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/lit/ - Literature

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4542123 No.4542123[DELETED]  [Reply] [Original]

How's that thing you're working on coming along? Share excerpts, give us your pitch, and revel each other's mediocrity.

>> No.4542138
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4542138

Working on an animation pitch based on something /co/ came up with nearly two years ago that I have expanded on greatly.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1spRGXgdRVJJXDXP80HZOsciV8qg6bEYNo6QbJN0N9aI/edit

>> No.4542143

We've got an 'opening lines' thread going with a lot of good criticism. Just post your stuff there and explain that it's an extract.

>> No.4542147

A publishers told me I have until the end of the year to revise and re-submit my book.

I'm around 14,000 words in so far. :)

>> No.4542154

>>4542138
>maggie the magpie

generic much?

>> No.4542158

>>4542138
>atticus
>finch

lol

would never let my children watch

>> No.4542160

>>4542143
There's room for both. Opening lines is pretty specific, this is more overall progress, frustrations, and a couple excerpts.

>> No.4542171

>>4542154
It's a pseudonym, her actual name is a late-season reveal. It's supposed to be obviously fake.

>>4542158
It was a placeholder name that felt increasingly right the more it was used until it became the actual name. It's a good fit but I can't explain exactly how.

>> No.4542174

>>4542138
>crow
What the fuck is with his eyes?

>> No.4542190

>>4542174
Glasses. Comedically large with them on, small and beady with them off. It's a pretty common animation trope.

>> No.4542259

Terrified to be sharing, but here it is. This is the introduction of the villain after he captures and imprisons the protagonist.
-----
“We all have our demons, don’t we, son?”

A voice? I raised my head to a sting. No one was there. Had I lost it?

“A guilt grown into a monster, a closet door hiding a mountain of bones, an act we buried so deep within ourselves that we begin to wonder if it truly happened, or if it was merely all a bad dream…”

It was confident, the voice. Firm. It grinded forth like old gears churning an ancient machine back to life. It surrounded me, as if I was drowning in it.

“We fear our demons. We attempt to live our lives without harm, laying eggshells upon the ground and tiptoeing through our years, keeping to ourselves as not to awake the fiends.”

Someone crept into my frame. He was tall, not greater than me, but an equal. His suit, fitted perfectly without a wrinkle on it, shone slightly in the dull amber light. His head was covered in a black wrap, like the other [bad guys]. But over that, he wore a white cloth mask, frozen in a lingering lack of expression. No eyes. No ears. No features whatsoever. Just an ever open mouth and missing eyes. In his gloved hands, he held a small switchblade, slowly closing it and opening again, the click of the blade the loudest thing I ever heard. He made his paces around me as he spoke.

“But… I ask why? Why do we fear our ill decisions, our weaknesses? Demons are not something to be feared… they are to be controlled. Harnessed. The true demon isn’t regret, but stagnation. To be owned by one’s demons is no different than being dead”

He approached me, clicking the blade shut. Gazing with his black dead eyes, he held the handle of his blade close to my heart, tapping my chest gently. I could feel something radiating off him, almost like an aura. It burned to be this near him.

“I have my demons, just as you or anyone else. But they are not me. I am them, their heinous strength my own. I refuse to be weighed down by this monster, my own penitence and compunction.”

There was a click, and his blade snapped, grazing my naked chest. I inhaled sharply, but refused to give him the satisfaction of fear he so clearly craved.

“Fear will not own me. Fear will drive me, feed me. I am stronger now for it. My mark will be made, potential realized. My grasp no longer hinders my reach. And my strength comes from those greatest moments of weakens. The question to you, son…”

As he spoke, he dug his blade into me. Only slightly, though, just enough for the pain to overwhelm me. I groaned. Like a sick fucking dog.

“Is what will you do with your weakness?”

>> No.4542278

>>4542259
For a guy who talks a big shpeal about "weakness" he sure has a weakness for monologuing. It's a good bit but I can't help but think that your villain is verbally jacking himself off in front of a (literally) captive audience.

>> No.4542308

>>4542278
That's a bit of the point. He leans into the villain roll quite heavily, and in normal conversation is still quite verbose. He's a local politician, as well, so ego and speeches are kinda his thing.

>> No.4542357

>>4542123
I'm working on this novel about a rich kid at UCLA who was molested as a kid and resents his parents for refusing to speak out against his uncle (who did it) and he has trouble connecting with people due to his trust issues but he has finally made a friend who he may or may not have a homosexual crush on and in the midst of this he has also met another boy who deals with similar issues in a psychotic fashion and everyone does a lot of drugs and has a lot of promiscuous sex. In addition to all of this, the protagonist also meets an older guy who has big mansion parties with lots of underaged prostitutes and the people who associate with this person seem to have a connection with both his psychotic friend and a murder that occurred on campus.

>> No.4542432

Dirty sunlight filtered into the room. It streamed down, through a newly-cleaned window, and flashed along the form of an old man at a desk. He was splayed, thrown about, one foot resting on top of light wood, the other teetering on the brim of a wastebasket, arms limp across a thin chest. It was a form he was accustomed to- it was how he had written.

When he was in top form, hammering out a thought or a verse, he would spend days like this, ragdolling around in his chair and desk. The position was a symbolic one, to him, the physical gone cold and the mind burning. But the years wore on, and so did the fire. Nowadays, it was only comfortable.


The doctors had just called. He was, in fact, terminal.

He sat and bathed in gray sun.

>> No.4542457

"Picture the idealistic hero, he rises in a troubled world invaded with mystical and fantastic beings endowed with magic from another dimension. Hair raising excitement follows, the clashing of steel, the twangs of bow strings, whimsical magical engagements abound. In reality, folks call the police."

The idea is suppose to turn out to be a comical but "realistic" look at magical shit like elves and different types of beings injected into the 'modern' world.

>> No.4542463

>>4542432
Be more fucking concise you mongoloid.

Dirty sunlight streamed down through a newly-cleaned window, flashing along the figure of an old man at his desk.

>> No.4542476

I wanted to wake up, but the soothing rhythm of her snores and the encompassing grasp of the sheets made too much of a persuasive aura to do so.

Thoughts?

>> No.4542487

>>4542432
why is the sunlight dirty if the window is clean?

>> No.4542599

Pitch: A pretentious hipster "artist" who has never actually made any art but still feels that she will one day be discovered for it decides to kill herself in a week. Within that week, she is constantly contacted in various anonymous ways by a mysterious figure who provides her with free tickets to Japan. She finds an active volcano in Japan and jumps in a premature suicidal act and, in mid-jump, wakes up in a different world wherein all of the time periods of human history coexist at once in a sort of Veil. Here are the dead.

