PREMIUM CRITIQUE THREAD {GOLD EDITION}

[Anonymous No.14701463]

YOU HAVE JUST ARRIVED IN /lit/'s MOST PREMIUM, MOST LUXURIOUS, MOST EXTRAVAGANT CRITIQUE THREAD, CATERED TO OUR MOST REFINED AND PRESTIGIOUS WRITERS/CRITICS' NEEDS
This is not one of the pathetic, flailing "/crit/" threads you're used to, a cesspit of freeloaders and scoundrels, a free-for-all of inanity and cringe. This thread is reserved for DELUXE quality, no matter if you're posting your own work or just looking to help some fellow writers out
By posting in a thread as LAVISH and ELITE as this one, you agree to follow our strict set of simple rules:

1. Avoid giving critique to writers who posted without providing feedback for others
2. Prioritize giving feedback to pieces with no responses yet, in general
3. Post all poems and any prose exceeding a paragraph as screenshots and/or pastebins to reduce clutter
4. Give PREMIUM critique
5. Receive critique with ELEGANCE
6. If your piece is an internal monologue from the perspective of a disinterested/depressed young modern man we really don't need to see it

Stay PREMIUM

[Anonymous No.14701488]

The flames of love never known
A heart's fuel sits dry and idle
Waiting for that fierce warmth
That withers the steadfast frost of the inner
But a fire of a different desire occupies the young man's heart
Not of love but of dust and mire
A focus sharpened by time
To fix on failure
Denies the lesson to mature
Rejection placed in castle high
While potential mates pass them by
Life lived in passions gleaned
To only stare at a computer screen

[Anonymous No.14701495]

Fuck off with this shit content, you double niggering half fag

[Anonymous No.14701861]

>>14701495
Fella this is a premium environment, end of sentence. you have no idea what you're saying

[Anonymous No.14702761]

premium bump

[Anonymous No.14702774]

>>14701463
>If your piece is an internal monologue from the perspective of a disinterested/depressed young modern man we really don't need to see it

based

[Anonymous No.14703007]

I sucked in on sweet lady marlboro, the only true mistress I ever had. I was looking straight down the business end of a double scotch, the cloudy, pisspoor kind you find in the low lit bars of this two bit town. I was turning it all over in my head; Marlone not turning up at the deal, old man Peters nowhere to be seen, McCluskey getting shot by his own gun only three days off seeing his son graduate Ivy and most of all, the girl. But what use was trying to fix any of it when you've got a DA more crooked than a shepherd's garage and the mob have ears on every corner and eyes in every window? I turned my attention back to the drink, a boozehound at the other end of the bar wept about how screwed up everything had gotten for him. You and me both, pal... One block and two hours pass. The morning beckons with three rapts. My office was still wrapped in shadow beyond the cone of the desk lamp. This was Harley’s lad no doubt, come to collect on phantom debts. His silhouette was framed in the pebbled glass of the door, my name crossing the T to his torso. Why would he knock if he was turning the place, plausible deniability? I hid in a shadowed pocket, still unseen by the dawning blinds, and watched the knob slowly twist, and the grey fingers cradling the Ruger lcp which proceeded the frame. Then from behind the clouded glass peered a partially shadowed head, a horror that breached the multiple whiskeys and the normal fear already there, where there should’ve been a face was a mask of burnt skin, like peach wax melted in place.

[Anonymous No.14703044]

I despise niggers. There, I said it. I FUCKING HATE FUCKING NIGGERS. All my life I've reproached myself for my secret hatred of niggers. "You're making racist generalizations", "we have to treat people as individuals"; such thoughts served to stem the tide of my nigger hatred. But the dam has since burst. No longer do I seek to repress that which swells within my breast. I hate niggers, and the world must know. I will shout my disdain for the lowly nigger from the rooftops until each nigger skull atop every nigger body is shattered by my deafening roar.

[Anonymous No.14703052]

Trying out improvised fiction, where I avoid planning or worldbuilding anything that isn't relevant to the next paragraph. This is the start

[Anonymous No.14703071]

>>14703007
I like what you're doing here, this kind of cliché tone works when you're this original in your phrasing. Your sense of rhythm is good too, I very clearly hear a natural sounding voice reading this out in my head as I read. My only nitpick is "the girl." Those two words are the one part I feel like I've heard too many times before

[Anonymous No.14703121]

>>14703007
raps instead of rapts right?

>you've got a DA more crooked than a shepherd's garage and the mob have ears on every corner and eyes in every window? I turned my attention back to the drink, a boozehound at the other end of the bar wept about how screwed up everything had gotten for him. You and me both, pal... One block and two hours pass. The morning beckons with three rapts

reader needs more time to breathe after window

[Anonymous No.14703122]

Heres a thing I wrote a few months ago, though the idea was floating around in my head for a while. I want to extend it out but I dont really have any ideas where to take it from here that is interesting. I've left it basically untouched since December.

>>14701488
I like this. A bit edgy but still captures the feeling quite well. I like the contrast between "castle high" and "computer screen", but i would like more. Theres lots of imagery and feelings that make me feel like im in "olden times" but only one line that sets me in the present. I feel like more references to the present would concrete this contrast.
>>14703052
I really love the prose here but I have no idea whats going on. Why is there milk. Maybe I'm just missing context. Are the inside someone? Something?

[Anonymous No.14703153]

>>14703122
>Why is there milk.
Hahaha, I started with just the first sentence because I liked the image and went from there. I'm trying my best to avoid fleshing out the world in my mind and do it bit by bit as I go, but the general idea so far is that a novice mechanic is following a veteran mechanic through some sort of facility with huge rooms connected by winding service tunnels. All the facility's tech is organic/biological seeming and milk somehow plays a role in the machinery's function or purpose

[Anonymous No.14703156]

>>14703153
Thats kinda what I got from it. I really like it, and would absolutely read a novel length piece like this (assuming the plot and characters live up to your prose)

[Anonymous No.14703163]

>>14703156
Thanks very much man, that's really encouraging to hear. I'm about to pass out right now but i'm going to read your piece and let you know what I think when I check the thread in the morning

[Anonymous No.14703165]

>>14703163
Thanks bro

[Anonymous No.14703222]

For more PREMIUM reviews with only PREMIUM writers, be sure to email fourlitreview @ yandex dot com to be added to the Premium Review Group.

[Anonymous No.14703231]

>>14703222
nice trips but thats silly
what could you possibly offer

[Anonymous No.14703237]

>>14703231
You misunderstand, it's a group where people critique each other. I am not offering a service.
We already have several members.

