wordfeel

[Anonymous No.23297858]

Are you good at injecting feeling into your writing /lit/? A sign of a being good writer is using imaginative and vivid imagery in one's works.

For example, instead of saying: "I had passionate anal sex with a femboy until he came" You can say: "I slammed my hard cock furiously into his soft, plushlike behind; mauling him like a hungry wolf after a laborious hunt. He gasped and moaned like the women he so admired, writing in ecstasy at my unyielding assault. We were enraptured in a tempest of pleasure, the gale which removed us from the stressors of the world. His warm insides gripped me as if I was the last cock on earth. I hammered harder and faster. Jabbed his hole deeply. Sweat flowed down onto the linens, and the hot musky steam of lust filled the room. He began to pant and quiver, a prolonged groan escaped his lips. A noise that signalled his complete submission to the pleasure, one so feminine that any self described male should ever make. The "boy" raised his head release and shouted his surrender. His member throbbed and shook, releasing his warm and sticky love juice all over the sheets. His ass clamped on to the intruder with all it's might. He became one with pleasure itself; blossoming fully into a sexual being."

Something like that. Are you a good illustrator?

[Anonymous No.23297879]

Thanks I'm hard.
>AMH0T

[Anonymous No.23298095]

>>23297879
my pleasure (laugh out loud)

[Anonymous No.23298269]

>>23297858
>Are you a good illustrator?
That depends. What colour is his hair?

[Anonymous No.23298291]

>>23298269
Black hair and a blonde femboy

[Anonymous No.23298305]

>>23298291
Just kidding I can't draw for shit I had to confirm whether or not you had good taste though
And you passed

[Sage No.23298316]

>>23297858
Fucking coomers...

[Anonymous No.23298337]

>>23298305
/lit/ book of cocktails never ever
you gave me hope that it was finally being finished

[Anonymous No.23298653]

>>23297858
*gale of which
*that no self described

[Anonymous No.23299923]

I guess not.

[Anonymous No.23300114]

>>23297858
protips: don’t mix metaphors, and avoid adverbs

[Anonymous No.23300621]

>>23300114
what should i use instead? I get the wolf thing was kinda stupid.

[Anonymous No.23300943]

>>23300621
nta You can't be serious. If you can't find the answer for yourself, don't bother writing

[Anonymous No.23300980]

>>23297858
You know when you're at the point of a gooning sesh where you're just jacking off to anything, without any sense of taste or discrimination, just as long as it's bright and jiggling and will satisfy you for the five seconds until you open another tab? That's what that prose feels like. It's a breathless rush to capture a fleeting intensity - but intensity is something you build up carefully and delicately. You have to walk a tightrope, and remain in control. You have to go with the natural grain of the words, and keep pace with their rhythms and their logic, and not let the sloppy gooner slackness impinge on your poise.

See, e.g.:
>'For now my body, my companion, which is always sending its signals, the rough black "No", the golden "Come", in rapid running arrows of sensation, beckons. Someone moves. Did I raise my arm? Did I look? Did my yellow scarf with the strawberry spots float and signal? He has broken from the wall. He follows. I am pursued through the forest. All is rapt, all is nocturnal, and the parrots go screaming through the branches. All my senses stand erect. Now I feel the roughness of the fibre of the curtain through which I push; now I feel the cold iron railing and its blistered paint beneath my palm. Now the cool tide of darkness breaks its waters over me. We are out of doors. Night opens; night traversed by wandering moths; night hiding lovers roaming to adventure. I smell roses; I smell violets; I see red and blue just hidden. Now gravel is under my shoes; now grass. Up reel the tall backs of houses guilty with lights. All London is uneasy with flashing lights. Now let us sing our love song--Come, come, come. Now my gold signal is like a dragonfly flying taut. Jug, jug, jug, I sing like the nightingale whose melody is crowded in the too narrow passage of her throat. Now I hear crash and rending of boughs and the crack of antlers as if the beasts of the forest were all hunting, all rearing high and plunging down among the thorns. One has pierced me. One is driven deep within me.

>'And velvet flowers and leaves whose coolness has been stood in water wash me round, and sheathe me, embalming me.'