>> No.4542614

This is the first paragraph and I'm nowhere near finished with it. It's shit, but if you guys could tell me why it's shit, it'd be very much appreciated.


The man looked through me and saw a large, grey parking lot speckled with lonely cars dimly lit by even more lonely lights. Past that he saw a long highway meet each horizon as cars sped back and forth, chasing after those horizons. Past the highway a parking garage was erecting itself defiantly above the flat outdoors, but the man never looked past the highway. Sometimes the man would slowly rise from his bed and walk to me to put his cheek on me and feel the coldness of the approaching winter. But the man only rose from his bed during the night when he knew the helper wouldn’t come to bring him food or take his blood or check his heart and see the man standing, because the man’s gown didn’t fully cover his backside and that made him ashamed.

>> No.4542630

>>4542599
Eh, unless you are very, and I mean very good with dialogue or you are going from some bigger metaphor, yours seems a little wishy-washy towards the end. Start's not too bad, develop the suicide/"artist" aspect more than the "Veil" or fantasy or whatever.

>> No.4542666

Yesterday I came up with an idea for a story. It's about a guy who mumbles his words and nobody can ever hear what he's saying and when they ask him to repeat himself he says something different from what he originally said, something latently sexual that makes the person he's talking to extremely uncomfortable. Like for instance when he's at a comedy show and orders a water and the girl asks him if he wants any ice he'll softly say "Light ice" and then she'll cock her ear to the side and lean in closer so he can repeat what he said but this time he says "Vanilla Ice, Ice, Baby" and she recoils in fear.

I’ve also got another idea for a story where my sister is a masseuse and her latest client turns out to be a transvestite and the transvestite convinces my sister to get a sex change so they can be lovers and right after my sister gets her sex change the transvestite gets hit by a car and dies. It’ll be kind of like City of Angels.

>> No.4543719

Bump

>> No.4543751

It's a beautiful day outside; The sky is a subtle violet fading to a passionate red as the warm sun falls behind the horizon, the thick ocean of grass rippling in the breeze. The air of spring has never been so sweet.
Invisible pins stab my skin, drawing no blood, leaving not behind even a single mark, but only excruciating itches I cannot scratch. The muscles within my body slowly tear, fiber by fiber as if I were shackled on a table, being stretched by ropes. My eyes boil as if my head were trapped in an oven; my ears ring as if my head had just exploded. The pain grips me at the chest so violently I cannot even scream, only gasp for breath to taste the sweet spring air.

Is the idea too edgy? I've always been fucking terrified of stuff like radiation, how it's invisible but fucking devastating to the body, so I wanted to write something along the lines of people just sorta dying off in this crisis, but everything just kinda looks normal to emphasize how invisible this psuedo-plague is.

>> No.4543752

>>4542357
I'd read this I think

>> No.4543756

If I posted the first chapter (6500 words) of a book i'm writing would someone give me some constrictive criticism?
I don't care if it's completely negative and insulting, as long as it's honest. I want to see what people think of what I have so far.

>> No.4543765
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4543765

A young college student interning at the White House who’s having an affair with the president. But what ends up happening is there’s a nuclear attack on America and someone’s out to kill the president. He manages to escape, with intern in tow, through a secret passage way in the White House. They both elude their captors as they descend miles beneath the earth’s surface, where they must find their way through the deep bowels of a vast underground network that spans the continent.

With their enemies hot on their trail, they must sort through the puzzles to figure out who did this and why.

>> No.4543769

A poem in progress:

My blood will rust your guillotine,
And my wrested legs wag,
While you—and those burly arms!—
Under my heedless weight sag.

Cartridge clamor jars your ears,
When the rifle's kick
Your rounded shoulder kisses
With a tender soreness tick.

Listless air and stubborn soil—
Lackadaisical decay.
I promise you some remainder
Of that order of the day.

>> No.4543772

>>4543765
make the intern a man and maybe i'd read it, outside of that it wouldn't hold my interest past the beginning

>> No.4543778

>>4543772
huh. didn't know /lit/ was quite this gay. why would it be better if the intern were a man?

>> No.4543781

>>4543772

This is actually a very good idea.

At one point I was thinking that the president would get hurt, and they would find these scientists/doctors living in this underground community. The only way to save him is to transfer his conscious to another body. Problem is, the only compatible body they have left is that of a young woman.

>> No.4543784

>>4543778

Off the top of my head, it could make more sense why the president would go out of his way to save this intern, to hide his homosexual affair, when shit's going down all around them.

>> No.4543785
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4543785

>>4543778
because "high-ranking male official has an affair with a low-ranking female youth" is played the fuck out and offers little to no room for realistic character development. i am assuming the author is male and therefore 90 percent inept at writing women in the first place, and the plot would just serve to worsen that.

>> No.4543789

>>4543785

I'm a girl, but that's besides the point.

>> No.4543791

>>4543789
girl writes story about gay dudes
welcome to everybody on tumblr

>> No.4543797

>>4543789
>that's besides the point
no, it really isn't. if you don't think that your gender has an impact on the way in which you write characters then your story will be shit anyway.

>> No.4543796
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4543796

>>4543756
From this point forward, everything will be deeply scrutinized and over analyzed, filled with the most negative of intentions and ideas of infringement. There is no reason to pretend that is not the case. Those who enjoy these words are uneducated, unfit and lacking the proper philosophical background to ever properly judge a work. Those who do not enjoy it, and even hate these words are in the right, which will never be shifted, as their objectively based reasoning is sound. Some may not hold an opinion either way, and anticipate considering the complete work before forming an opinion, though I have my doubts on their merit. Now that it's determined that this is an inherently valueless piece of writing, you may proceed to read it in order to clearly voice it's flaws.
The first absolutely reprehensible detail is the narrators choice of alcohol, which can be seen lined up on the right side of his desk: three cans - two empty, one half full - of Bud Light Lime Straw-ber-rita. Straw-ber-rita is, as the can states: a "margarita with a twist", by Anheusier Busch, the makers of Budweiser. The drink was made to appeal to women who don't like the taste of beer, but do like the connivence of purchasing boxes of drinks, in canned portions. Though the cans are smaller than typical beer cans, it has an alcohol content of eight percent, compared to the typical five percent found in most American beers. There are all sorts of reasons to be upset the narrator is drinking Bud Light Lime Straw-ber-rita - the most obvious, to anyone who may see the cans on the desk, is that it is a woman's drink and the narrator is male. Why would he choose such a drink? It couldn't be for the flavor, since, as I'm sure you've already deduced having read it was manufactured by the people who made Budweiser, the flavor is not dissimilar to piss. No, there simple wasn't a reason for him to be drinking that stuff. Yet, he had already drank two cans, was working on a third, and you would be foolish to believe he didn't have more - they don't sell them single, and they certainly don't sell packages of three. Objectively speaking, there is no good reason for drinking Straw-ber-rita, especially as a straight male, but despite this the narrator created a reason and like most reasons it traced right back to his parents.