[Anonymous No.14703338]

>>14703237
>Several members
You have like 2 nerds in a discord maybe
My point is *you* and your *members* cannot offer me any better critique that this thread can

[Anonymous No.14703356]

>>14703338
This is a man who understands the meaning of PREMIUM right here

[Anonymous No.14703357]

>>14703338
Email-based review groups are quite a common thing.

And you are quite wrong, since the critique on this page is at most a few lines long each and hurried, whereas what we are going for is critiques of full stories/chapters.

[Anonymous No.14703366]

>>14703222
checked & thanks, sent you an email.

[Anonymous No.14703372]

>>14703222
>>14703366
I'm in.

[Anonymous No.14704412]

bump

[Anonymous No.14704654]

>>14702774
true, autobiographical fiction is usually shit.

[Anonymous No.14704674]

>>14701463
This is a sort of fairy story for children that I had written the other day.

[Anonymous No.14704682]

>>14703071
Thanks, I was practicing my writing by messing around with some different genres.

[Anonymous No.14704689]

I needed three or more to get out the door. Three or three hundred. Light pollution so bad the government started projecting stars in the night sky. Cutesy mascot branding. Finding a projected belt to rest on, faces cast on the firmament. Big star bright monkey promising you a bowl full of goodness. Cereal holiness. Hallowed be thy name says I to myself as I as my self make my way down the street and into town. Two figures pass. Pretty girls bumping into each other, making clumsy steps with pretty feet. You could see those smiles miles away. Like a big ray of sunshine. Like a big vacuum in the sky sucking all negatives from the earth. Man alive, I want to live eternities in their gladness, if for only one moment. They blow vapor cloud trails out with their laughter and I see even the smoke isn't real anymore. If I were to stop now in the street and reach out to them, what would I feel? If anything? Maybe my hand would pass through them, like a ghost and they'd pull an expression like they had just seen one. "You found us out!" and the whole world would turn to ghosts. Everyone is dead, the cat's out the bag. I wasn't moving I was just standing now staring at them. Thinking through all this when they too stopped and all eyes met each other. Six balls spinning in their sockets catching a glance. In the distance a gun shot fired and they began speaking as one.

[Anonymous No.14704981]

>>14704689
>>14704674
forgetting something are we lads...

[Anonymous No.14705329]

>>14704674

It works as a kid's story, has a definite charm about it but I'd work on the dialogue and general flow of the thing so its more accommodating for someone younger and a bit less convoluted

>>14703122

really like this one but in the same boat as to where it could go. woman descends to madness and takes up wine drunk elvis impersonation alone maybe

>>14703052

this has that "did an alien write this quality" aptly bemusing. working on some structure after you've improvised might be an idea

>>14703007

a little too heavily written i'd maybe trim it down and have it a bit punchier would suit it thematically

>>14704981

sorry I was eating

[Anonymous No.14705983]

Sketch of the living room

[Anonymous No.14706142]

Love this concept op
>>14705983
Maybe it's because I'm ESL but "civil pigeon bust" caused a bit of confusion. Also I'd just remove "wizardly" ti's just odd - you should find a synonim do curtsies for the same reason. It all seems pretty immature desu but there's potential.

>>14704689
Not bad but you should learn about rhythm. Also
> Hallowed be thy name says I to myself as I as my self
This doesn't read as well as you think it does. I like this way more:
>Six balls spinning in their sockets catching a glance

Here's mine, first attempt at poetry, I'll crit more later:


I shed my inner light to welcome change
Curse my blossoms
A tender tongue severed resting upon a shattered mirror /Gaze into it – recover the word
The shape sublimizing into untouched territorial predators angry at the 2-thousand year wars, descending, it cripples us all by frreing our shackles.
I’ll roll my eyes,
down the stairs,
from here to a foreign moon
so they’ll soak the universe.

[Anonymous No.14706444]

Opening paragraphs, please judge.

[Anonymous No.14706446]

>>14703044
Derivative

[Anonymous No.14706488]

>>14703052
Maybe do just a handful of paragraphs and then world-build from there, to avoid getting disjointed. You have a very readable style, This would be a great opener to a longer story because it immediately caught my interest and I want to know more about these characters and what's going on around them.

[Anonymous No.14706513]

>>14703122
Milk guy here, finally got a chance to read this
This is a tone of fiction I don't read much but I definitely still appreciated some of your choices here. I guess it's simple if I think about it but the way you described her ritual and turning the photos around really worked for me, I'd feel proud if I had come up with those sentences. There's a lot of potential for an entertaining interaction scene between the wife and husband, if you're still stuck on where to take it next
In terms of criticism, I see a few signs you might struggle with the same thing I do, which is letting sentences get a bit bloated as I work them out from my ideas. It's not about how long the sentences are (none of yours are longer than they should be) but more has to do with constraining yourself to pleasing grammar and nudging the reader to fill in what has to be sacrificed on their own. Personally on my first drafts I use way too many adjectives and let my sentence structures get too convoluted as I focus on all the little things I want to get across. I've started looking back over each sentence as I go and deleting anything that isn't a serious detriment to remove. Overall the best habit to have is probably regularly reading your stuff out loud and noticing when it doesn't sound right
>>14705983
Can't really connect with this one, unfortunately. There's some good potential in the first two sentences ("curtsies" is a lovely choice of word) other than "balance wizardly," but beyond that I'm having a hard time identifying what your goals were and how you might better reach them

[Anonymous No.14706696]

>>14706444
This would manifest as a scrawny guy wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. He wears a leather jacket that's too big for him and speaks forcedly.
Read more and find your voice, guy.

I hope y'all are just as harsh on me

Crayons scribble beginnings of fables;
Privately kept beneath the table.
This is brought to mind,
The child supine:
What is plenty of love?

With the innocence of a youthful confection,
He casts, with an upward inflection,
The question through the wood.
So poorly understood,
His father can only smile.

The child's words rose in odd confidence,
Like a balloon stumbling to divine providence.
Or perhaps a kite,
That transcribes a sort of light
To the muscles.

Watching, watching the words rise.
What fantastic dance of the eyes;
To what song,
That drew one thousands of miles long?
What is plenty of love?

[Anonymous No.14706797]

>>14706513

The only goal was writing cleanly. I was just describing what I saw, it's straightforward. Thank you.

>>14706142

Thank you. It was really just an attempt at finding my poetic "voice". I just had nothing to write about but knew I had an idea for a style and wanted to see it on paper.

Will be critiquing your work once I'm home.

[Anonymous No.14707422]

>>14706444
Here is mine, so I'm not just some faceless dude in the crowd saying whatever.

