clouds are arranged in small patches.

Chew it and stretch it and chew it and stretch it and chew it and stretch it and
under the table to join the mass grave.

Surreptitiously, self-consciously, like a spy putting
a bug in an ant farm. Part of the plantation.

With a dash of spittle it's nimble and springy and clings to your teeth performing
concertos composed by amoebae, olympic acrobatics in the intervals.

A pack of chewing gum a day
keeps the boredom away -
just what the doctor ordered!

I love you, chewing gum. You're worth every pound.

“I want you to fuck me”, she said.
I sat across from her in the restaurant, with my best poker face on.
“Yes”, she said, “really hard.”
“How hard do you mean by really hard?”
“You know”, she laughed.
I tried not to smile. I leaned back, dabbing my lips with a "serviette", and took another sip of wine. She was forward, which I liked.
"Are you dedicated to your cause?", I said.
“Absolutely.”
Some date.
She looked at me with sharp green eyes, reading everything there was to know. I felt vulnerable knowing my soul was bared like this, desert under the unforgiving glare of the Sun. God, this semen demon, I thought. Forgive me father for I have sinned.
“You want to go right now?”
“I’m somewhat serious about sticking around for dessert”, I said.
“Let's have a break, my belly is full”, she said. “Meet me in the bathroom in 5 minutes. It’ll be fun.”

Before I could respond, I watched her bounce up and elegantly leave the table and walk in her heels and her little black dress into the darkness. I thought, that if I was to be the bared desert floor - I might as well be as hard as it.
I sat there alone, surrounded by the haze of candle-lit tables and soft murmuring of conversation.
For once, things were going my way, I felt fresh and presentable. If this had been a day or so before I would have revealed myself to be the true subhuman I really was, but I wasn't in the throes of a deep and crippling depression. As of right now, I felt in control of the situation.

I let my surroundings seep in. Perhaps 10 or so people were dining, mostly middle-class couples in their 40’s. It was a quiet place for a Saturday night. In this sense we were the youngest "couple" there, but it was a pleasant place. I thought back to her checking herself in the mirror. She had this beautiful Mediterranean look about her, jet black hair, svelte, really the marriageable type.
Okay, I thought, hyping myself. It’s time. I pulled myself up from the table with the subtlety of an elephant because of the wine but with the conviction of a fox, and hopped along with numb legs behind the wall partition, and into the bathroom.
Without knowing what had happened next, before it had already occurred, she had lunged into me, clawing my back and forcibly locking her mouth on mine. What a freak, I thought, I liked her style.

I held her and spun her around, and lifted her up on to the counter and we made out like freaks, she was a little Greek nymph. She bit my neck and I ran my hands through her silk-like hair and put my hand up her skirt and felt along her legs. After a minute of this, she lifted her head back, her eyes piercing into mine with a small devilish smile across her lips. She hopped off the counter, and like a pixie led me to a cubicle, closing the door behind. She pulled down my pants, and I held her against a wall and lifted her skirt up, adjusted her panties and went to town --- and there’s not much else you can say about that.

>>8321269
fucking dreadful

>>8321285
:D

How many of you here have tried to write a sex scene and only have it appear like laughable piece of shit? I clearly need advice

inb4 kill yourself

>>8321297
Kill yourself.
You can't inb4 in your own post.

Read ancient chinese and japanese erotica.

>>8321297
This dude >>8312754 wrote a sex scene without actually talking about it, I guess that's an option.

>>8319185
I would say it's better to start in on characters and their interactions. The problem is that you don't really have any sort of hook in the first page. Show me a reason to care about what this guy is saying before this worldbuilding, maybe jump to the conflict. The biggest tip I can give with respect to the prose is to lighten up on the descriptions in between dialogue. The amount of description of peoples' expressions and body movements interrupts the flow of the dialogue. With good dialogue, it's easy to interpret how a character would react to maybe 90% of things, and the other 10% will generally be unconventional reactions, or reactions to ambiguous statements. Keep to just "he said" or "she said" most of the time.

Sweaty hair slipping hands
Rope running red running
Hold on baby, Daddy's coming

>>8309227
Writing a book, tell me if you like what I have done so far.


There was a breeze in the forest, a man woke up abruptly to the sound of horses. He had forgotten how he’d gotten there but knew for some reason that the sound of horses was not good. He quickly got up and ran through brush but stopped short of the dirt road in front of him. A group of Mounted Imperial Guardsmen were coming along the road. His face was red with paranoid fear of getting caught as he watched them pass by. He knew that they were angry and looking for somebody. He recalled that earlier in the night that he was being chased by them.

After waiting a couple minutes, he finally, cautiously got up and started to walk along the road, the other way that the guards went, toward the town. When he first woke up it was still dark, but as he approached his hometown the sun seemed to be coming up. He lost his apprenticeship the other day and was coming home hungover from getting drunk in the forest. This is what he had recalled. Finally, after coming toward what felt like a mirage he made it to his town. As soon as he walked past the first building he was approached by the Village Idiot, Ivan.

Ivan gave a look of appreciation for his friend’s appearance and ran up to him like a dog runs to his master when he comes home. “Hiya Petya, where were you for the last few days” “I got lost in the forest, everything is fine” Petya said solemnly as he remembered his lost apprenticeship. “Can I have some coins for a drink, I’m famished” Ivan said eagerly. “Sure, why not” Petya said as he gave Ivan a small cloth bag of coins. “My life is over anyway, why should I care about my money anymore” Ivan thought as he continued walking toward his home.

There was a smell of pie as he walked into his small home. It was a pleasant reminder that his wife was home. It encouraged him to go all the way to the kitchen to see her. She gasped at him as he walked through the opening and said “Honey, you look so haggard, where have you been?” He responded with “I got lost in the forest again.” His wife, Natalie, responded with “Well, the Guard came by earlier while I was watering the garden. They were asking for you. Did something happen that you’re not telling me about?” Petya, surprised by this, quickly said “No, my dear, there is nothing I am not telling you, I think there has been a misunderstanding.”

>>8322292
>There was a breeze in the forest, a man woke up abruptly to the sound of horses
If you make this two sentences, it doesn't change the way it reads at all, and it also makes it grammatically correct.

>the sound of horses was not good
"Was not good" was not good descriptive writing

>A group of Mounted Imperial Guardsmen were coming along the road
Should be "was"

>He recalled that earlier in the night that he was being chased by them.
It's hard to explain why, but this is strange coming after the sentence before it. Using the word "knew" seems to imply he remembered, but it isn't until after he knows they are angry that he remembers anything. Just strange.

>the other way that the guards went, toward the town
Wait, so did he go in the same way as the guards or the other way? Saying "the other way" fucks with the clarity

>Village Idiot, Ivan
You would only capitalize this if it was Village Idiot Ivan. Otherwise village idiot is just a title, and is not a proper noun. This could be a stylistic choice, but grammarwise you haven't proven the ability to make stylistic choices.

>Petya
Too close to Peeta

>famished
Rather than give you the benefit of the doubt I am assuming you misused this word. If you're actually misusing it on purpose to make Ivan sound like an idiot, it's fine. That sort of thing will come across better when the grammar is corrected later.

None of your quotes follow proper punctuation

Your dialogue on the whole is very robotic. "No, my dear, there is nothing I am not telling you." I can't imagine somebody actually saying this in real life. Same with a lot of this dialogue

So basically this is amateurish. The good news is that it's not amateurish in the usual, boring way. It's actually sort of interesting to read and it (mostly) flows well. The best thing you can do for it is to keep writing and also spend time on more grammar.

>>8315570
>>8317178

Some pretty nice vistas here honestly