>> No.4543798

>>4543772
Make president man, make his spouse a man, make the intern a girl, cause fucking shitstorm with the LGBT community

>> No.4543799

>>4543769
modern readers of poetry (all 6 of them) generally find overt rhyming verse to be amateurish, bombastic, pretentious, and sorta cheesy. The poetry editor at the last literary quarterly I interned for would take all the rhyming poems and put them in his "rejected" pile without even reading them. Of course that is more because we we're inundated with poetry submissions (we had a reputation for discovering young, unpublished poets) and there's no way we could ever read them all, but it sorta goes to illustrate how little modern readers or editors will take that sort of thing seriously.

>> No.4543800

>>4543796
>2/3
The narrator's parents never drank alcohol, and he never knew why. When he was young he didn't think about it due to the fact that he was unaware of what alcohol was and how common it was for people to drink it. As he grew older and saw other adults drinking it, he wondered why his parents never did. His dad never came home after a stressful day on the job and cracked open a can of beer, and his mother never relaxed with a glass of wine, even on holidays. Perhaps this was because his dad rarely worked and his mom never relaxed, but it is hard to know, with certainty, because when he asked his parents about it they said they just didn't like drinking, which doesn't make sense. The narrator loved drinking, and at his current age of 24 he felt like he must have drank a thousand times more than his parents ever did, and they were in their 60s. In the past year the narrator noticed his parents at least attempting to drink sometimes, though it would take them a month or longer to finish just one bottle of wine. He thought about how, in college, he once drank a jug of Carlos Rossi with his girlfriend over the course of two days, maybe even one night. That ex was an alcoholic, and he always felt depressed, so the alcohol flowed freely every night. But college was over, and he was back with his parents, and he drank in his room, secretly. A few weeks back he noticed a box of Straw-ber-ritas in the refrigerator and noticed there was one missing and in the past he had no issue stealing alcohol whenever the situation arouse, but for once, he wasn't completely broke, so he left it sit in the fridge knowing it would never be drank. One night at dinner his mom actually grabbed one, poured it in a glass, realized she didn't like the taste and told him he could have the rest. This was during a period when the narrator had stopped drinking, unless he was on a date, because he was focusing on his diet. Recently he had been feeling abnormally depressed, most likely due to the wintertime, so tonight he helped himself to the Straw-ber-ritas but fell asleep after clearing only two and a half cans. Knowing him, it's a safe bet he'll return to the fridge and grab at least two more tomorrow night.

>> No.4543802

>>4543800
>3/3
The narrator was far too self-aware, or at least considered himself to be. He thought his awareness was his biggest downfall, because he couldn't stop thinking of all the things people could, and would, think about any one simple action. If you asked him why he fell asleep after drinking just two cans of Straw-ber-rita he would be embarrassed. He would quickly tell you that he was simply tired after a long day, and the alcohol put him to sleep. It is important to understand that he is not a lightweight when it comes to drinking, especially since he had been working out so much recently. He had been exhausted, because he had woken up at 4AM to be in San Mateo by 8:30 and he had also been feeling very depressed, though he couldn't figure out why. His depression bothered him, because, on some level he had been doing much better in his life. It is important to note that to him "much better" is actually very minor levels of personal growth. He wasn't dwelling on anything, he wasn't missing anybody, or worried about anything in particular. He was just generally sad, and he understood this feeling to be legitimate depression.
Today he had made a lot of money, and was depressed to find that even that didn't ease his mind of whatever it was that needed easing. Prior, he had felt as though his constant financial pressure was weighing down on him. Yesterday he imagined he would be happier if he wasn't "so goddamn broke all the fucking time" but tonight he had a wad of cash in his pockets and felt exactly the same. He came home to an empty house, a rare, appreciated, occurrence. For nobody to be home after 9PM was definitely interesting, but he really didn't have much feeling about it either way. He was happy, and exhausted, with his pockets full of money, and since nobody was home to hear it, he told his dog "I made a lot of money today, and nobody is ever going to know." Half an hour later his parents and sister both came back, but by that time he was already twenty-seven minutes deep in his endless internet exploration, cracking open a can of Straw-ber-rita.

>end of chapter one
Thoughts?

>> No.4543804

>>4543798
make president man, make his spouse a man, make the intern a man, make the terrorists men, make the united states men, make the passageways men, make the earth's core a man, make the higgs boson a man, make the turtles men

>> No.4543807

>>4543797

I guess I'm just reluctant to blurt out my gender because I don't want to draw attention to that.

Anyways, the story I always really wanted to write is more personal for me, so I'm more anxious of posting it.

>> No.4543815
File: 349 KB, 1210x1583, thank god you did.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
4543815

>>4543807
the only thing worse than a man who's proud of being a man is a woman who's not proud of being a woman

honestly, posting ideas you're really fond of /anywhere/, especially anonymous forums like 4chan, is a generally bad idea. especially if you think it has chance of commercial success.

that being said, i'm interested.

>> No.4543841

>>4543796
>From this point forward, everything will be deeply scrutinized and over analyzed, filled with the most negative of intentions and ideas of infringement. There is no reason to pretend that is not the case. Those who enjoy these words are uneducated, unfit and lacking the proper philosophical background to ever properly judge a work. Those who do not enjoy it, and even hate these words are in the right, which will never be shifted, as their objectively based reasoning is sound. Some may not hold an opinion either way, and anticipate considering the complete work before forming an opinion, though I have my doubts on their merit. Now that it's determined that this is an inherently valueless piece of writing, you may proceed to read it in order to clearly voice it's flaws.
Is this part of the story?

>> No.4543865

The thing I'm working on has currently stalled because I don't know what the bus stop things for taxis are called.

>> No.4543873

>>4543865
there are no "taxi stops"
In the city, if you need to go somewhere, you wait at a sidewalk for a taxi to come by, then you gesture at it that you need a ride in whatever way.

>> No.4543876

>>4543799
What magazine?

>> No.4543887

>>4543802
It's sort of tedious and wordy. But maybe that was your intention?