But, now for your critique:

Way too much telling instead of showing, in my opinion. But I'm of the type who tried to show as much as possible. You sort of just throw sensory details out, but I'm not even sure who the person "feeling" them is. Like, I know it says it's chapter 3, but I dont think you're supposed to just put all those details in succession without going into detail about how your character (explicitly) feels, or even directly interacts with what happens.
I like that you leave things to be inferred, such as not straight up saying that the Aurora is an aurora at first; that really feels rewarding (and slightly above mid-wit lol) to be right about the direction of the story. I would try to do "more with less" where you give details in a manner where more than one specific detail is learned from your words.

Hopefully what I posted here isn't a huge pile of hypocritical shit against all of what I just told you.

[Anonymous No.14707430]

>>14707422
Also, this is page 1256-1257, so a lot of stuff is said assuming that knowledge is already there.

[Anonymous No.14707881]

F

[Anonymous No.14708079]

>>14706142

Your diction feels contrived and the syntax jumbled. Ambition is a lovely quality but you’re overshooting it. I think you need to read more poetry, practice writing fluidly, and show restraint towards stately language. It’s a very amateur work and that only means you will grow. Who do you read? Anything contemporary?

[Anonymous No.14708185]

Day 7
So, I finished the week and had today off again. I don’t wish to remark on the picture at the moment. I woke up late and never felt fully conscious all day, which is true for most days but amplified much greater when I get less than seven hours of sleep. I got a coffee, it made me feel dehydrated, but I probably deserved it. That's it.
Day 8
I remember when I was a kid and dust particles would fly in the air from above and around the vent. I would always think they were candy and try to eat them. One day I even did this in front of my confused aunt. Looking back at that moment, an extreme sadness overcomes me because I know I will die soon, and it was completely forgettable and inconsequential. Nobody remembers it except for me and when I’m dead nobody will remember it at all. I’d love to experience that moment again, instead of experiencing the shame in what that innocuous kid grew up to be. I wish I could remember the context of it or what I did the rest of the day, yet all there is that moment and another from either the same day or week of grimly getting in the car to go somewhere. My aunt was visiting, which generally meant family troubles. Something was probably up. Those tenuous asides from my childhood that felt so dire mean absolutely nothing now. I wish I could remember every moment of my life: on the swing-set in my youth, going down the slide and racing my brother, swimming against my sister in a race (terrified of losing to her), and getting my first voicemail from my father. The fortunate thing is sometimes they creep into my conscious, which is all I have to look forward to. It’s as if there was something to care about in life back then, but now I’m just a slumping sack of meat existing in spite of every reason not to. However, I’d imagine if I thought of something from only a week ago, I’d view it in the same light, so my sentimentality is just as vapid as the present. Sometimes, I also experience nostalgia when I’m living through a moment as if I’m forcing myself to pretend to enjoy life. Essentially, I view life through Roy Cohn in Angels in America: a powerful man, highly reputable, but actually a withering faggot. That is what life is, one bad secret waiting to be unveiled, unless you have no secrets, but then you probably have no power. But even still, the secrets of my parents I stumbled upon far too early hold the law to be true and disprove the lack of power, so maybe the opposite is true and power is solitude, and solitude is the only way secrets can’t be unveiled because the only person to uncover them would be yourself, and it’s easy to let myself down, I did it every day until I lost all my expectations. Of course, I still have some pride, so there’s a few karats of disdain to inflect on myself in the coming years. Yes, life is best to be lived alone: maybe in a dark room facing loneliness head-on. I just miss being a kid, not actually a kid, but being youthful in spirit I suppose.

[Anonymous No.14709092]

This really is a good critique thread, bump

[Anonymous No.14709179]

Her son was returning.
It was a cold day. It was the type of day where white clouds hang low and mothers make children wear coats that engulf them—just to be safe.
On a flat rooftop that didn’t stand as tall as most of its surrounding buildings, an elderly woman stepped outside with a basket of clothes and a bucket of pegs.
He would need fresh clothes. He hadn’t visited since leaving—different excuses—she was disappointed. Family first, she told him.
Sirens whirred past below.
She pulled out a single jumper, a red-blue-striped-polyester-cotton ensemble with a dark stain on the abdomen. An officer had returned it to her two years ago. There had been an accident, he said. She laughed, there always were accidents with her boy. It was a hideous jumper but she couldn’t throw it away—he was coming home today, so she hung it on the line.
Next was a soaking, faded T-shirt emblazoned with: USA. The South China Morning Post called the Hong Kong people stupid for their faith in America. A place with rampant promiscuity and violence—she should have been firmer. It was her fault in the end. All he needed was a nice local girl. Perhaps that homely girl down the hall. She asked about him once, said she was very sorry what happened and he was very brave.
No crying! He would be home soon.
There were more sirens passing. The road was congested. She jumped at a car backfiring. Terrible time to be coming back home, she hoped he wouldn’t be too long.
The sirens faded. She finished hanging the clothes and went back inside.

>>14703007
>I sucked in on
I get mannerisms but this is too much. Its like this for the rest of the piece, you say one word too many and it feels bloated at times
>>14703044
t. pol
>>14707422
aren't you the dude who posted a bunch of pages from your 1000 page book before? Why even have a book that long? You can fit it into two manageable projects where the idea develops

[Anonymous No.14709181]

As usual, the cheerful chirrups from small birds drifted through the open windows, their
silhouettes briefly appearing on mulberry silk curtains. The studio was crammed with
dozens of saffron crocus and orchids and lavender, and when the spring breeze wafted in,
the thick scents filled the room exuberantly; sweet aromas a delicate, lingering perfume. A
whistling kettle steamed on a glass pane, cold streaks of condensation appeared as if rain
had shown its head for the first time in weeks.
Dying moonlight shone upon the edge of a velvet sofa, and onto the boots of Johan King, his
cigarette smoke adding to the obscurity that was growing inside; he wore an unbuttoned
shirt which revealed a mustard yellow stained vest, thick splotches of paint and a long falling
necklace that fell past his chest, and yet the remainder of his visage was pristine. The butts
were a rising mountain, smoked all the way down to the very end despite burnt finger tips
and lips received.
Johan stirred from his seat. He held an unlit stick in his mouth, and while his eyes clambered
over the only other person in the room, he set amber flames upon it. As if in another place,
he sat unperturbed by the falling ash, the unclipped stems, the dishevelled room, and the
monotonous whistling that filled this small world. Another day was passing as usual.
Rose fingers crept over the horizon. The Egyptian satin sheets were a brilliant saffron, the
eye of the sun bringing with it a warmth that had yet to reach inside. The rising dawn was
accompanied by a growing roar like the notes of the harrowing Octobass in a room that held
its breath, and so the reveille had begun throughout the city.
In the centre of the room, draped over a divan in saffron robes was the extraordinary Sacha
Gautier whose talents were far from recognised but his family wealth was of an abundance;
beside him were the many, many paintings of the man displaying a quiet excitement
through a gracious, yet small, smile. As Sacha stirred between the realms of dreams and not,
Johan studied the young man through the opaqueness; brown locks were plastered across
the young man’s face, unable to grow facial hair he looked like a pubescent teenager, his
long finger tips grasped at the air as he slept.

