/Critique/ threads

[Anonymous No.16146382]

Based Tolkien edition.

Leave your work and critique others. Tell get this thread going I'll critique the next three posts (after mine).

[Anonymous No.16146389]

>>16146382
How was Tolkien based?

Not being trolly, just curious.

[Anonymous No.16146390]

Here's my work. Opening chapter of my story. I'm really struggling to find my voice as a narrator/writer.

https://pastebin.com/21wXLZNh

[Anonymous No.16146397]

>>16146389
He wrote beautiful books and wasn't a bad guy. Pretty based. His fiction is so good that it defined an entire genre. And at the end of the day he still was just a guy with a family who worked a job and really liked trees. Very comfy.

[Anonymous No.16146440]

>>16146390
>story starts with the guys fullname
dropped; no need to read on.

[Anonymous No.16146442]

>>16146440
I guess that's a fair criticism. I'm fucking lost mate. Doing my best but I know it's mediocre.

[Anonymous No.16146770]

>>16146390
You started like 6 paragraphs with the word Hress. Perhaps grow a few new braincells before trying to write.

[Anonymous No.16146782]

>>16146770
Fair. You're not wrong.

[Anonymous No.16146931]

>>16146389
Tolkien was a visionary who correctly predicted that modern life would become so hollow and stifling that people would turn to fantastical and escapist fiction to feel alive again.

[Anonymous No.16147038]

>>16146390
I actually don't think your narrator's voice is that bad. It certainly needs some polishing but it reminds me of a bootleg Shadow and Claw. The characters' names do seem like you're trying a bit too hard, though.

anyways this is a vignette I wrote a bit ago while bored at work
https://pastebin.com/sUYxhZpG

[Anonymous No.16147869]

>>16146382
the problem is you called it /critique/ and not /crit/
thats why this thread has failed, you didn't know your audience

[Anonymous No.16148339]

>>16146382
I loathe this place and all the memories I have of it. Not a single bit of nostalgia remains. Everything I can remember has been tainted by my failures and by the meaninglessness of it all. What used to be new and foreign to me is now decrepit and unpleasant. The people. The places. Even those blue skies which I once appreciated, taunt me relentlessly. The heat radiates down and fills my whole body, until it is pulsating throughout, leaving me nauseous and weak. My only escape is through the void of night. Under that veil of darkness, the intertwining streets become constellations, and the street lamps become artificial stars which act as beacons for the lost.

[Anonymous No.16148461]

>>16147869
I dunno, the full and pointless /critique/ vs. /crit/ seems suitable for threads full of pseuds who can't help but be verbose and gratuitous.

OR, after some editing:

/critique/ seems apt for a bunch of losers who don't know how to be concise.

[Anonymous No.16148534]

>>16147038
>scant
scat
>penetrated
penetrated
>I've always
Diary entry
>once more
heard that one
>icy sensation
Found it

[Anonymous No.16148634]

>>16146389
>believed in God
>made up his own languages
>fought in the trenches
>married the girl he was forbidden to see
>loved her til the end of his days
>stole a bus with his chums
>pretended to be an Icelandic polar bear while drunk
>wrote his children as Father Christmas for something like 20 years
>got so worked up arguing with C.S. Lewis he went home and wrote a poem as his response
>was a hobbit in all but height
>wrote The Lord of the Rings

[Anonymous No.16148671]

Those walking boots of his were always meant to reside there on the polished floor. They were caked in enough mud to grow flowers. What use was a lavish bedroom suite like this if not to make a mess? The mud on those boots would soon dry, and the mess would be easier to clean. Better yet the smell of fresh wet and sloppy sea mud was a welcome change to the usual nothing-smell of white sheets, spotless dresser draws, and pristine side tables. The way he saw it, a thing never served its purpose unless it was used to breaking point. Anything less was a waste. Take the grapes residing in the glass bowl on his lap. They were stifled and sweating. He pinched a grape free from the stem tying it to the rest, and placed the glistening marble into his mouth. He reclined back, the three pillows stacked one on top of the other absorbing his weight like a cloud. Still not quite comfortable he extended his legs and set one bare foot over the other, catching the evening breeze from the open window nearby along his soles and between his toes. Was the breeze stronger because his suite was on the first floor, or because the lavish Baywater Inn resided a stones throw away from the shoreline? He set the bowl aside, deciding it was about time he saw to writing that letter:
“To my dearest mother and father’, no, scratch that. ‘Mother. Father. I write to tell you your son has done what none in Knighthaven thought possible. I have become a successful’ scratch that ‘a man of wealth.’”
He paused for a moment. From his perfect position on the king-sized bed he could see the evening sky, now deepest violet among the clouds, framed perfectly just for him by the nearby window. The view was trying to distract him from finishing his letter, and the smug tone he wished to impart onto the eggshell coloured parchment. He didn’t intend to send any more letters after this one, so he wanted to make each word count. He thought for a few moments about what exactly he wanted everyone back home to know. He hummed and nodded in agreement with himself once he had it in his mind what he wanted to say next:
“Yes mother, I have finally learned how to read and write.”

(1/2)

[Anonymous No.16148683]

>>16148671
The irritating sound of quill scratching was another unwelcome distraction. The Baywater Inn clerk was making a performance out of his displeasure of being in the same room him. Not that Hress cared. Their eyes met a second after the lie was spoken aloud. A moment passed, then he spoke with his naturally booming voice which hindered the clerk’s concentration, who had been instructed minutes prior to jot down what was dictated in messy enough caligraphy as to be passed off as the handwriting of a man newly able to read and write after a youth of illiteracy. The clerk, frowning, listened, and wrote:
"I'm sure you've heard by now of my heroics at Baywater. In an hour I will be attending the Prince's engagement ball where I am to be the guest of honor."
The clerk’s eyes widened. Luckily this unprofessional act went unseen by Hress, who was now lent back with his eyes closed and a smug grin on his face. The clerk, seeing his opportunity, allowed himself a scowl of disapproval and a slight shake of his head.

The clerk had heard all about the Baywater heroics, of course, and he had even been delighted when he was told the newly famed local legend was to be an honoured guest in the Inn for the foreseeable future. The exclusive Baywater Inn catered to noble clientel, barring the current notable exception. It wasn’t beyond the scope of good taste to invite the likes of a people’s man like Hress to stay during the quiet weeks of the year when business was slow. But to invite the likes of him to a royal ball was another matter entirely. Clearly they didn’t know the sort of man they were letting into their midst.
The guest stretched, which sent the clerk quickly and without a sound back to writing the letter with as vacant an expression as he could muster. Hress continued, his voice at once boyishly naïve as well as deeply masculine, tinged as always with that cheap farmer’s son accent. Hress’ voice turned hushed and spiteful as he relished each smug word spoken:
"The only reason I'm writing this letter to you is to make sure you know: if you turn up looking for a handout you'll receive none from me. Destiny has decreed that you be poor and I be a very rich man who gets everything he deserves. Your son, Hress Crinny Dunter."
‘The Trial of Hress Dunter for the Murder of the Prince’

(2/2)