>> No.4543892

>>4543873
No, they have them at airports. It's that bit outside the baggage claim. There's a word for it but it's completely slipped my mind.

>> No.4543901

>>4543892
Taxi pullout

>> No.4543905

>>4543841
Yea I wanted to start with that.

>>4543887
It was my intention, but not if it seems sloppily done. "Wordy" i guess, is ok, but not "tedious"

>> No.4543909
File: 496 KB, 500x249, tumblr_lwgt03yIXX1qd3lh0o1_500.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
4543909

>>4543815

I guess I'll post it since I'm up for some criticism. It's set in high school and centers around the 'coolest people in the room', what it means to be cool and popular, being comfortable with yourself, and growing up.

The main character is a girl who like one of the 'coolest people'. She's quiet and brooding, but she doesn't say much because she's keeping up this act that she's 'cool'. Her fear is doing anything by mistake that shows how much of a shitty person she is inside. Outside of her social life, she's a complete dork, and she envies another girl who's able to express her 'fun and bubbly' personality in front of everyone.

This other girl isn't one of the 'coolest people', but one of the nerds who's part of the anime club. Her cheerful demeanor is actually hiding how mean and ambitious she is inside. She looks up to the 'coolest people' like they're gods and will do anything it takes to be like one of them, even if it means neglecting her friends in the anime club that know and care for her the best.

And then there's a guy who writes songs for the local pop music group. They're not popular yet, but they have a loyal fan base because their songs are 'good'. The reason why their songs have so much 'feeling' is because the lyrics are actually cryptic love letters to another girl he has a crush on, who's also an inspiring artist and thinks the guy's pop group is 'total shit'.

>> No.4543910

>>4543905
I wanted to start with that opening because "sincerity" is a big overall theme. The main character is very paranoid that everything he does will be viewed as him ripping somebody else off.

>> No.4544068

Usually takes me one hour to write even just 1,000 to 3,000 words.

--
I wake up in the ringing sound of my alarm clock. Damn, what a bother - I was having a pleasant deep sleep, too. My dream was something about becoming the embodiment of a great force and control, and…
Ah, I forgot.
I sit up and rub my eyes. No use in thinking about useless things, I suppose. I look at the alarm clock, and it's already 6 AM. Time flies by so fast when you fall asleep, huh? I stand up and think about my regrets; if I had slept earlier, would the pleasure of the deep sleep be longer, and feel even better than the last? Or maybe it'd be the same?
"You're overthinking again!" I said to myself.
Damn it, I thought. I try my hardest not to fall limp on the floor of my messy bedroom, but I do anyway. I'm always like this on the mornings, you know. I can't help it, it's just the way I am. Always feeling lazy. I use my right hand to help myself stand up again, and rest that very same hand on the cabinet to support myself. After a while, I walk through the door and open it, to hear my mom's voice calling out in a slow tempo.

>> No.4544070

>first line
Puffy blankets of icy snow fell upon the little station. The patter of some sort of large pellet, whispered through the corridors and open rooms with doors not shut.

>> No.4544073

>>4543909
I think the problem with the idea of having "the coolest person in the room" is that it's very hard to describe "cool" without sounding lame.

>> No.4544089

I can't get the second act to transubstantiate in my head or on paper despite numerous efforts to describe it. I can see it, you know? But I don't know how to relate it. It either feels too foggy and distant or too close to be legible.

>> No.4544112

>>4544089
Have you tried putting down an outline of where things go and then filling things from there.
I'd write a super rough plan on post-it notes.
LIke.
>Go to Bath
>Meet Fam
>Tension between CPT and Cousin
>Cpt thinks Anne ...
and then from one post it note to the next, figure ways they could go together.

I don't know, that's how i'd do it.

>> No.4544123

I've never had any criticism for the shit I write. I accidentally left all of my current repertoire on my other computer away from university. I managed to dig this up from about three years ago. I think I was writing a set of poems about psychological maladies. This one was about phalacrophobia.

For each hair that departs from its nodule,
A follicle weeps blood and pus,
Only visible through the eyes of
The host, the truss.

From the mind of the paranoid
There is a void of alloyed gloss
That will not let ‘til I go
Mad or otherwise.

And I bear my searing scalp
To all about me:
Do you see, do you see, do you see? –
How about in this

Light, or if I hold it like this,
Or that.
I cannot see the crowning pride
So I rely on

Those who will tell the
Trichologist to bury me
In the bent-double cask –
Clutching my hairline.

>> No.4544148

He walks out of the hospital with his hospital clothing, and slippers still on, and he heads straight for the cemetery. In the middle of the field of tombstones, he spots his mothers, and he walks out to it. A mix of silver, and white, tall and sleek, his hand glides smoothly across, it reads "Here Lies Sayuri Umari." nothing more than that. Just four words. He takes to one knee, and clenches a handfull of grass around it the toombstone, "I did this for you mom." he motions his head toward the sky, "I love you." he whispers. No tears, just pure emotion, come to think of it. Ever since his mothers death, he hasn't shed a single tear for her, but he feels now is the time, and he lets his tears flow freely. He can finally weep for his late mother. The clouds that filled the sky earlier, clear, and the sun shines out again. He basks in the light, and remembers of the place he used to go to calm himself, behind the academy, where the small lake and waterfall is, the serene wild. He works his hands through the vines that now cover up the entrance to it, seems like they haven't kept up with the area in quite a while. Beautiful blue striped birds, caterpillars crawling through the grass, fish in the lake, everything seems perfect. The blue bird flies over to him, hoping onto his hand and looking him in the eyes. He pats the birds on the head, and it chirps at him. "I don't know what you're saying, but you are saying something. I wonder, can you understand what I'm saying?" he says, and the bird lets out a few more chirps, and he laughs, "Maybe you do little guy." he says. Ryuu can hear the crunching of leaves under a foot, as he turns around to be met by Amaya. She takes a second to observe her surrounding, the light from the sun shining in through the branches that hang over the sanctum. "You always did like to come here, I think I understand why now." she says. "Let me hear it." he replies, as he shifts his position to face her. "Life is chaotic, the constant fighting, drama, and everything that comes with it. You just enjoy the peace and quiet that comes with visiting this place, one of the few places you can take a moment from a fast paced lifestlye, to sit down and relax, to take in you surroundings, to truly enjoy life, because life is hard to enjoy, especially in these times." she says.

>> No.4544149

>>4544123
My knowledge of poetry is solely based off of having done Adrienne Rich one semester which i failed.

I think it's good, could polish it in regards to the third stanza. Don't begin with "And" and think more about the "do you see" bit.