[Anonymous No.14709185]

Summer was setting.
For Victoria Fox, that muse brought unbridled joy, as if the pregnant pause between summer and autumn meant that the stars aligned for her; or, as if the world choked in its own growing humidity and was reborn in an instant, indiscernible in its passing, but now better, somehow; or, as if the summer falling away among brown and red leaves (and those little chocolate seeds that her son used to collect every autumn and set about piercing them with a needle and thread until he had made a suitable weapon to compete against other boys at school, then to swing them over and over until one cracked the seed or one’s knuckles) remedies whether to see the warm shades of orange, red, and yellow fade into indigo beside the little house that she had once owned by the beach as another year passed before her.
Yet, for the moment, she settled on a streak of sunlight waltzing with the cherry blossom tree as she enjoyed the last day before the sun began its hibernation, and the bees disappeared for another year, and each critter, en masse, crawled over one another under a patch barely concealed during the colder months; “what a beautiful summer afternoon.”
She laid down, barely shaded, under the white cherry blossom with droplets lining her skin and the occasional insect climbing over her, desperate to fulfil its final journey of the year, and in that moment crystallised the image, like she had been taught when she was very young (for children have the most extraordinary memories and imaginations and can be transported at a mere whim through the ages) and a green grass gust blew the radiance under her skin and she was filled with a heavenly bliss; and with that momentary joy that resides deep inside, that joy that you force down when you grow up because you need to marry the right person, or you need to achieve a set of goals, floated across the sky almost out of nothing, and for a moment the world was gloomy once more, and when white had dissipated to little more than a few streaks running further and further away, the childlike joy that makes you want to jump up and down, had disappeared into a worrisome woman with a high forehead and sandy hair who promptly sat up, frowning slightly as she returned to the world.

[Anonymous No.14709190]

>>14708185
>>14709179
>>14709181
>>14709185
i'm seeing MULTIPLE rule violations here, MULTIPLE

[Anonymous No.14709582]

bump

[Anonymous No.14710100]

"Chicks have it easier for everything!"

"That's it boys, let's get sex changes."

The bell of the origami shop's door chimes as my boys as I penetrate the interior. A soft angel behind the counter, not an Americanized Asian but an authentic fresh off the boat chink, looks from her cash box as I walk up, pull out a wad of hundred dollar bills, and set them on the table in front of her. "Three origami's please."

Electric beats begin to bump from the walls as the scene shifts and the walls melt in a nexus of subdivided rooms. My boys and I headbang on guitars and drums; we spin in circles. A desiccated whistling cycles every four beats.

"But doc it hurts!"

"Shush," the Asian origami cashier puts a finger to my lips, "Your body does not obey you. We must make it understand you are beautiful woman."

Tethered by the sound of heavy electric guitars honking synth beats, every strum of David's picking against the strings blurs seismographic patterns on the wall. The Asian woman alternates throwing her should back and forth with the beat, as she removes the head of my penis and origami folds my scrotum skin into a va jay jay. The camera spins from the Asian woman slicing my ding dong; Adam jumps in with basketballs in his hands.

"I really want some basketballs in my tits!"

>end of my novel
There's a lot more to this but you get the picture

[Anonymous No.14711243]

b u m p

[Anonymous No.14711936]

>>14709179
>10 hours too late
Dang

But yeah I am the guy with the long written book. It isn't 1257 pages in one long ass book, its split between 7 200 page composition notebooks. And it is this long because it's the first, and quite possibly the only thing I think I'll ever write. It's a long story that will span years and years and will be several thousand pages, if not 10s of thousands. I dont want to do a project. The idea of a story as intricate as mine (in my eyes, at least) is infinitely more enjoyable to write. Also I physically enjoy the sensation of pen on paper - that's why I dont type anything except for my notes on it. But please, what did you think of the post itself? I'd like some actual feedback.

[Anonymous No.14712045]

>>14701488
Cheesy and cliched—sorry

[Anonymous No.14712051]

Attention spans across time
Sometimes space
Expanding into a hyperdimensional manifold
Reminiscent of grandma’s quilt—
There is no focus point
But the resolution remains
Finely grained—quarks of silt—
Somewhere in the macrocosmix
Foam congeals into unutterable angst
(A man in Stockholm weeps and hobbles)
Respite? Only in the instantaneity of torment—
Take it as axiomatic,
A floral arrangement picked by three graces
Sculpted by atonement and alabaster clockwork.
A miracle happens—you’re left bereft—
Imperial clothes lose a thread and unravel,
This is the thing: here, now, you flying through quicksand, on iron wings—
Billionaire bums blend their 401(k)s with salt
And spit it in your misshapen “face,”
Wrinkles written in permanent marker,
A smile drawn with invisible ink—
Colossal squids continue their hunt nevertheless—
Tectonic trembling, this imperative categorically denies
Your wish for succulence, unshackled paralysis,
A domain of terraqueous maps made of leather
Shorn and treated by a man named Sam
From a child named Joseph—the crime,
It is ignored, the tabloids crave meat,
But only the kind grown in a lab,
Where ghosts pretend not to be—
Empty, can you imagine what kind of world that would be?
Lux ex nihilo, the machine’s DNA
Harmonic strings playing Bach
In the style of Kanye West—
Again, empty: there is no relief,
The Red Cross functions for them,
And you should too,
But first, melt the igloo
And do what ye must do—
Catch this cliche:
You be you.

[Anonymous No.14712433]

>>14712051
I'm cringing but I'm cringing because this is something I would write verbatim and it's placing me in a position that I can not accurately critique from

[Anonymous No.14712689]

Anyone want to do a full novel exchange?

[Anonymous No.14713128]

>>14712051
yeah its a bit all over the place for a poem but i can appreciate the first few lines
theres a weird lack of sense being made but i suppose that was the intent, seems like something id write in a hurry.

>>14701488
huh, interesting idea, fairy tale princess vibe poem
sad, like something /r9k/ would like.

>>14708185
wow, picks up a bit towards the end but this is really upsetting and so on, you are okay, you have a talent for coming from a super messy and depressed kind of voice.
>a few karats of disdain to inflect on myself
ha nice, i like that.
>>14703007
p
cool read, hooked us by the first sentence, left me wanting more, appropriate use of cliche, detective noir vibe.

>>14703044
copypasta but i had to stifle my laughter, so stupid i almost laughed

>>14704689
>cereal holiness
nice.. nice.
weird surreal dissociative narrator? seems a bit schizo and theres not much room for more than what you've already said, but i kinda wanna read what else you've got, >like a big ray of sunshine
not sure i like this line but you do you.