I'd get rid of truss and maybe think of having the first stanza run on into the second, perhaps with a caesura or simply omit any fullstop/comma.

>> No.4544150

>>4544148
>2/2
"While you're right about the first part of what you said," he says, and her demeanor changes to a surprised look, he continues, "These past years have tought me that no matter how tough things may be, a friend at your side makes everything much more bearable. Even if I was alone, I truly feel happy for once in my life, I can actually say that I am..." he pauses for a moment, "Happy." he finishes. She lets out a warm smile, "You've changed a lot, and in a good way." she says with a bright look on her face. The two of them look at each other with a smile on their face, and a friendly look in their eyes. Everything just seems to be, in the right place, at the right time. The sun beaming in at the right angles, the birds quiet down, the breeze in the air stops, and two young hearts, join together. Their lips meet each others, and so begins a changed life, one different from when Ryuu had his amnesia, he and Amaya are now together as companions of the soul.

>> No.4544167

>>4544148
I'm going to be a bit harsh, but I recommend reading the /lit/core. A lot of this feels clunky, which can be fixed by rereading your work (editing), reading other people's work and simply writing more.

I suggest reading this aloud and everything that sounds jagged or breaks the flow - rethink.
For example
> and slippers still on, and he heads

simple Grammar mistakes (don't worry about this one)
>mothers tombstone

To summarize: keep writing, edit your work, read as many books as possible.

>> No.4544170

>>4544167
Thanks I truly appreciate the advice!

>> No.4544171

>>4544148
Forgot to say that it is by no means bad

>> No.4544176

Writing for practice, and I'm sure you'll agree I need it. Here's ~750 words anyway: http://pastebin.com/Pch5BybU

I think my prose is okay, but the story is mediocre. There are no themes and I don't know where I'm going with it, I just have a basic plot idea (MC wants to cure himself and stop killing innocent people), but like I said: practice.

>> No.4544178

>>4544176
I'm reading through your work.
Could you do me a favour and tell me what you think of my opening line.

Puffy blankets of icy snow fell upon the little station. The patter of some sort of large pellet, whispered through the corridors and open rooms with doors not shut.

>> No.4544182

>>4544178
Too many adjectives, maybe. Were you trying to make a point?

>> No.4544183

>>4544176

I got up to the last comma in the first sentence before noping out of there. The first few dozen I might have forgiven, but you just had to get in one more, didn't you, you had to push it, and I know you did, because I was there, to read it, as you gave me the link, and I followed, naively, without considering what lay beyond, lay beyond the link that is, the link that you gave me, on that fateful day, that is to say, today.

>> No.4544187

>>4544183
Corpses littered the ground: some men, some women and even a child. Carius, detestable beast that he is, stood in the darkness amidst the bodies, leather-clad with blooded sword in hand.

I think this is better. Don't be afraid to use full-stops.

>> No.4544188

>>4544183
>>4544187
That is better, thanks. I often use too many commas. Note to self: don't use lists and subjugate clauses in the same sentence.

>> No.4544190

Not very good with descriptions, but how's this one? Any suggestions?

I shrugged and moved on, I'll just have to ask Alyanna. I tapped her on the shoulder this time and asked for any pen, and she exultantly grabbed the pink pencil case from her bag. I noticed a peculiar pattern from it - on the middle was a circle, and inside it was a bald person, possibly to show that he/she was androgynous. The body's position had it sideways and its right arm was stretched out, and circling around the stretched hand was a capital letter "L", as if it was summoned. It also showed that the facial expression was visibly placid. Etched under it was another letter L.

>> No.4544191

>>4544167
What is the /lit/core? I'm new to this board..

>> No.4544203

>>4544176
Pretty much same as guy above >>4544167 (which is pretty much all /lit advice anyway).

I'd recommend reading something like War and Peace if you want to write an historical fiction, as it really is the best one.

As an exercise for description, i'd try writing without using any forms of the verb "to be" and "have"

I tried writing an example but i found it super hard. Good exercise though, makes you think.

>> No.4544206
File: 1.66 MB, 1280x2956, to read.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
4544206

>>4544191

>> No.4544213

>>4544191
I'd start with salinger, Hemingway, Camus, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Twain
As for the most part they're pretty straight forward and you'll go through them quickly.

>> No.4544215

>>4544206
>the Modern Classics list
not terrible, but it shies away from any remotely controversial choice

>> No.4544216

>>4544190
>shrugged and moved on, I'll just have to ask Alyanna
Why are you going from past to present tense in one sentence? It should say "I would have to ask Alyanna".

>exultantly grabbed the pink pencil case
Superfluous adjectives.

>I noticed a peculiar pattern from it
Firstly, that should say "on it" and secondly you don't need this clause. Allow the reader to make those inferences himself: if you describe a pattern that's peculiar, the reader will think "That's a peculiar pattern". You don't need to state it.

>The body's position had it sideways
This should say "was positioned sideways". I'm guessing English isn't your first language?

>its right arm was stretched out
Arms are outstretched; t-shirts worn by overweight friends are "stretched out".

>circling around the stretched hand
Take out "stretched". You've already said the arm was outstretched.

>>4544203
Thanks.

>I'd recommend reading something like War and Peace if you want to write an historical fiction, as it really is the best one.
I have it, but I've got quite a backlog. Reading A Clockwork Orange at the moment. Very original style.

>As an exercise for description, i'd try writing without using any forms of the verb "to be" and "have"
That reminds me of this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E-Prime

>as if it was summoned
What?

> It also showed that the facial expression was visibly placid
Take out "It also showed that".

>>4544206
I have a lot of these, but I've read only seven of them.

>> No.4544218

>>4544216
Thanks! Yeah, English isn't my first language, I'll try practicing more to improve.

>> No.4544219

>>4544216
Those last two greentext lines and the comments under them should be with the first reply.

>> No.4544222

>>4544206
>>4544215
also, it completely shies away from postmodernist lit

>> No.4544226

I agree, i chose them because they were the Easiest to begin with and you read them quite quickly.

>> No.4544229

>>4543865
>all this autism
>taxi stand
>taxi rank

>> No.4544231

Before I tell you about any of that though I'd like to tell you how I first came to meet and befriend Kip Stauffer. It was at a small party I had been invited to a few years back. At the time it seemed to be a very sketchy kind of invitation, mostly because the last social event I had been invited to join was a birthday party about twelve months ago. Apparently I hadn't been invited back for this year's birthday. I was somewhat of a recluse back then. I did however know the person who had sent out the strange invitation. Her name was Sarah Something. I can't seem to remember her last name. We had gone to college together for a brief amount of time, before she dropped out. I never did find out why she ended up suddenly quitting. She had excellent grades and she always attended all of the classes, so it wasn't a question about whether she could cut it or not. There were, of course, rumors circling about why she dropped out. An unexpected pregnancy, a death in the family, drug addiction, mental health problems, and so on and so forth. I never really took any of the rumors seriously. One day she just stopped coming to classes so I figured she had just lost interest. I never bothered to look her up after that. We were never very close. We were just classmates, acquaintances at best. Two people who just nodded at each other if they crossed paths. I never expected to see her again, let alone be invited to a small private party of hers. The invitation I got from her via E-mail didn't give me any clues either. It simply read as:

You should come to this party I'm having tonight.
The address is 12 Voynich Road.

See you there.

Love, Sarah.

I wasn't sure what to think. For all I knew she meant to send it to someone else and had just gotten the wrong e-mail address by accident. I decided to look up the address. It was a farm right in the middle of nowhere, only surrounded by acres of dirt and mud. It was sketchy as hell and any sane person would just go ahead and ignore the invitation as spam mail or something. However, I had read my horoscope for the week the previous day which said that “exciting new opportunities will reveal themselves to you”. So I thought, what the hell, what's the worst that could happen? If it ended up being a trick by a serial killer to lure me out to his secluded murder house then I'd just deal with that when it comes along.

>> No.4544248

>>4544231
I can't really find any fault with it. Not enough to really judge either story or character.

I would say (probs just me) that i found the first part to have a weird sort of rhythm. Perhaps try breaking up your sentences a bit to improve the flow (could just be me).

I'm not sure if you need to use email before adress?

>> No.4544256

>that glorious feel when cant post what I was working on because it is being published

>> No.4544261

>>4544182
It's about a system for controlling tide movements in the arctic, run by orange growers in california.
The main protagonist is Salinger-esque autist, not really sure what he's doing, has no scientific knowledge, just sits in his bunker reading books and not talking to the only other inhabitant - a female engineer.

>> No.4544264
File: 16 KB, 500x461, that feel bro.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
4544264

>>4544256
You know, if you want to talk about anything. I'm here for you bro

>> No.4544270

>>4542259

The dialogue isn't bad. The prose isn't bad. But jumping between them, they feel entirely disconnected from each other.
Other than the opening, I don't get a sense of how the protagonist feels about what's being said, or what's going through his mind in general.
Is the speech just fluffy, confusing nonsense to him? Is it making sense? Is it cringe-worthy? Intimidating? Is there a reason he's not responding? Is he even hearing what's being said, or is he too distracted by that switchblade?
The prose only describes the action without interacting with the dialogue, and the dialogue only discusses the abstract without participating in the action.

Like I said, it starts well, with the protagonist trying to identify the voice and then describing it's quality. The fragmented dialogue works before the speaker is identified, because it has a 'incorporeal vs physical' quality - you can't run from or fight a disembodied voice, it can interrupt your action as much as it wants to.
But once the speaker is identified, the situation changes, and the text needs to change with it. The speaker becomes a man, and a man is capable of being interacted with. So why don't we interact? We don't HAVE to interact, but if we don't, there needs to be a reason.

Having a man speak poetically, while the protagonist doesn't reference a single word he's saying and continually interrupts him with descriptions of action (but not interaction), just makes the villain feel ineffectual and silly.
And the action is similarly neutered, since the hero himself isn't the one acting - it's like he's just sitting there. He's not struggling against any bonds, he's not searching for an escape, he's not considering the villain's speech. He's not even withdrawing from the villain's advances, he just sits there with a knife in his chest and tell us 'there's a knife in my chest'.

Not to say that interrupting the dialogue is bad, just that it's not used to a great effect here. Maybe if the protagonist is established as not listening (which puts him in a position of powerlessness, since he can't help but hear the words, whether they affect him or just irritate him), or if he's under immediate physical threat/struggle (which again makes him powerlessness, silently struggling, unable to even quip, while the villain can casually monologue through it without breaking a sweat).

I don't mean to sound harsh at all. You're a stone's throw away from something good, and I wouldn't comment otherwise. As is, it just feels like a draft. It really reads like a script; just the dialogue and action, as if you're allowing for the performers to decide on the specific emotions.
What you've got is alright, it just needs more of everything. More tension, more action, more emotion, etc.

>> No.4544361

>>4544248
Thanks for the tips.

>> No.4544532

>>4544270
First off, thanks for taking the time. Means a lot.

I guess that's the problem with taking out an excerpt: you miss everything that comes before and after. The fear the protagonist is feeling isn't from what's being said, but this monster he's heard about isn't actually mythical, but a real man. In fact, he dismisses the villain's words almost immediately after as an overly antagonist monologue ("How long did you practice that in the mirror?"). But between being bound and being in withdrawals, he's almost forced to bite the pillow and take it where he'd normally interrupt the guy or even just shoot him

I'll add some thoughts between the words that better show the hero is strickened, that the villain's words leave him unable to do anything. Thanks again, man. Very fair criticisms. I'll be sure to post more in the futures.

>> No.4544535

>>4544532
Also, to add, I'm not really much of a writer. Shit, I don't even care much for reading. This story I'm has happened entirely over a couple years during breaks at work. So getting critiques from people who actually read is quite helpful.

>> No.4544540

The world is beautiful seen through cigarette smoke and snowfall

>> No.4544583

>>4544540
bleugh

>> No.4545296

"I wasn't just on Death's door; I was using his bathroom while I waited for him to come back from work"

>> No.4545723

Bump

>> No.4545748

some of my writing, bruv

The south end was like the peristaltic flow of a shit-faced john with crohn's disease. Nothing but shakey-eyed cats yelling maddeningly in curare-like paralysis. Chromium against rubber against mass graves of black conglomerate and sounds of caustic fluids submerging cylinders with whooping cough, fucking my engine like a cheap slut, shattering platelet mosaics of some lifeless organism. Limbless fiends slurping the eggs pouring from their uterus and devouring them like cronos while green-skinned krok-addicts tighten nooses, waiting for desperation to visit. Impregnated reptilians with cubans and gold chains subsisting off feeding tubes pumping the dolor of the souls of dead children, soaking in sewer broth, sipping excrement through bendy straws, becoming the city's life and its death.