I might scribble up something myself but my writings aren't all that great in my notes at the moment, mostly just loose words i flung about to get over my writers block. I tried a few things but i seem to have gone past my creative peak and fallen off the writing hike with a few of my peers by my side. There it be said i'm my own worst critic but i don't have anything to say, or a style to wrote on. I could pretend i had skill and context but i feel pretty shaken by myself, it feels like a grey liquid has gotten into my brain and my old cogs are all dusty and rusted. I once tried to write a novel then i gave up on getting published, but i think im still trying to write a novel. You can critique my attitude towards the craft i suppose, but i've not left much room for anything else being critiqued.

[Anonymous No.14713933]

Why have these threads been so fucking slow, i have to babysit this just to keep it from getting pruned
>>14713128
thanks for contributing, dude

[Anonymous No.14714009]

>>14713128
I’m >>14708185
I think you’re taking it too seriously. I used to define my self-worth through how good my writing was, but now I don’t care in that acute degree and even if my work is remembered and great it’ll be irrespective of me. I’ll get reduced to the words I decided to put on a page, whereas there’s infinite words in my head. Reading a lot helped me and realizing my life is hard and being a great writer or fame would never change that. Even though it’s shitty right now I love each day, and would never exchange a single one for literary acclaim. That mental clarity allowed me to take it less seriously and get something down, but my life is much more than that. You’re semi-rant was good though, reminds me of Buddy Glass from the Salinger stories.

[Anonymous No.14714652]

>>14713128
>I’d write in a hurry
Nailed it—pumped this baby out on the pot

[Anonymous No.14714660]

I recently discovered that there are basically two kinds of writers or writing processes: the intuitive and the conceptual.

Intuitives are the ones that "let the characters write the story", other names for them include pantsers, discovery writers, free-writers etc. Their work tends to have extremely good dialogue, characterization, emotion but lacks structure and story. Their process involves writing to figure out the story. For them only the the character or emotion is important. They don't care about what the reader thinks of it.

Conceptual writers are the ones that outline everything before hand. They figure the story out first and then write it. They have excellent concepts, premises, plot twists, and structure, but their stories lack emotion, good characterization, dialogue, detail etc. They care most about what the reader's reaction will be to their story, about outside feedback and not so much about the story itself. They tend to run out of steam a lot and writing for them can seem painful, whereas for the intuitive it's often a joy, because they're just hanging out with their characters.

Ideally a writer should be capable of both, but in general people tend to get stuck in one mode or another. I myself lean toward conceptual, and I'm wondering if there are any intuitives itt that might be willing to share how they go about things, their process. e.g how do you guys turn off the inner critic when you write?

Also, for everyone else, which type are you?

[Anonymous No.14714690]

>>14714660
Never really thought about it before but I automatically switch between the two approaches based on the project I'm working on and which I think it will benefit more from
Although I'm a much less productive writer if I'm being conceptual since I often just get really into thinking everything out and meticulously toying with structure and plot ideas but rarely ever getting around to actually doing the writing

[Anonymous No.14716220]

BUMP

[Anonymous No.14716993]

>>14714660
I get the feeling that George rr Martin is an intuitive writer that's written himself into a corner.

I'm primarily an intuitive writer myself and I find my biggest issue is connecting different scenes together. Typically when I'm writing I'll have an aesthetic for a scene like a film and what I want the dialogue to feel like. The ideologies of the characters form after writing multiple scenes with them and realizing how they converse and act and why that may be.

Every time I've plotted a full story out it's gone a completely different way, largely because I find it awkward to write with a direction. I can have a broad, emotional outline for what I want the story to feel like, but if I get too specific and "plotty" I get stuck.

[Anonymous No.14717019]

>>14714660
I think this stems from what you primarily enjoy in literature. My favorite thing about reading is discovering the intricacies of a character and the people they know. I like a good plot twist, but if the characters are flat and feel too manufactured from a conceptual place then I don't care. People aren't archetypes, so why would that be the extent of yours?

[Anonymous No.14717261]

>>14703222
sent you an email. can you add me?

[Anonymous No.14717270]

>>14709190
which rules and how were they violated?

[Anonymous No.14717274]

>>14714660
Discovery writer is a better name for it. "Intuitive writer" doesn't really describe the process.
Watch the Brandon Saranson lectures on Youtube

[Anonymous No.14717281]

>>14711936
>The idea of a story as intricate as mine
how is it intricate?

[Anonymous No.14717337]

>>14710100
Gives a silly impression. It seems like something you wold see Adam Sandler play in. I guess this is something that aims to be ridiculous, in an attempt to critique contemporary norms.
Makes me feel like after I watch Idiocracy - a laugh here and there, but within a depressing context.

[Anonymous No.14717366]

>>14717281
What you see here isn't as much as the rest will be. It's intricate because of how many things interweave with one another; subplots and such coming in, and many themes are common throughout the story. Maybe that's not what you think intricacy is though. Who knows.

[Anonymous No.14717378]

>>14717366
Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like a putdown.
I was genuinely interested in the plot structure

[Anonymous No.14717382]

>>14710100
If you are going for this anti-realistic style I think you need to push the vividness up way higher, make it visceral. The last paragraph works very well.

[Anonymous No.14717405]

“Uff!” she exhaled as she sat down. She propped her elbow on her right calf. Her cheek quickly landed into the palm of her right hand and the head was tilted to the right side, exposing the neck. The left hand covered her stomach. She slouched over, slightly. Finally, there was rest to be had after the long walk.
Luscious was still quiet and it seemed that the juvenile spirit that lurked inside him was extinguished. They didn't disclose that they would stop at this place, but seeing the tiredness on her face, and identifying with it, he didn't say a word. And yet, despite feeling tired, he refused to sit next to her on the stump. No wonder! The embarrassment and feeling of guilt was too great for him. “What if I sat next to her?” his thoughts wandered, “She'd quickly vanish me. 'Go away!' she'd yell at me. I am certain.”
Her legs were pointing away from his body, which gave him the intuition that she resented him.
But the silence was too great for him. He stood there, awkwardly, as his legs were in pain from all the walking. He decided to crouch, but then stood up before he could've placed his chin upon his palms. Perhaps he was curious, something came to his mind. He leaned towards her, “Can I ask you something?”

[Anonymous No.14717419]

>>14717405
You're using too many weasel words. Who is the narrator? If its 3rd limited of the male protag you shouldn't say things like 'gave him the intuition that..' or 'perhaps he was curious' because it separates you from his feelings. It would be better to say 'her legs were pointing away in resentment' and 'he was curious and asked her'.

[Anonymous No.14717430]

I write this as to sleep i fall
So i will not critique y'all.
But if you could give me feedback
I would quite appreciate that.

The future does seem a sad sight
As i look out to it at night-
But the glowing yellow fields beyond
Quickly cause such thoughts to abscond.
As night surely to morning turns
My old and tired body yearns
For a time filled with meaning
And a people always dreaming.

[Anonymous No.14717776]

>>14717430
poor flow, boring dimeter, saying nothing deep or of note

[Anonymous No.14717917]

”Hey, se hvad jeg kan”
Så stak han hovedet ned mellem benene på sig selv og foretog en deep throat manøvre på sit eget forplantningsapparat. Yusuf vidste ikke helt hvad der foregik, men stirrede blankt på denne mands autofillatio. Det er vel de færreste der kan danne sig nogen som helst tanker om sådan noget, når det sker så pludseligt. Yusuf var ingen filosof, ej heller nogen æstetiker, men havde han været religiøs havde han nok tænkt i sit stille sind, at dette var som at se på selve evigheden, eller så tæt man kunne komme på den nu til dags.

[Anonymous No.14718538]

“So maybe then, it’s just one of those things that’s like really better to not think about. Or talk about,” uttered Ben.
The night had begun forward looking and reverent. The nice, blue rimmed glasses had been broken out from their oft-occupied cupboard to be filled with blended ice, tequila, triple sec, and lime juice. Hair coiffed, collars sported, tweed and corduroy and cotton blends filled the seats. There was no real occasion. Well, there was an occasion in the way that any occasion is an occasion. The relevant groups had, more or less implicitly, agreed that such and such times would be treated with more deference, more respect than any other quotidian night. And thus the night celebrating the full moon was born.
The patrons here attached no metaphysical significance to the celebration of the occasion. That would likely come generations later, if at all. Of course, as sleeves rolled up and layers removed, strewn throughout the kitchen and living room, glasses accrued. The discussion grew louder, and more sobering. The dynamics changed. Speakers insisted that their current positions really represented them as them, as if a speaker is capable of anything else. What was said, rather than implied, took the center stage.
And so, the cocktails became light beer, and then water, and then beer again. All parties present took a certain benedictine joy in the ritualized transition from mixed drink, to beer, to water, to beer and so on. This is all there was, anyway. Resigned to self-referential discussion of community and relations in general, Ben occupied a notably quietest position. “Because as soon as it’s sort of a topic, up for discussion and dissection, it takes over. It’s cancerous, in a very true sense of the word.” “Will insists that this means that, and that this omission is equivalent to a negative statement, and so on.” “Don’t you see how this will go?” “...” A noticeable lull. “Exactly! See! We can’t even talk about talking about it. It’s poison!” Ben exclaimed.
The house, panelled and tiled, alternately, was only rented. Snow drifts, annoyingly accumulated on the roof. The landlord was not too sensitive to the worries of the current residents. But the way the kitchen led into the living room, the way the very walls were placed in relation to each other, was of undeniable significance to the group. Everything was out in the open.

[Anonymous No.14718601]

>>14718538
>>14717917
Where are your crits?

[Anonymous No.14718762]

>>14717430
i get that you want to rhyme but you're not frost, when you mess with the syntax just to get a rhyme it doesn't work well. And the message is pretty trite. Try to use more imagery to show what you want to communicate :)

I wrote>>14718538

>>14718601
Here's my crit, gib feedback plz

[Anonymous No.14718829]

>>14718538
I feel like this is written well, but it doesn't compel me.

[Anonymous No.14718868]

>>14718829
yeah that's fair. I'm mostly just trying to find my voice. Nothing here felt like it captured at list a bit of what it's like to have a night with friends over drinks?

[Anonymous No.14718893]

>>14718868
>what it's like to have a night with friends over drinks?
I honestly couldn't relate.

[Anonymous No.14718926]

>>14718868
>All parties present took a certain benedictine joy in the ritualized transition from mixed drink, to beer, to water, to beer and so on.
This feels way too formal to capture that "anything goes" feeling. Honestly, after a few drinks those nights out feel like dreams to me, they both feel very prolonged, yet constantly changing. Conversations slowly get less surface level(in a way) and more emotional, and there's always someone that goes missing near the end of the night. There's also something really meditative in those walks home after drinking/rolling.

[Anonymous No.14718955]

>>14718926
I've grown more antisocial as the years go by, but I'm glad that during my less-neurotic years I did shit like this. It used to be hard drugs and long nights out, now it's a couple of drinks twice a month at a friend's place. I guess 4 years in a math major makes you crazier, yet somehow more lowkey.

[Anonymous No.14718957]

>>14718926
thanks for this anon. I think you're right. Although, I was trying to capture something sort of formal about people drinking the same drinks together and such.

[Anonymous No.14718964]

>>14718957
I get what you meant, there is a ritualistic aspect to drinking in a group. I just think the language was a little too stiff.

[Anonymous No.14718993]

Would appreciate a crit

>>14717405
The description of her gave me a boner, think of that what you will. Overall it gives the right details and is pleasantly written, a good start.
>>14717430
Meter is bad, 7s, 8s, and 9s all over the place

[Anonymous No.14719018]

>>14712689
I'm up for it.

[Anonymous No.14719041]

>>14712689
>>14719018
Would you guys mind joining the review group and posting there?
email fourlitreview @ yandex dot com and I'll add you to the group

[Anonymous No.14719164]

What is the best thing posted in this thread so far?
Provide your reasoning so we can tell if you're just saying it was yours or not

[Anonymous No.14719300]

>>14718993
The second sentence is actually four separate clauses united by comma splices. I gave up reading when you switched tenses to present in the third clause.
>it draws

[Anonymous No.14719313]

>>14717270
>literature board
>can't even read the OP

[Anonymous No.14719329]

>>14719313
thats cos the OP is a fag and the only fag lit I read is burroughs/wilde

[Anonymous No.14719372]

>>14719164
This >>14706488 was the best poem. Confident, ambitious, and flawlessly executed.

This >>14709185 was the best story. Beautiful prose, but I won't criticise it because the asshole broke the rules.

[Anonymous No.14719408]

A few opening paragraphs from a short story I wrote. It's part of a three-part trilogy that I haven't finished writing. Thank you for your time.

>>14718993
I agree with >>14719300. The tense consistency needs some work. There's a lot of comma splices that can easily be split up into separate sentences and will really help with pacing and cadence.

[Anonymous No.14719739]

>>14719408
stopped reading at "goons"
the triteness level is off the charts

[Anonymous No.14719900]

>>14719300
I’m a grammarlet, please explain to me why it’s wrong to go from “would” to “is” like that. Surely the subjects are different, the machine is presently and the actions would happen in the future?