Perineum rubs ain't cost much. The bitch who does em looks like the incarnate of some delirious crackhead, serpent-tongue behind cell bars of gapped teeth and wide soul-holes, snatchin my free will - kinda like the look you get when you cut scopolamine with strychnine. Side note: strychnine tastes a lot like mud: until your arms turn blue and you start foaming like a rabid dog, you'd think it was mud. You lay supine on a bed of brown ectoplasm wreakin of dried semen and cough syrup; they spread your legs and start flicking your perineum till you cum.

>> No.4545776

His penis pulsated while dripping pre-cum all over my stomach. I begged him to put back in but he would laugh and smack it against my stomach. He finally put it to my beaver hole and stuck his pink penis inside.

It's a working progress, I'm thinking grocery stores for maybe house wives?

>> No.4545835

I've worked on my idealistic writing over the past year or so to the point where I'm happy with my ability to string together words to convey emotions, but my substance writing- the writing of movement, action, change- is still shit. It's so stiff. How do I improve on it?


" That’s the story of it. That’s the crux. That’s how we navigate this world, with that hope clenched delicately in our pockets, our nervous fingers beating staccato love letters in Morse code to our thighs. Every nerve on fire, every thought dulled, every scene unfolding behind my eyes alternating between being clear and being obscured by these layers of thin fabric that wave in front of me. I want to be here, but I don’t want to think about it; I want to live here, but I don’t want to remember it. And I’m sitting in this seat driving this war machine down these streets but I can’t feel anything where my heartbeat should be, just a bitter taste in my tongue and a slow, heavy drip in my throat. So I stare ahead at the storefront as Jack and Jake walk inside, and I’m not seeing anything in front of me, I’m rubbing the suede seat cover between my fingers, I’m breathing in the same air that I breathed as a child, I’m smelling that smell of dusty wood and old books. There’s nothing between here and some other place, just some empty air and empty voices, and every time the stereos hit a high pitch I fly back two thousand miles to my dark little seat and turn up the AC a little, then drift back."

>> No.4545902
File: 626 KB, 775x704, 1391822624129.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
4545902

>>4543796
>>4543800
>>4543802
bump for critique.. curious if anyone sees anything good in this.

>> No.4545918

>>4545902
>the narrator
are you using this as a placeholder or what
and what is it supposed to be a story or summary or what

>> No.4545920

>>4545776
>beaver hole

>> No.4545932

>>4545918
Judge it based on how you feel about it, as it currently stands. I want to know if you think it should be a placeholder, and if you feel like it's a good start to a story.

I do have a full story mapped out, if that matters.

>> No.4545953

>>4545932
My life is coming along great, OP. I'm one step away from perfection.

>> No.4545975

>>4545902
using "the narrator" is an interesting choice. you're finding a middle ground between the "narrating" and the "narrated". it kind of gives the story a detached feeling though, as if you're personally telling the story of someone else. what's your purpose for picking that writing style?

>> No.4545976

>>4545932
don't use 'the narrator' in a text. You're writing a story, not an essay. Don't fall for this psuedo-intellectual psuedo-postmodernist 'construction of art' crap.
The beginning is overwrought and makes me roll my eyes rather than anticipate the upcoming story. You're trying too hard to be DFW throughout the entire story.
Apparently, you're trying to catch the elusive market of people who A) think that Budweiser tastes like piss, B) do not think that men should drink drinks marketed towards women, and C) enjoy metanarratives in the vein of deconstructionist literatue. So, idiots on 4chan. These people don't exist in the real world.
You set up with nothing- a nothing of a nothing, a single picture in the place of a scene that deserves a film clip. You immediately dive into some shit that I don't care about- I don't care about your character because I don't know who he is or what he is doing, besides the fact that he's sitting at a desk drinking. The entire second passage feels weird and out of place and not in an artistic way, just in an obtuse way. I don't care about any of this.
The third passage states with a statement that makes me hate both the character and you. You inject into your sentences tons of irrelevant details that don't add anything to the scenes, just take up space and make me feel angry for having to read them. Your transitions are non-existent, so even when you're just describing a linear chain of events I feel like you're talking about something different every time. Nothing you write pertains to anything you've written before that.

>> No.4546045

>>4545976
Thanks for the break down.
>Don't fall for this psuedo-intellectual psuedo-postmodernist 'construction of art' crap.
Isn't it obvious that is what i'm trying to make fun of?
I've never read DFW, though I plan on it. The accusation I'm ripping him off is exactly the point of the opening paragraph, which will remain a major theme throughout the story. Chapter two explains a lot more about that.

I thought it would be clear I was making fun of people who discredit Budweiser, etc and elitists in general.
The purpose of the picture is to make it feel like 4chan, and capture a certain essence.

Do you have any suggestions on how I can make it more appealing and interesting? You say you don't care about the character, and don't see how things connect, but things will connect very soon.
In your opinion does it have any good qualities? I know when I find out exactly the right tone, it will all come together.

>>4545975
I can't describe the purpose because I don't keep up on my psuedo-intellectual psuedo-postmodernist 'construction of art'. The main character, (the narrator) is obsessed and paranoid that nothing he ever does is original, or has meaning. He sees the cliches, and the labels put on all his thoughts before they come out of his mouth, and understands that, no matter his intention, he will be seen as inauthentic. He is "the narrator" because it's the safest, and simultaneously, most sarcastic way to tell his story.

>> No.4546394
File: 708 KB, 744x553, 1391833144702.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
4546394

>>4545902
The narrator's dog had no idea what to think at the proclamation because he couldn't understand a single word. Had he been able to interpret the words, he would have taken deep offense to the last part, due to the implications that he isn't "someone." However, if he could understand human speech, he never would have heard the words in the first place, because the narrator had good reason for wanting to keep his financial gain a secret: he made it selling prescription drugs to a random person, who turned out to be a reasonably attractive girl, he encountered through 4chan.
Frustratingly, he had recently read Tao Lin's book Taipei which deals with very similar subject matter, and he was far too aware how quickly people would point this out if he ever decided to write about it. He related so strongly to the book, as if it was loosely, and sometimes seemingly strongly, based on his own life. He felt like he did the first time he saw Tim and Eric's Awesome Show: like someone went into his mind and took his ideas, and made it so he could never ever pursue them again. He had noticed the disclaimer at the beginning of the book stating that it was indeed a work of fiction and the characters weren't based on any person, living or dead, which still didn't shift his frustration that no matter what idea he had, he would realize it had been done before. The worst and best example he could think of happened two years ago:

He had written a short screenplay about a group of college kids who scammed prescription pills off people. The main character (based on himself), excelled at this and was soon selling pills to every interested college student at four to eight different schools in the area. He ended up getting badly addicted to pills as well, and losing the girl he loved as a result. The script had no dialogue, and was written as very short segments - fragments, of a life - acquiring, selling, and using drugs. There would be a voiceover track: a message left on his exes answering machine saying he was now clean, and he loved her very much, and felt ashamed and disgusted with how he treated her. He hoped, with everything he had, she would at least call him one last time. A minute or so after he hangs up, two thugs bust into his apartment, guns out, screaming for his stash. They were one day too late. He was out of the game. The thugs either didn't believe him, or were simply pissed that he had nothing to give, so they killed him with one sloppy shot to the head. The men vacated the scene, as it faded to black and a phone began ringing in the background.
Four days after completing the script he watched the movie Drugstore Cowboy for the first time. He noticed far too many similarities, and realized that, although he had never seen, or even heard of the movie prior, anybody who had would say he blatantly plagiarized, and, to make things worse, it was a reasonably popular movie, and also happened to be a favorite of the characters in Taipei.
>1/3

>> No.4546416
File: 562 KB, 753x376, 1391833776702.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
4546416

>>4546394
Objectively, the movie has it's good qualities but doesn't offer much in terms of pushing the medium forward. With the exception of some interesting plot points, it's an average movie about optimistic and proactive junkies, who die.
All that ever became of the narrators script is a 41kb Final Draft document entitled: pandascript4.fdr, located in the "hw" folder in his "Documents" folder. "Panda" was the working title because it was the nickname for the girl the protagonist is trying to get back. He wouldn't have done anything with the script regardless of Drugstore Cowboys existence, but he probably wouldn't have abandoned the notion of doing something with it so quickly. One could argue that many things wouldn't exist had Drugstore Cowboy never had been released, which is the same as any movies, or pretty much anything. The narrator thought about this all the time, but couldn't quite figure out how or why it affected him.

He loved the movie, but the realizations it sparked were just another disappointment in a long string of disappointments. It was "just so goddamn similar" he told his ex, who was still not ready to trust him and accept him back into her life due to his recently increasing drug use, her new interest in lesbianism and the impact it had on his already significantly negative attitude. It is worth noting the fact that he had written the script for her and about the love he felt (or felt like he felt) towards her, a fact that was seemingly lost on her, or a fact she simply chose to ignore.
It had taken him quite a long time to get over his ex, which was very related to why he had spent so much time posting on 4chan throughout the past year. Reading Taipei reminded him of all of that. It took him back to that place, and he was able to see how much he's grown and changed. It may be unrealistic to try objectively measuring someone's mental growth, but he truly had grown a lot, and had the right to be proud about it.
Though he couldn't help but think of all the negative comments people would say about his situation and the similarity it shared with a book that hadn't even been out for six months, it didn't change the fact that he had been selling pills to various customers for almost ten months, making more money every time.

>> No.4546417

>>4546416
Perhaps the saddest thing about the narrators life, at this point in time, was that he felt like he was "good at 4chan." He had an awful job, poor social life, and an irregular, typically unfulfilling sex life, but he felt comfort and excitement and "success" through 4chan.
"how many people here have met, fucked and/or stacked $$$ through 4chan?" he once posted anonymously, and half-jokingly as part of a much longer rant, for some reason feeling the need to protect the reputation he didn't and couldn't have as an anonymous poster. He felt as though he had nothing else going for him, and being realistic, he wasn't that far from the truth. He had always had an interest in big time drug dealers, and drugs in general, and was raised in a family with a class level low enough to make him feel a sense of optimism, even aspiration, towards selling drugs. He had a big interest in Silk Road, obviously, a year before it became common knowledge, and three years before that he heard about an online company who shipped marijuana and certain other drugs through the postal service all over the world. The narrator considers it an interesting piece of information to know that he discovered these drug trafficking sites through a still-active private torrent tracker which he recently had been banned from due to posts which the administers deemed sexist. He felt that since he was able to make 4chan, against all odds, something that brought positivity to his life, he was destined to do big things through it, and, to him, "big things" meant moving large amounts of drugs, in creative innovative ways. He was obviously bitterly aware of the multitude of cliches attached to that pursuit.

>> No.4546426

>>4546416
>It had taken him quite a long time to get over his ex, which was very related to why he had spent so much time posting on 4chan throughout the past year.
lol good shit nigga.
i don't understand the style, but i like it.

>> No.4546492

>>4546426
Thanks. I hope more people comment on it because I want to get better.

>> No.4547755

>>4546394
Is this for real?

>> No.4547783

"YOU'RE HALF A WOMAN!"- He screamed at Eddy.

>> No.4549736

>>4543796
>Now that it's determined that this is an inherently valueless piece of writing, you may proceed to read it in order to clearly voice it's flaws.

I fucking despise your opening. The whole opening paragraph. Just get rid of it. It's pretentious as fuck, because what you're really saying is:
>This is very bad, but read it anyway

to everyone that you're asking to critique it.

You might as well say "haha I got you to read this shit"

Next...

>The first absolutely reprehensible detail is the narrators choice of alcohol
>referring to the narrator from a third person perspective

What the fuck are you doing

>> No.4549767

>>4549736
>>referring to the narrator from a third person perspective
>What the fuck are you doing
To give it a detached, introspective feeling.
You can't see how the opening fits and ties into the content?

>> No.4550348

>>4542147
congrats and good luck

>> No.4550361

>>4550348
It's a small, though regionally award-winning publisher.

The thing is that if they publish me I might get entered for awards but I doubt I'd get good a shot at reaching many people. I'm planning on sending it to a bunch of places, it's just I don't want to wait until I'm 25 to get this stuff published.

Thanks though :)

>> No.4551882

How does this sound for a book, I just had the idea now-
There's this doctor, there's nothing really extraordinary about him. Smart dude, pretty cynical, drinks a lot, doesn't exercise much but is still skinnyfat. Has trouble with women, doesn't know where to find himself in terms of his own interests, spends a lot of his free time at home fucking around on the internet and drinking.
One day, for some reason or another, this gay male couple comes in and find out they both have HIV, one much more severe than the other. Time progresses, the doctor has to break the news that the one with the more severe condition will likely die very soon, the couple is heartbroken.
Eventually that one dude dies, and the other dude starts coming onto the doctor thinking he's gay and that the doctor is coming onto HIM, when in actuality he's just doing his job and trying to get shit over with. A looooot of awkward moments.

>> No.4552296

>>4551882
damn that didn't sound as good as it could have been, should've done something about a the gay couple being some of the first few aids patients and him trying to stop the outbreak when he ends up finding a cure, brings it to Africa to be test but then he is kidnapped and the cure is stolen by a war lord and shit goes loose from there.