[Anonymous No.14720033]

>>14719900
Think of the narrator speaking in a bonfire. He, as he's telling the story, lives in the present, but everything in the story is in the past. If you start with
>it WAS necessary
You're establishing a past tense. From then on, everything must be past, including
>it draws
It simply should be
>It drew
As for comma splices and when to use commas or semicolons, google it.

[Anonymous No.14720034]

>>14708079
Yeah, I'm kinda new to poetry. I read a lot but I had a "pause" for a couple of years for reasons that I will not get into, but still I mostly read novels. I should probably read more in English too.

[Anonymous No.14720059]

>>14719408
>needless to say, I am not a clever man
At least you admit it.
This is actually not bad if you read it as an autistic or retarded man trying to understand his surroundings, and only being able to do it through a cliche, cartoony understanding of reality he's gotten from watching too many tv shows and movies. Kinda like The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. So, for example, when he says his landlord's goons beat him up, maybe in reality it was something much simpler and serious. Could do for some hilarious contrast.

[Anonymous No.14720591]

LUXURY bump

[Anonymous No.14721137]

>>14719739
Thanks for the feedback!

>>14720059
Thanks for the feedback! The main character is definitely written as "an idiot with a heart of gold". The whole piece isn't serious by any means. More of a comedy/satirical short if anything.

[Anonymous No.14721335]

>>14719372
>Confident, ambitious, and flawlessly executed.
Please say something bad about it so I can dislodge my head from my ass

[Anonymous No.14721738]

>>14701463
I ball on these hoes like Brent Barry
looking like Harry
Potter, drippin like water
she call me her father
Almhof Schneider reservation, ski like Bode Miller
im a high roller, yuh

the nikes on my feet they feeling itchy
time to get loubutuns so i feel richie
rich - like in the movie
going scooby scooby doo
i go crazy, silly

I'm a magician, but I'm ballin like a doge
Got a bateleur in a cage
Andrea Gritti in a rage
Man, I'm a real venetian in the range rove
Like Loredan, I take the stage
I'm the real deal, I'm the doge

[Anonymous No.14721851]

I dutifully enter the demon’s lair, knowing truly of the torment that awaits me inside
Promised life in return for sufferment, I wonder if I am simply gleaning an existence of despair
Engulfed by the sterile, sickly atmosphere I’ve come to know too well
a hard knot of terror forms, frozen and dark, but its source a hot, burning hell
A cold, iron chair waits for me, surrounded by a menagerie of machines
Machines made to grant me the priveledge of breath
Though I may merly be meant for the morgue
Once I am brought close enough to smell their stench of death
I will be dragged through the seven doors
A sudden, sharp pain comes...then goes, but forebodes far worse to come
A mere prick of the vein, but it may as well have been a stab of the heart
Life does not come easily to those who were never destined to live
And the pump begins to whine, like a child fallen from its crib
And the fluid begins to flow... as my darkest hour is struck by the bell
Who would have thought the elixir of life was a ticket to the hollows of hell?


What lvl shit is this? Please don't destroy my esteem too much.

[Anonymous No.14721905]

>>14714660
I'm both but leaning towards intuitive.

Usually I start with character interactions, some cool scene (and cool scenes for me have a lot of change and conflict, so work as plot twist/key moments automatically), which leads to another, and so on, and in the process I explore the characters; what happened to them before, where they are going now, WHY, why they don't want the others to know, and so on, ... this happens in a blur, a bit like watching your favourite scene in a movie for one two minutes and skipping ahead to the next one while your brain fills the blanks.

I usually do it all in my head, THEN write down dialogue of some scene with minimal directions for the actors, and then half-sentences plot progression in each chapter.

>how do you guys turn off the inner critic when you write
I'm too overwhelmed by all the ideas and considerations to pay any attention to him. Inner critic only becomes an issue if I run into a wall or if the development bores me … at which point I go back and mentally rewind everything I have; or force myself into FULL discovery mode and just wing it, in the end it's easier to cut or compress bloat. (I got about 50k words of deleted scenes for a 100k novel, so can't say it's an time-efficient method)

>They figure the story out first and then write it.
That one was extra hard for me as "discovery writer", even when I had a story completed, finding out what the fuck it was about in a way I could communicate and tightening the focus in revisions was a fucking pain. Pitching too. Hell, when I had a writer buddy asking me for my favourite or most important scenes I was lost, it all was a complete emotional experience for me, not an an accumulation of events.

Also have a bump, guys.

[Anonymous No.14722410]

>>14719408
My opinion is that this can be improved by moving some paragraphs around. Namely, "A week ago I woke up in a daze..." with "After my landlord's goons beat me up...", because the beating links to the end of the "Mercedes Benz" paragraph. In contrast, the part about the deja vu feels like an interruption and doesn't even seem to be at all related to the financial problems of paying a union and buying a Benz.
Also you say here >>14721137 that the narrator is supposed to be a likeable idiot, but he sounds less of a Forrest Gump and more of a Reddit philosopher with an infuriating personality.

https://pastebin.com/bAuvkTHe
Some of it might not make sense because it's part of a larger work that I've only started on near the end of last year. I hope I added just enough context through the conversation that it will still make sense. Please let me know whether or not I write like an autistic person, alongside other criticism.

[Anonymous No.14722636]

This is me >>14708185 anyone want to exchange work for work. I'd appreciate having someone to talk about my writing with.

[Anonymous No.14723301]

what if my prose is more like silver?

[Anonymous No.14723700]

>>14722636
Read the rules in the OP, moron. Critique someone and post your work and it will be criticised. Or just send an email to the address that got posted. READ the thread, for God's sake.

[guenonpoet No.14724265]

>>14721738
Someone do this and this:

fuck a trad hoe like im Guenon
(pbuh) supremely based like im Guenon
(pbuh) eternally retroactive refutation
btfo whitehead, (pbuh) the magician

[Anonymous No.14724299]

>>14723301
then leave

[Anonymous No.14724732]

Trapped in a perpetual rape engine, buzzing through the infinity of space, I cursed the three-wished Djini, who granted me, at last, immortality.

[Anonymous No.14725022]

>>14723301
This isn't your kind of thread

[Anonymous No.14725355]

The sky looks sick. A foghorn blows. The ship is going to port. People are rushing in. They're capturing the ship. My suitcase disappears under a thousand hands. I'm being hoisted. Somehow I manage to get down safely. Now the carriage is rolling away to take me to the castle. The Majodormo hands me a cigar. Hold on a moment, he says. I quickly sign the contract, which the Cardinal hands over to me. I say the matter is unprecedented. He smiles. Outside waits my wife. Her clothes are torn, her eyes are tearing. So you too, they have taken, the people, she says. I smile wearily. The hotel is locked. We stand at the door, baffled. A voice from the alley behind us whispers, go ahead, go ahead. He shows us the room, a cellar hole with people in it. In my dream I ride a black horse into the night. Payday, the man whispers. Lost our wallet, could be worse, she says. Justice smiles from above. A faithful servant. They hang a Jew, he and she. Then they must leave the country. In the end, they're buried peacefully.

[Anonymous No.14725363]

>>14725355
Where are your crits?

[Anonymous No.14725372]

>>14725363

[Anonymous No.14725408]

>>14701463
>>14725355
Not long enough

[Anonymous No.14725473]

By the way I'd be interested in hearing someone describe the space they imagine this taking place in by the time they finish it >>14703052 I've already written a lot more and have a better idea of where this takes place but it'd be neat to know what is automatically coming to the reader's mind so I can adjust what info I clarify accordingly

[Anonymous No.14725639]

Any Marxists want to critique this essay concerning a pop star being used to promote gentrification?

http://archive.is/Qjbps

[Anonymous No.14726056]

>>14725408
>>14725639
Where are your crits?

[Anonymous No.14726331]

>>14725639
Aren't you a little old to be obsessed with teenage stars?

[Anonymous No.14726434]

There is a light over St. Louis, right now. Everyone in the city has come out from their homes to see it. It spins and shimmers, dropping down from the overcast night sky above.

The people below are weeping, exclaiming sorrow for the entity. They beat upon their chests and hold their arms upwards, screaming out apologetically.

It reaches back, its many arms clasping the group in union. In solace. It huddles them now, and they are content.

The light now stands amongst them, kissing the tears from their faces with its teeth. Each shoulder has a hand upon it, melding with acceptance.

The people offer themselves, in solidarity. They offer their hearts, their children, their bile and their brains. They cough and moan. They sputter and collapse.

The streets are mirrors. The sky above reflecting in rivers, in pools of shimmering brilliance. Steam rises from their bodies, mingling into the cold air of the night.

The percussion of communion, reverberating off of the concrete and steel.

The screams.

The wails.

The gnashing of teeth and snapping of bone.

Hallelujah.

[Anonymous No.14726591]

>>14726434
Where are your crits?

[Anonymous No.14728411]

Summer was setting.
For Victoria Fox, that muse brought unbridled joy, as if the pregnant pause between summer and autumn meant that the stars aligned for her; or, as if the world choked in its own growing humidity and was reborn in an instant, indiscernible in its passing, but now better, somehow; or, as if the summer falling away among brown and red leaves (and those little chocolate seeds that her son used to collect every autumn and set about piercing them with a needle and thread until he had made a suitable weapon to compete against other boys at school, then to swing them over and over until one cracked the seed or one’s knuckles) remedies whether to see the warm shades of orange, red, and yellow fade into indigo beside the little house that she had once owned by the beach as another year passed before her.
Yet, for the moment, she settled on a streak of sunlight waltzing with the cherry blossom tree as she enjoyed the last day before the sun began its hibernation, and the bees disappeared for another year, and each critter, en masse, crawled over one another under a patch barely concealed during the colder months; “what a beautiful summer afternoon.”
She laid down, barely shaded, under the white cherry blossom with droplets lining her skin and the occasional insect climbing over her, desperate to fulfil its final journey of the year, and in that moment crystallised the image, like she had been taught when she was very young (for children have the most extraordinary memories and imaginations and can be transported at a mere whim through the ages) and a green grass gust blew the radiance under her skin and she was filled with a heavenly bliss; and with that momentary joy that resides deep inside, that joy that you force down when you grow up because you need to marry the right person, or you need to achieve a set of goals, floated across the sky almost out of nothing, and for a moment the world was gloomy once more, and when white had dissipated to little more than a few streaks running further and further away, the childlike joy that makes you want to jump up and down, had disappeared into a worrisome woman with a high forehead and sandy hair who promptly sat up, frowning slightly as she returned to the world.

ok, repost, i'll crit-----this was from a year ago----idk if any good

>>14718538
more of this needs to be posted to understand it imo, it feels empty without any other text much like these parties that you are describing; its well written but its not something that has any noticeable quality that makes me want more however to actually crit, its important to see more

[Anonymous No.14729305]

bump

[Anonymous No.14729932]

Oke, let's do it. Tipsy anon here, went through everything sans poetry, only responding to the stuff I could read without zoning out after the first few sentences since there is way too much passive shit. Just my opinions.

>>14706444
>the more she stared, the more she saw
Reminded me of that GRRM copy pasta. Was it intentional?
>geography of starlight
Wat.
Pretty good stuff overall, though could be tighter. Also for opening paragraph of a novel it seems to slow, unless something is about to happen in the next sentences.

>>14706446
Mad genius sperg shit. The autism is impressive.

>>14710100
This is ... somewhat interesting.

>>14719408
It flowed well enough for me to keep reading half of it; mostly annoyed by some repetition but the content isn't great overall ... but you can write.

>>14724732
Functional enough.

>>14725355
>The sky looks sick.
Now that's a cute one. Not a fan of the style but in this paragraph it works, my favourite so far.

>>14725639
>In response to a request we received from 'EU Internet Referral Unit (EU IRU)' the page is not currently available.
Dayum.

[Anonymous No.14729957]

>>14729932
>'EU Internet Referral Unit (EU IRU)'

[Anonymous No.14730799]

>>14729932
>only responding to the stuff I could read without zoning out after the first few sentences since there is way too much passive shit.
Which ones felt that way to you?

[Anonymous No.14730891]

>>14730799
At least half of them tbqh. Others I found just dull. Seemed pointless to critique stuff which didn't work for me when I can't tell for sure whether it's the work or my taste, one man's trash is another man's treasure and all that.

[Anonymous No.14730905]

Yahweh, the Creator, the Shaman, the principal Man. His is the End and the Beginning; and ours the great Middle. For what is the life of Man but a squeeze, what his heart but a Vise, what his Brain but the Scissor that cuts the Cord ‘twixt him and Nature; Tony thought this as he jerked off his Penis, which, even erect, was scarcely four inches long, although quite thick, almost as a Coke can; he gripped it with desperate force, as if he were a Handle, as if his Masturbation were a Mechanical Bull that, were he not at each moment to intensify the force with which he clung to it, he would be cast away from it; and he let out a great moan and was stained. Having intended at first to swallow his Ejaculate, he now watched it recede into his button-down. Oh Yeah, Oh God, Fuck Me, Give me that dick, that Bigger Nigger Dick, that BBC… the woman on the computer screen wailed. Tony regretted immensely that which he had done and knew it was wrong. Now he closed his eyes and said it in his Heart: I will change.

[Anonymous No.14730991]

>>14730905
Where are your crits?